Our Dirty Little Love Affair with John Prine

COVID-19 killed John Prine April 7, 2020. At 73, with two cancer wins and one of his best albums, “The Tree of Forgiveness,” only two years ago, he was far from going gently anywhere. This hit home hard. He was family. We didn’t know him, but it sure as hell felt like we did. Through his heartfelt, hilarious and beautifully, plain-spoken lyrics, we knew him better than some of our blood relatives. His Nerudian verses about ordinary things made his writing, extraordinarily relatable. Simple but complex. His songs logged an ungodly number of miles on our many-a road trips. We’ll miss him dearly, but will continue to put miles on his songs.

I first heard of him through a song that literally made me pull over while driving, “In Spite of Ourselves.” While attending the University of South Carolina, I hosted a “Latin alternative” music show at our famed college radio station WUSC. Young and full of change-the-world ambitions, I spun music with the intent of shattering stereotypes about Latinos and Latin music. My artillery included punk, hip-hop, disco, lounge, and reggae – all sung en español and often mashed up with Latin beats. Anything but salsa or merengue was my MO.

As it turned out, my own preconceived notions about good music and who listened to what got a kick to the head. Shekeese, the hip-hop DJ, loved the "Red Bank Bar and Grill" country show hosted by the legendary Uncle Gram. Uncle Gram, to my ignorant surprise, dug my Latin alternative show. I loved Claire DeLune's "Blues Moon" show, but like Shekeese, I loved me some Uncle Gram, too. For a kid from Miami, Florida, who grew up conditioned to think country music was hillbilly junk for mocking purposes only, my world was rocked. Uncle Gram introduced me to my favorites - the Mount Rushmore of country music: Highwaymen Johnny, Willie, Waylan and Kris, as well as Merle, Hank, and, of course, John Prine.

When I first heard "In Spite of Ourselves" while driving, I took the foot off the gas and turned into a side street. I called Uncle Gram at the station to find out who it was. I couldn't leave that song to chance and just hope our paths would cross again. I had to know immediately. Love at first listen. Not sure where I was headed that day, but when I hung up with Uncle Gram, I darted over to Papa Jazz Records in Five Points and picked up whatever Prine music they had in stock.

For many years, Prine felt like my girlfriend and I’s sweet, funny, sometimes dirty little secret. No one had heard of him in circles we frequented. Maybe they were squares after all. He transported us to back to our alma mater in the Bible Belt, minus all the bible-thumping, pseudo patriotic bullshit. “Jesus, the Missing Years” imagines Jesus traveling through Europe, shoplifting, going to a dance, and meeting “pretty Italian chicks.” “Sam Stone” is a devastating song about a returning war veteran with a “hole in daddy’s arm where all the money goes.” “In Spite of Ourselves,” a he-said-she-said duet with Iris DeMent, has two particularly colorful images that made it nearly impossible for my wife and I to sing it without blushing: “Convict movies make her horny” and “I caught him once and he was sniffin’ my undies.”

A few years later, my now wife – same girl – and I caught Prine at the Warner Theater in Washington, D.C. By then, it didn't matter if he skipped “Spite.” We knew his song book enough that we would have been happy just listening to the man and his songs. We had mixed feelings on whether we wanted to even hear "Spite" if he sang it with anyone other than DeMent. Surely, Prine didn’t bring Iris along on tour just for one song? Out of nowhere, John brought Iris on stage, and they sang it live. In a lifetime full of healthy concert experiences, this was easily top-five material.

As we're hunkered down in Italy, I enlisted the help of The Monkey Dragons - our daughter Aylin, 9, and son Emilio, 7 - to give this song a whirl. Admittedly not the most "PG" song out there, but it seemed like a great time to introduce them to his genius. We only rehearsed it a couple of times before hitting record, as we wanted to get it while the feelings are still raw. Here's our not-quite-perfect, but from-the-heart cover of "In Spite of Ourselves." It's a good things kids have no shame. They were able to cruise through the spicy lyrics without much blushing, though the "undies" part drew some giggles. I did take the liberty to change "horny" to "thorny" for “two” obvious reasons. I hope that's okay, Mr. Prine?

Here's to John Prine eternally "a-sittin' on a rainbow." RIP.

