Dolf begins with a lyric from a well-known ditty:
"If you could read my mind love what a tale my thoughts would tell..."
And then continues:
Young Kevin:
Perhaps no song written since Gordon Lightfoot's "If You Could Read My Mind" captures the true romantic essence of what soft rock was about in its heyday. A perfect encapsulation of the virtues held near to the heart of male romantics everywhere. A sensitive man, guitar in hand, orchestration swelling in the background, pouring out his innermost vulnerable thoughts to the lady he admires from afar. This is surely a gushing, Byronic tale of longing and pain for the object of Gord's desire. The romantic images of a hero failing at the one true quest he so desires to achieve, the Love with a capital L of which we so often speak. The Love a young G.L. gleans from "old time movies, castles high” and ghosts of lovers past. Has the recipe for love been found? Not it Gord's mind, but he's trying...
Holiday responds:
Funny D... for I was just speaking of Gordo to a group of young men, among them a Canadian national pursuing a doctorate in English Literature from a university in our far superior higher education system. The little anecdote that follows should solidify a point we've made time and time again, mainly that soft rock is much maligned, if not loathed, and for reasons I cannot begin fathom:
As is the custom on many Friday afternoons, some colleagues and I sought refuge in the Pub of the Dirty Frank to discuss matters great and small—the great being the terrorist situation (many a public tear has been shed in my presence), as well as my many creative endeavors, in whose greatness you have shared no small part, mind you; and the small matters usually concerning one Michael Tiberius Martella who, despite a preposterous amount of calf muscle, would not exceed a height of 5 feet even in zero gravity or stretched upon a rack (which reminds me that the others often speak of “racks,” both great and small, and the effects of gravity upon them, during these meetings, as well. I abstain, of course, as even alcohol cannot bring out a baseness that is not there, cannot divert me from the higher calling that both you and I share). During one of these discussion—spirits, both literally and figuratively, flowing—as is often the case, the subject of soft rock was brought to the table, or booth to be more precise. A young editor named Miguel employed at a local tabloid devoted to arts and literature and I began to spout joyously a litany of those names that should be included in any essential discussion of soft rock. One Gordon Lightfoot, Canada's greatest contribution to folk music, yes, but also to baroque pop in the vein of Nick Drake's Bryter Later or Love's Forever Changes, was listed, at which my aforementioned Canadian colleague barked foul (for his breath did reek of relish and green hot dog procured for a mere pittance which, sadly, is all his salary as an intellectual will allow).
Young Kevin:
Perhaps no song written since Gordon Lightfoot's "If You Could Read My Mind" captures the true romantic essence of what soft rock was about in its heyday. A perfect encapsulation of the virtues held near to the heart of male romantics everywhere. A sensitive man, guitar in hand, orchestration swelling in the background, pouring out his innermost vulnerable thoughts to the lady he admires from afar. This is surely a gushing, Byronic tale of longing and pain for the object of Gord's desire. The romantic images of a hero failing at the one true quest he so desires to achieve, the Love with a capital L of which we so often speak. The Love a young G.L. gleans from "old time movies, castles high” and ghosts of lovers past. Has the recipe for love been found? Not it Gord's mind, but he's trying...
Holiday responds:
Funny D... for I was just speaking of Gordo to a group of young men, among them a Canadian national pursuing a doctorate in English Literature from a university in our far superior higher education system. The little anecdote that follows should solidify a point we've made time and time again, mainly that soft rock is much maligned, if not loathed, and for reasons I cannot begin fathom:
As is the custom on many Friday afternoons, some colleagues and I sought refuge in the Pub of the Dirty Frank to discuss matters great and small—the great being the terrorist situation (many a public tear has been shed in my presence), as well as my many creative endeavors, in whose greatness you have shared no small part, mind you; and the small matters usually concerning one Michael Tiberius Martella who, despite a preposterous amount of calf muscle, would not exceed a height of 5 feet even in zero gravity or stretched upon a rack (which reminds me that the others often speak of “racks,” both great and small, and the effects of gravity upon them, during these meetings, as well. I abstain, of course, as even alcohol cannot bring out a baseness that is not there, cannot divert me from the higher calling that both you and I share). During one of these discussion—spirits, both literally and figuratively, flowing—as is often the case, the subject of soft rock was brought to the table, or booth to be more precise. A young editor named Miguel employed at a local tabloid devoted to arts and literature and I began to spout joyously a litany of those names that should be included in any essential discussion of soft rock. One Gordon Lightfoot, Canada's greatest contribution to folk music, yes, but also to baroque pop in the vein of Nick Drake's Bryter Later or Love's Forever Changes, was listed, at which my aforementioned Canadian colleague barked foul (for his breath did reek of relish and green hot dog procured for a mere pittance which, sadly, is all his salary as an intellectual will allow).
