3 Chords & the Truth: Patching it together

How do you put the Big Show together every week? One patch at a time.

You see, 3 Chords & the Truth is like a patchwork quilt. It has a bunch of musical scraps to it, and to the untrained eye, they look like pretty damned random scraps. To the untrained ear, it sounds like nothing sensible will come out of this mishmash.

Kind of how a box of discarded scraps looks like . . . a box of discarded scraps. Until you put them together into a beautiful quilt. Until you take the disorder and make it into order -- into a meaningful theme.

Until you create functional art out of random disorder.

That's exactly what's going on with the Big Show each and every week. We make a musical whole out of random songs and wildly diverse records.

It's a patchwork.

IT'S A SEEMING MESS until you add something that's in rare supply on the radio these days -- a vision.

I guess that's why the program's not on the radio. You need vision . . . and a bit of patience to see how things are going to turn out.

How the scraps get transformed into a whole.

Patchwork. That's the ticket to quality radio, even if it's just on the Internet.

Now let's you and me dig into that box of bits and pieces and see what we can make out of it.

 It's 3 Chords & the Truth, y'all. Be there. Aloha.

Ignore the Johnsons, reap the whirlwind

I attribute the present state of American culture and politics to, back in 1980, people not listening to the anti-drug message of the Brothers Johnson.

Angel dust was, and is, some bad juju.

Things could have been so, so different today had we listened to some common sense advice and not trusted that dust. But we didn't, and now we must rely on legal weed and lethal opioids to dull the screaming of our brains as they react to the suck surrounding us.

The suck that came because "Don't trust that Dust" was just too flippin' complicated a message for we idiots to embrace 39 years ago . . . when we still might have had a chance in hell.

That is all.

Busing, Democratic mau-mauing and the Twitter thingy

Sorry, I'm too lazy to rewrite my tweetstorm for the blog thing, so here you go.

A night at the ballpark

Went to tonight's second game of the College World Series championship here in Omaha, by God, Nebraska . . . where we saw a cute baby.

Oh, and the ball game, too.

 

And then we saw the cute baby with a cute hat. Mom may be just a little bit proud here.

And then we saw the little thunderhead that couldn't. They got the game in --  without a rain delay . . . or a drop of rain.

The wrong team won, alas, but there's always Game 3 tomorrow night.

Play ball!

3 Chords & the Truth: Tragically hip

Because someday I'll be old -- and someday is today -- there's only one thing to do.

I'll put on a double-knit polyester shirt. With a wiiiiiiiiiide collar.

I'll put on a too-tight pair of bell-bottom blue jeans (and these days, all my jeans are too tight anyway).

I'll scare up a gold chain or three as I get ready for this edition of 3 Chords & the Truth.


I'LL ATTEMPT to hide my bald spot. Then I'll attempt to avoid fast convertibles, speedboats or going outside on windy days.

Then I'll put on a Donna Summer record, talk about getting down, try to engage you in a rap session, attempt a dance move no one over 40 should even think about, much less do . . . and then I'll proclaim everything groovy.

And I'll think kind thoughts about you, my people, for you loyal listeners of the Big Show are righteous dudes . . . and dudettes.

This edition of the program, you see, is Tragically Hip.

If you think you can boogie down in Funkytown, maybe you can be Tragically Hip, too. Or if that's not your bag, man, you can just sit over there with all the freaks and be dismissive of it all. It's a free country, man.

It's 3 Chords & the Truth, y'all. Be there. Aloha.

And lead us not into tempta . . . oh, screw it

The Democratic Party has become so woke . . . and so puritanical . . . and so alien to the spiritual concepts of grace and forgiveness . . . and so beholden to its most extreme voices . . . and so intent on demonizing its own peculiar versions of The Other -- so solipsisticly intent upon becoming a funhouse-mirror reflection of Trumpism -- that there's really no more point, actually.