Quality time with A Tribe Called Quest, R.I.P. Phife

I listen to music constantly - anything and everything I can get my ears on. I'm an unabashed music glutton probably in need of some kind of therapy. It's safe to say because of this insatiable, uncontrollable urge - let's call it a disease - no artist is on heavy rotation in any device that injects this art form into my soul. Not Johnny Cash, not Brian Wilson, not The Cure, not Morrissey - my favorites. This is all the more reason I just had a WTF moment when I learned that the great Phife Dawg passed away at 45.

Phife, Q-Tip and their hip-hop group, A Tribe Called Quest, spent a better part of the last few months unmercifully bruising my ear drums with their sick beats and indomitable lyrics. After a one-off reunion performance on The Tonight Show to celebrate the 25th anniversary and reissue of their masterpiece debut LP "People's Instinctive Travels and the Paths of Rhythm," I couldn't get enough of them.



Part nostalgia-part getting to know an old friend better, I have been binging on all-things-Tribe since that November performance. I had a few Tribe and Q-Tip solo songs here and there, and, of course, the Tribe's "The Low End Theory," which was the hip-hop soundtrack of my high school days, but there was plenty I had not heard. I bought all of their albums and went through their entire catalogue. I watched their award-winning documentary. And I even ordered myself A Tribe Called Quest T-shirt, which I just so happened to throw on this morning, before I learned of Phife's passing. If there were Tribe action figures and lunch boxes, who knows, I may have bought 'em also. Feels like I just got to know a long-lost uncle really well, and he gets hit by a bus. WTF, indeed.

Now that I've gotten that out of the way, let me be a hypocrite and ask you to do something I wouldn't do myself: put the Tribe on heavy rotation. With Phife, they delivered the best three-punch combo in the history of rap: "People's Instinctive Travels...," "The Low End Theory," and "Midnight Marauders." Phife and Q-Tip's lyrical barrage over Ali Shaheed Muhammad's jazzy beats and genius samples (few can get away with sampling Lou Reed AND French national anthem, "La Marseillaise") will be well worth the price of (my) admission.

Celebrating George Harrison's 73rd Birthday

Musicians of all flavors and eras, including Brian Wilson, Perry Farrell, The Flaming Lips, "Weird" Al Yankovic, and Norah Jones, gathered at the Fonda Theater in Los Angeles one - otherwise unceremonious - evening in September 2014 to perform the music of George Harrison. Music and video from that evening, dubbed "George Fest: A Night to Celebrate the Music of George Harrison," will be released February 26, 2016, the day after what would have been his 73rd birthday.

Harrison, the so-called quiet Beatle, was anything but, when it came to artistic expression. Even in the shadow of the towering Lennon-McCartney songwriting monoduolith, Harrison gave us some of The Beatles' most gorgeous songs, including "While My Guitar Gently Weeps," with a little help from Eric Clapton and released in 1968's "White Album." And the very next year, Harrison gave us "Something" off "Abbey Road."

But arguably, the full spectrum of Harrison's glimmering songwriting and guitar chops didn't come into focus until The Beatles' break up in April 1970. As if to say, I'm done being the quite one, he dropped the critically acclaimed, commercially successful, and very ambitious triple album "All Things Must Pass" on November 27, 1970 - just eight months after the break up. It included songs The Beatles had previously passed on, including the title track. It also included his masterpiece, "My Sweet Lord." If this doesn't give you chills, check your pulse.



His solo music career continued to thrive for many years, but not before Harrison the Activist reached another career pinnacle in 1971, when he spearheaded the Concert for Bangladesh to raise international awareness and funds for refugees from Bangladesh, then East Pakistan. It became the model for future massive, social-awareness, benefit concerts, including Live Aid and Farm Aid.

In 1988, Harrison formed one of the most remarkable A-list supergroups ever. Along with Jeff Lynne, the group consisted of music giants Roy Orbison, Bob Dylan, and Tom Petty.

Given his place in the pantheon of music, revisiting his catalogue through the interpretation of some of his greatest fans, who also happen to be great musicians, seems appropriate. Harrison wrote The Beatles' "Here Comes the Sun," also off "Abbey Road." In the Fab Four's incomparable repertoire, which includes some of the greatest rock 'n' roll pop songs ever recorded, "Here Comes the Sun" might just be among their finest and most revered songs. This is one of the many covers that will be available in the upcoming "George Fest" release. This rendition features Farrell on vocals, the Flaming Lips' Wayne Coyne on guitar, Norah Jones on back vocals, with several other musicians, including George's boy Dhani, playing and singing along.

