Goodbye, Scott Weiland

So Scott Weiland has died. He was a longtime mess, it's true, but it's still sad. I always thought Stone Temple Pilots didn't quite get the respect they deserved -- they had to work hard to shake their "Pearl Jam knock-off" stigma, but they did so admirably. Their Purple album was perfection, and entirely theirs. STP set the backdrop to some of my best memories in high school and college.

It's been a sad couple of weeks out in the world, and when that happens I tend to need to belt out a song or two. So I recorded Plush on my iPhone this morning.

It isn't their best song (I'd vote Interstate Love Song) but it's certainly the first one that comes to mind when you think of STP. Virtually anyone who learned guitar in the early to mid-90s knows how to play it.

Anyway, here you go -- enjoy. RIP Mr. Weiland.

Words and Music: Story of New Orleans

Was it really 10 years ago when the levies broke, when Hurricane Katrina flooded and drowned so much of New Orleans? I can still remember the horrifying images and footage, the desperation and suffering, and the history of injustice and unrest laid bare for all the world to see. 

This song came to me almost all at once during a meeting at work, weirdly enough. (I'm terrible at paying attention to work meetings. God, they're the worst, aren't they?) I scrambled to write it all down when I got back to my computer. 

Weirder still, I got an out-of-the-blue email from a friend of mine literally minutes afterward -- the only person I knew or know who actually grew up in New Orleans. She helped me finish it with some desperately needed authenticity and sensitivity. 

It's an optimistic song at heart, and we've since revisited the Big Easy for an incredible time at Jazz Fest in 2009. But New Orleans is still very much in the process of an uneven redemption. 

Anyway, it took me a long time to get it down on CD, and in a much different (and I hope you'll say better) form than the fast, disjointed acoustic version I played live for so many years. 

On the 10th anniversary of Hurricane Katrina's horrific landfall, here's the Story of New Orleans.

Story of New Orleans

© Jon Gorey 2005

Intro/verses: [D / G x infinity]

Down for the festival some years ago 

Woke up at 2 a.m. to go see a show 

At Tipitina’s we drank on the lawn 

Pulled up onstage and then kicked out at dawn 

In New Orleans, New Orleans 

A friend of mine spent his New Year’s Eve 

In some girl’s arms above Bourbon Street 

And later on when the morning came 

He knew her story but not her name 

[D] New Or-[G]leans, [D] New Orleans [G] -- oh I’m [A] sure 

Nobody’s loved you [D] more 

[D] Then the music [A] stopped, the ocean [D] swelled 

Our brothers, friends, and [A] children trapped in [D] hell 

[Bm] And every rambling [A] heart the world [D] around 

[Bm] Mourned as our [A] beloved city [D] drowned 

And so my dreams were broken in two 

The memory of her and the sight of you 

I had to be there, I had to go 

Was she gone forever? I just had to know 

My New Orleans, New Orleans, oh be sure 

I said a prayer for her 

Walking down the streets and boulevards 

Trees torn from their roots, abandoned cars 

But somewhere in the air, I heard the sound 

Of saxophones and trumpets underground 

Looking around at all the work to be done 

Enough to overcome most anyone 

But the man on the stoop of his gutted out home 

Humming a gospel song, was not alone 

The family next door they lost everything, too 

They picked up the pieces as they picked up the tune 

People kept singing, yeah, pulling through 

Music don’t die, and neither will you 

My New Orleans, New Orleans, oh be sure 

I’ve never loved you more

Introducing House & Hammer, my new home improvement blog

As you may know, I've dabbled in some home improvement and DIY projects over the years -- like redoing our 1970s-era kitchen before our daughter was born. I've also been writing for the Boston Globe's Sunday real estate section a bit lately. And I've always been obsessed with houses and architecture.

All this made me realize I should start a blog about that stuff -- so that's what I did! If you get a chance, check out House & Hammer, my new blog about real estate and DIY home improvement.

As the name implies, it's partly about houses -- think home ownership, home equity loans, and dream-house caliber "wish listings." And then it's also about home improvement and DIY projects, like how to build this rustic end table built from reclaimed wood:

So tell your friends! Tell your neighbors! And tell me what you think!

Two Kinds of People

Bill Murray's character in the movie "What About Bob?" explains his divorce by saying, "There are two kinds of people in this world: Those who like Neil Diamond, and those who don't. My ex-wife loves him."

Whether it's true or not, I'd argue that if you don't like Neil Diamond, either:

a) you don't know what you're missing,

b) you didn't party much in college, or

c) his unbridled and unapologetic emotionalism makes you uncomfortable.

All of which are understandable. Just don't discredit the man's songwriting chops, because he's one of the finest of our times.