Joe Biden

Our only alternative now is to watch the United States reap what it has sown and for us, somehow, to find ways to bear the unbearable pain of watching one's country die an agonizing death from a condition that hasn't the decency to kill one expeditiously and just be done with it. Oh . . . and manage, somehow, not to end up destitute, imprisoned or dead as the sociopolitical malignancy consumes the body politic.

Normally, I would counsel seeking refuge in one's religion. Then again, I am Roman Catholic, and I know from the bitter experience of the past two decades that, institutionally, my church will be worse than useless as shelter from the storm. As for the evangelicals, Southern Baptists and the like . . . their institutional feet are on fire, and their asses are catching.

Really, when the woker-than-thou are stooping to Trumpian tactics to smear Democratic presidential frontrunner Joe Biden as some sort of cryptoracist enabler of Jim Crowism, what the hell chance do the rest of us stand?

THAT "joke about calling black men 'boys'" came as Biden spoke off the cuff at a New York fundraiser, lamenting the loss of the sort of political comity that allowed him to work with even the likes of the notorious longtime senator from Mississippi, James O. Eastland.

Here, from a pool report by The Wall Street Journal,  is what Biden actually said:

Mr. Biden then recalled his time serving in the Senate. “I was in a caucus with James O. Eastland,” Mr. Biden said, briefly channeling the late Mississippi senator’s Southern drawl. Mr. Biden said of Mr. Eastland, “He never called me boy, he always called me son.”

Mr. Biden then brought up a deceased Georgia senator, “a guy like Herman Talmadge, one of the meanest guys I ever knew, you go down the list of all these guys. Well guess what? At least there was some civility. We got things done. We didn’t agree on much of anything. We got things done. We got it finished. But today, you look at the other side and you’re the enemy. Not the opposition, the enemy. We don’t talk to each other anymore.”

THE DISINGENUOUSNESS with which Biden's remarks are being characterized by presidential rivals Sen. Cory Booker, Sen. Kamala Harris and any number of other party Jacobins is staggering, even by contemporary Americal political standards, which have been influenced by Donald Trump -- and not for the better. Obviously.

Let me add that I choose to characterize the criticism of Biden as cynical because I find it difficult to believe that reasonably accomplished politicians -- or journalists -- can be that goddamned stupid. But Donald J. Trump is president of the United States, so I totally could be wrong on that account.

And the cynicism (and perhaps abject numbskullery), it runs as deep to the left as it does to the right -- leaving sanity stuck in the middle and shit out of luck.

For a taste of that, let's listen to a segment from today's edition of All Things Considered on NPR:


 
LET'S JUST get something straight. And as a born-and-raised son of the Deep South -- a son of a certain age even -- I am well-positioned to set something straight:

"Boy" is not always and everywhere a racialized term of derision.

Eastland, the onetime Mississippi segregationist, was old enough to be Joe Biden's father. In the South -- and I have no damned idea how Yankees addressed men young enough to be their offspring in familiar settings -- it would not be uncommon for someone of Eastland's age and generation to informally address a whippersnapper as "boy." It had nothing to do with race.

If the addressee were African-American, it could have something to do with malignant racialist intent. Or not. It merely could have been a case of cluelessness, or momentarily forgetting that it was fraught to address a young black man the same way you might familiarly speak to a young white man.

I am 58 years old, Southern and male. If I had a dollar for every time I have been called "boy," by my parents, older relatives, acquaintances and even buddies, I could say "screw it all" right now and move to an island paradise far, far away from this insane, imploding country.

Ditto for "son," which is used in a gentler context than "boy." This is not brain surgery; what Joe Biden was saying isn't particularly opaque, and it shouldn't be controversial in the slightest.

Then we get to the unspoken implications of "woke" Democrats' condemnation of Biden for even attempting to work with (or even associate with) past segregationists in the United States Senate.

One implication is that grace does not exist. Another is that people's views cannot moderate or change over decades. Yet another is that those we deeply disagree with cannot be engaged with, only targeted and destroyed. And if someone is -- or was -- a racist. . . .