Brian Wilson flattered (and elated)

By Brian Wilson's admission, he essentially worshipped Phil Spector and his famed wall of sound - complex, layered arrangements of music that left no dead air within songs. Wilson particularly loved The Ronettes' "Be My Baby." Though a little far-fetched, some music insiders even speculated Wilson's masterpiece "Pet Sounds" had the same initials as Spector as a nod to him.

But by most accounts, Spector was never very gracious to Brian's adulation. And when Brian wrote the gorgeous doo-wop, Motown-sounding ballad "Don't Worry Baby" with the intention of the Ronettes recording it, Spector was dismissive - he passed on it. The Beach Boys ended up recording a fine version.

I was surprised to learn that in 1999 Ronnie Spector, ex-wife of Phil Spector, and lead vocalist of the Ronettes finally recorded Brian's "Don't Worry Baby." Brian's reaction - when KROQ DJ Rodney Bingenheimer tells him this on the air - is pure gold.

Eagles of Death Metal share their story of Paris attack

Powerful. The Eagles of Death Metal tell their unbelievable story to Vice. About halfway through their Nov. 13 show at the Bataclan in Paris, two gunmen came in and shot indiscriminately into the crowd. The band members themselves barely made it out. Their merchandise guy Nick Alexander, didn't make it. Short of seeing footage of the massacre, this is the most vivid account I have read or heard. If you're not familiar with the Eagles of Death Metal, don't let their name scare you off. They're not as hard as their name might suggest. Their debut album "Peace, Love and Death Metal" is as good as lo-fi, garage rock gets - that's saying a lot. Peace, love and death metal, indeed.

A good review of Adele's '25'

Love or hate Adele, this is a great review of her latest album "25" by The Post's pop music critic Chris Richards​. In my mind, a good music critic provides the reader with the context surrounding the music and identifies its elusive narrative, its universal connective tissue - the deeper meaning the artist may be explicitly or implicitly trying to convey. A good music critic gives enough of this goodness so the reader is able to arrive at their own conclusion. A good music critic doesn't impose his or her interpretation of something subjective. In this regard, Chris nails it. Too many critics try to be irreverent for irreverence sake at the expense of someone else's art, seemingly unaware of how deep the pen can sometimes cut. This is a read of fresh air.

Act of Contrition: Share '70s Turkish Psychedelic Funk with everyone

Raised Catholic, I know a thing or two about guilt. It's our spiritual specialty. So you can imagine my guilt, shame and embarrassment when I visited Barcelona and Salvador Rey of The Pinker Tones, very casually, over lunch, said, "You know, Turkey has some pretty great '70s funk. There's a guy named Mustafa Ozkent or Okzent. Have you heard of him?"

"Um, no," I mumbled back nearly inaudibly, hoping he didn't hear me.


With my Turkish American wife Deniz sitting next to me and my passport containing about a half-dozen Turkish stamps, I recoiled. Not only had I not heard of Mustafa Özkent (I had to look him up), somehow the entire movement - this exquisite and inexhaustible musical thread, in a country that's become a second home - had eluded me for 15 years.

Flabby, puckish bass lines, kaleidoscopic moog synthesizers, and metal-on-metal electric guitar scratch combined with traditional buzzing zurna clarinets and plump, davul bass drums, swirl together through hypnotic Middle Eastern makam scales - an auditory hallucinogen.


At some point, I may have experienced a second-hand high, as it turns out fragments of this music have intersected my life at various turns. My kids, for example, love to sing along to one of the movement's linchpins Barış Manço, but I was mostly aware of his children's songs. I knew of Cem Karaca, another important figure, but only through Deniz's disdain for his '70s caricature look: clunky shades, burley mustache, butterfly collar shirt, bell bottoms. In hindsight, his look alone should have piqued my interest. And then my brother-in-law Yavuz has passed on a healthy dosage of songs from this era, but they were lost in the thousands of other MP3s he's shared over the years.


For years, Deniz half-jokingly ribbed me for never craving Turkish music despite my insatiable, omnivorous appetite for all music. We don't have that problem anymore. Not only is this music rich in artistic merit, there's enough out there to keep me nourished for years. But I deserve to take my medicine. As an act of contrition, I've made it a point to share this instantly gratifying music with everyone. Hopefully, my penance is your gain.