Anyway, my best friend Adam and I went to see Neil play the Boston Garden last night for an astounding 11 bucks each -- I mean, that's almost criminal -- and it was, as I kept telling the missus this morning, transcendent. Amazing.

He even played a series of songs from his 1972 "Hot August Night" live album, every fan's favorite, just as we upgraded ourselves to $150 loge seats near the stage. I had so much damn fun.

(Side note about that album: Adam and I once saw Phish play in London, at the Shepherd's Bush Empire. Midway through the show, as Trey Anastasio noodled along into the 19th minute of his 20th guitar solo, we simply got up and left the show. We went home, cracked some 500mL cans of Fosters, and listened to "Hot August Night" on the roof of our flat, and it was amazing.)

The seat upgrade, though, got me to thinking about something. There really are two types of people in this world: Early birds, and the late shift.

If you know me at all, you of course know I'm the latter. I'm late for everything. I've probably made you wait for me more than once, and I'm really sorry for that. It's horrible.

But removing the inconsiderate nature of personal tardiness from the equation, consider these two types of people at a baseball game or concert.

Early Birds

The early type likes to show up before the game starts, catch the end of batting practice, get settled into their seats, and see the scheduled, well-orchestrated opening ceremonies -- the first pitch, the national anthem. It's all scripted, and very comforting in that sense.

Often these are also the folks who leave in the 7th or 8th inning to "beat the traffic." Can you blame them? Post-game traffic is awful, and given the ESPNization of baseball, they've probably been at the park for like four hours already. And it's especially necessary if you've got young kids with you. Still, I was raised not to leave a game early if you can help it.

The Late Shift

...which is why my dad and I usually stroll into a game midway through the first or second inning, and stay 'til the bitter end.

Here's why I prefer the late shift strategy. First, I don't really care that much about missing the pre-game fuss. It's nice and all, but it's just ceremony.

And sure, we sometimes miss a big first inning, and walk into a game that is already more or less decided. But that's extremely rare. Far more often, late-game or extra-inning heroics decide who wins, and in a far more dramatic and exciting fashion than even a 10-run first inning.

Case in point: Games 4 and 5 of the 2004 ALCS. Anyone who left early to beat the traffic during those historic extra-inning contests probably hates themselves just a tiny bit.

And that brings me to my final point: The people who bail out early leave empty, usually better, seats behind. Call it the pioneer spirit, but it's a rare baseball game (or concert, or any event really) when I don't end up movin' on up to better seats for the last few innings or the encore. My dad's been doing this with me since probably my first ballgame.

In the aforementioned Game 4, Gina and I got into the game with junk seats, but around the 7th inning, we met up with some friends in perfect field box seats along the third-base line (easily the best place to sit in Fenway Park). The game went into the 12th inning, so we had awesome seats for a full five innings of historic baseball: the Dave Roberts steal, Bill Mueller squirting an RBI grounder past Mariano Rivera, David Ortiz's incredible game-winning homer in the 12th. We even ended up on national TV in our adopted seats.

All because some early bird figured he'd beat the traffic. Thanks, whoever you are! 

Want to beat the traffic and still catch life's memorable encores and extra-inning miracles? Arrive fashionably late, stay for the whole shebang, and just linger in the afterglow until the crowd thins out.

A St. Paddy's Day Gig? It Must Be Spring

Well I'll be damned.

The snow -- All. That. SNOW! -- is finally, slowly, mercifully melting. The Red Sox are playing baseball. And I've got a gig on St. Patrick's Day!

Tuesday, March 17th
Lucky's Lounge
355 Congress St. (corner of A Street, no sign)
Boston, MA 02210
5:30pm-7:30pm / No cover

Could it be... spring? With the sun and the grass and all that? Even if it's not here yet, I'm at least starting to think it may actually arrive someday, which is a major improvement from my outlook a month ago.

Does this mean it won't snow again this season? No.

Does it mean the Red Sox will be any good? Not necessarily, though I have my hopes.

Does it mean I remember how to play all those Irish songs? God, I hope so. 

The bigger struggle will be my old-man wrists. After 20 some-odd years of playing guitar, probably with bad technique, my left wrist aches even on a good day.

After shoveling, I don't know, maybe three tons of snow every single day this February? It positively throbs.

Nothing a little Advil and Guinness can't handle, right? (Take that, liver!)

So come join me for a pint and some cheer as we celebrate the melting snow and the green grass that lies beneath it. (Or rather, the murky, muddy brown of snow-tortured turf, in the case of our yard. But still. It's a freaking beautiful sight.)

Here's to spring! (Take that, winter!)