In the moral universe of what is emerging as today's Democratic Party, there is no redemption, only condemnation. We know where this road ends -- where the internal logic of this worldview dictates that it must end.

In the universe of woke Democrats, my Southern self was obligated to condemn and hate my racist Southern parents, along with every last one of my racist Southern kinfolk. In this moral universe, if I had failed to denounce them -- to expose their thought crime -- I would have been as guilty as they.

In this universe, one is nothing more than the worst thing one believes or the worst thing one ever has done, for which there is no forgiveness or redemption. Ever.

But if you want to write an article comparing and contrasting your various abortions -- abortions, plural -- then declare one, which came at age 41, the best ever . . . well, that's something not only to be tolerated but, indeed, celebrated. On the New York magazine website, no less.

AND AMERICA, such as it is, is supposed to think Joe Biden is guilty of some sort of fucking moral outrage here? Or that Donald Trump is the real problem here?

Donald Trump is a problem -- a massive problem. But he is not the problem.

That large swaths of the Democratic Party have a problem with what Biden said -- or at least want their own "low-information voters" to think folks should have a problem with it -- bodes well for the re-election of a massive problem.

But even if we somehow do manage to rid ourselves of this turbulent president, that just leaves us with the Democrats. If our only choice ends up being between the devil and the deep blue sea, we might find that a decisive contingent of voters might loathe Trump but also figure he'd put us out of our national misery a hell of a lot faster.

3 Chords & the Truth: Crank it up(ish)

Crank it up!

Ish.

Sorry, but this week on the Big Show, I don't feel like being a fanatic about it. So instead of turning the show up to 12, I'm settling in at just about 9 and a half.

That said, 3 Chords & the Truth is as worth a listen as it is every week. Really worth a listen.

You'll be amazed! You'll be entertained! You'll be eclecticized! And you might even be edified!

Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera and so on. Ish.

Just listen, OK? And tell everybody you know . . . or don't know. Ish.

It's 3 Chords & the Truth, y'all. Be there. Aloha.

I may not be woke, but I got common sense!

My father has been dead for 18 years, now, and his words keep coming back to haunt me . . . and mock the insane times in which I now live.

During one memorable kitchen-table argument -- where the young, college-educated me was sneering at some then-self-evidently incredible thing he was throwing at me -- the retired pipefitter's resentment of the degree he'd paid for was as subtle as an acetylene torch.

"You might have book learnin', but I got common sense!" my old man thundered.

About 35 years later, I get it. I really get it.

I may not be on CNN, but I got common sense. And any political party that is questioning whether "electability" is important in a system where candidates run for office, and the one with the most votes wins . . . has a big damn problem.

And the mental, cultural and philosophical rot in the Democratic Party is such that -- God help us all -- Donald Trump is going to win in 2020, just so long as he doesn't spark a depression or cause us to lose a war.

No,  I may not be writing stories for The Atlantic like Jemele Hill, but I got common sense. Which leads me to not even consider writing a couple of paragraphs like this:

Nevertheless, Biden’s elevation to front-runner is a testament to how much President Donald Trump has shaken the faith of those who believe the White House could better reflect what America looked like.

This is perhaps Trump’s most crucial victory yet: successfully persuading Democrats—especially African American voters—not just to lower the bar, but to abandon the idea that inclusion and bold ideas matter more than appeasing the patriarchy.

HOLY SHIT on a $7.99 shingle, Batman! Alas, 1968 repeats itself . . . this time as parody.

Well, yeah, Donald Trump might be the end of American democracy, if not America itself . . . but . . . but . . . if we run someone who can beat him . . . does that mean we're giving in to The Man?

The bat-shit, it burns! Doctor, my eyes!

Meanwhile, this is the cover story in the current edition of The Atlantic.

I'M SORRY, Daddy. I'm sorry for everything.

I hope the last laugh you're having, free of this vale of tears, is a long and satisfying one.

G

M

T

Y

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3 Chords & the Truth: Night trippin'

The Doctor is dead. Long live the Doctor.

This week on 3 Chords & the Truth, we'll be night trippin' in honor of Dr. John, the Night Tripper. If you ask me, that's absotively mos' scocious.

An' dat's all I got to say about dem tunes. Y'all just listen to the Big Show, and then say hey to yo' mama and them.

It's 3 Chords & the Truth, y'all. Be there. Aloha.

Turning working girls into pretty women is our bidness

Baton Rouge: June 6, 1974.

The decision is made that if you cannot do anything about working girls downtown, you at least can turn them into pretty women.

Either that, or my hometown was the epicenter of unintentionally hilarious advertising during my youth.

3 Chords & the Truth: No, it's not your device

You're going to hear some things on the Big Show.

Rest assured, there's nothing wrong with your smartphone, computer, Internet radio, tablet or hi-fi apparatus. No, it's us.

I mean that in a good way.

You see, 3 Chords & the Truth is built to surprise, shock and stun.

I mean that in a good way.

SO, WHEN your mind gets blown -- as it is likely to be at least once during this edition (actually, every edition) of the Big Show -- you're not losing your mind, and there's not a solitary thing wrong with your preferred means of accessing podcasts. It's not you; it's us.

I mean that in the absolute best way.

It's 3 Chords & the Truth, y'all. Be there. Aloha.

How to create middle-age stranglers

May 30, 1966.

Buddhist monks were setting themselves alight as the war in Vietnam intensified apace. Surveyor 1 headed for the first soft lunar landing of an unmanned American spacecraft. The Klan was being the Klan in Denham Springs, La. -- which meant that Denham Springs was just being Denham Springs.

And "A WOWIE ZOWIE ZING-A-LING SWING-A-LING THING" had just hit Baton Rouge. The Teen-Age Rattler apparently was "the new fun sensation sweeping the nation."

The reaction to this, no doubt, from every person old enough in 1966 to have spawned a teenager was "Oh, joy." Note the lack of an exclamation point.

THE TEEN-AGE RATTLER was billed as being some sort of bad-complexioned, ill-tempered, bastard child of a hula hoop and maracas.

The "bad-complexioned, ill-tempered and bastard child" parts of the description are solely mine.

I gotta tell you that, as a 5-year-old kid in Baton Rouge on Memorial Day 1966, I would have loved this shit. My parents, not so much.

BUT WAIT! THERE'S MORE!

For just a measly extra buck, you could buy a 45 single of the original Teen-Age Rattler song, "as recorded by the sensational Happy Four quartet." As opposed to the sensational Happy Four septet.

Considering that you could go down to the TG&Y dime store and buy a hot-off-the-record-press copy of the Beatles' "Paperback Writer" for something like six bits, I can't see the Happy Four's rattlin' wreck of a hack promotional song as much of a bargain.

THEN AGAIN, this is the 58-year-old me talking and not the 5-year-old me talking. On the other hand, the 5-year-old me had his share of Beatles' records. Until July 1966, that is.

July was the month John Lennon's "we're more popular than Jesus" interview hit the States, and Mama busted up my Beatles records. It was Louisiana; she was far from alone. Apparently, cracking up commie records from Limey purveyors of beatnik music was less inconvenient than actually attending worship services.

Not that I'm still bitter or shit.

BUT BACK to May 1966 and the Teen-Age Rattler.

At the time, the Teen-Age Rattler made no impression on the pre-kindergarten me whatsoever. As a matter of fact, I'd never heard of the things until . . . well . . . today.

My best guess is that the "Rattle in the morning . . . rattle at night . . . rattle anytime . . . it's dynamite!" sensation was a sensation in the same vein Donald Trump is sentient -- hardly.

After all, there DID come to be a Generation X. That could not have happened had the "greatest generation" quite understandably been driven to cut short the rattling lives of their rattling teen offspring.

Now let us speak no more of this. We wouldn't want to give rogue youth social-media "influencers" any ideas.

3 Chords & the Truth: Smart sets for the Smart Set

The Big Show is not your average music program.

That's because you're not your average listener. You're part of the Smart Set, and you deserve smart sets. And that you get every week on 3 Chords & the Truth.

This week is no exception.

Aannnnnd . . . apparently I'm supposed to say more here, even when that seems so very unnecessary. Well . . . um . . . so . . . I . . . .

Nope, I got nothin'. Everything that needs to be said, I have said.

So, then. All that's left is this:

It's 3 Chords & the Truth, y'all. Be there. Aloha.

Dude sounds like he's on pot

National politics is so dysfunctional, disheartening and -- frankly -- bat-shit crazy that I largely have lost the will to comment on such a shitshow.

Sen. John Kennedy

Which brings me to Louisiana's junior U.S. senator, John Kennedy. And the matter of shit.

There is much that could be said about Kennedy. Most would fall under the category of dysfunctional, disheartening and -- frankly -- bat-shit crazy.

But I will say this: I am a Southerner and there is no way in hell I would vote for any Southern politician who can't keep his metaphors straight.

"Urinate or get off the pot?"  Really? Really?

REALLY???

I am old enough to have used the proverbial pot, which my Louisiana family referred to a a "slop jar." And I well know the choice that we all face in life: Shit or get off the pot.

And Kennedy's mangling of a damned fine metaphor is just too damned much to take. Get it straight, podna, or shut the f*** up.

That is all.

3 Chords & the Truth: A Dacron state of mind

Call me Dacron.

Dacron. Dacron Polyester.

The Big Show this week is in a Dacron state of mind. Very double-knit. Give me some Boone's Farm, and I might get triple-knit to the wind.

That's pretty much where your Mighty Favog -- and 3 Chords & the Truth -- happen to be this week. Stuck in the 1970s. Actually, in retrospect, that's not such an awful place to be.

Especially musically.

HERE'S THE thing: It occurred to me the other day that next week, specifically May 23, marks the 40th anniversary of my graduation from Baton Rouge Magnet High School. And as you'll be able to tell from the show, my mind is still 18.

My body, not so much.

But, damn, the music is so good. Thank you Young Favog.

You're quite welcome, Old Fart Favog.

Now cue the nostalgia . . . along with the usual eclecticism.

It's 3 Chords & the Truth, y'all. Be there. Aloha.

3 Chords & the Truth: An unapologetic blot

The Big Show is an unapologetic blot on the face of mindless musical conformity.

Do now what you will with that. I don't care.

3 Chords & the Truth is all about the music, exquisite taste and creative programming . . . not dumb preconceptions from the Usual Suspects. And boy, howdy, is this edition of the program an example of that.

You betcha, pally.

That is all. My throat hurts, and my typing fingers are sympathizing.

It's . . . well, you know what it is. Be there. Aloha.

They get pretty brazen once the holidays are done

Look out the window. See turkeys.

Apparently, that's just how we roll in our neighborhood here in Omaha, by God, Nebraska.

3 Chords & the Truth: Is this thing (cough) on?

This edition of 3 Chords & the Truth is brought to you by a 60-something-year-old RCA KN-1A pressure microphone . . . and the croaking, hacking crud.

Trust me, the music on this week's edition of the Big Show sounds better than I do. It ain't even close because, of course, the music on the program always sounds great.

And a host who sounds like he's 85 going on eternity at least should benefit from the vintage "golden age of radio" warmth of a cool, old microphone.

Yes, it all started at a 20-watt FM station in Baton Rouge, La. . . .

I KNOW, I know. Knock it off, Ted Baxter!

And stop the radio-gear geekery while you're at it.

Message heard. Now about the music. . . .

Well, we have a little of everything on this 3 Chords & the Truth, spanning much of the 20th and a little of the 21st centuries. That includes a jazz band of future legends led by a dude playing a comb.

We also get our tie dye on, then jam with the Night Tripper a bit later on the show. And we got 78s. More than our share of 78s.

And that's about it. I need to go hack up a lung now.

It's 3 Chords & the Truth, y'all. Be there. Aloha.