No! he cried (Actually, I have spared you the details of his sour diatribe). As a Canadian, this young man would claim no ownership of Gordon Lightfoot should the artist's name be cast in the soft rock lottery. Shameful, I thought, for national pride in an artist and an appreciation for his oeuvre could only help shed positive light on the underappreciated genre in which he worked--and continues to work, I should add, as I have seen a svelte, middle aged Gordo delight crowds with new material as recently as two months ago in the famed Theater Keswick.
I shed a tear each time I recall this horrible tale. If we were corresponding on paper you would surely see traces of what leaks from my sensitive eyes at this very moment. Should Canadian music be defined by Rush and Celine Dion, the world as we know it would end. Perhaps the world as we know it never existed, friend. Perhaps artists who longed to capture the music of the heart never did exist. Perhaps it was all a dream. Or prophesy? Alas, on with the story:
When I finished my exchange with said Canuck, leaving him to discuss political conspiracies with one my friends and I call Scooter (This chap is often the instigator of the aforementioned talk of the softer sex in the rudest of terms, in terms he likes to call single entendres), I felt such an urge to create that I had to stop my automobile on the journey home and shat al fresco before the full moon as it kissed the muddy Schuylkill and thoughts of past loves, past lives, and fears for the future of lovers and lives the world over, flowed from my eyes. Even now I feel the undeniable urge to find my piano, my guitar, my plastic, and hereto unpainted, didgeridoo and create something that will recapture the magic lost. Should an entire nation, a nation, albeit, of hockey-haired rubes who run bait shops, choose to disown a great artist's contribution to a dying art form, an art form, I fear, that slips further from our collective consciousness every day, then I needn't tell you how important it is to insure that such a turning away be avoided in our sweet land of liberty. What the world needs now (How true Mr. Bacharach! You prophet! You hairsprayed and feathered messiah!) is love, sweet love. I can go on no further...
I shed a tear each time I recall this horrible tale. If we were corresponding on paper you would surely see traces of what leaks from my sensitive eyes at this very moment. Should Canadian music be defined by Rush and Celine Dion, the world as we know it would end. Perhaps the world as we know it never existed, friend. Perhaps artists who longed to capture the music of the heart never did exist. Perhaps it was all a dream. Or prophesy? Alas, on with the story:
When I finished my exchange with said Canuck, leaving him to discuss political conspiracies with one my friends and I call Scooter (This chap is often the instigator of the aforementioned talk of the softer sex in the rudest of terms, in terms he likes to call single entendres), I felt such an urge to create that I had to stop my automobile on the journey home and shat al fresco before the full moon as it kissed the muddy Schuylkill and thoughts of past loves, past lives, and fears for the future of lovers and lives the world over, flowed from my eyes. Even now I feel the undeniable urge to find my piano, my guitar, my plastic, and hereto unpainted, didgeridoo and create something that will recapture the magic lost. Should an entire nation, a nation, albeit, of hockey-haired rubes who run bait shops, choose to disown a great artist's contribution to a dying art form, an art form, I fear, that slips further from our collective consciousness every day, then I needn't tell you how important it is to insure that such a turning away be avoided in our sweet land of liberty. What the world needs now (How true Mr. Bacharach! You prophet! You hairsprayed and feathered messiah!) is love, sweet love. I can go on no further...
Adolf replies:
Kevin, if you we're nearer to me I would hold you and shield you from the tragedies bespoken of our dear soft rock. The thorns of such rabble cut swarthy wounds into the likes of gentle men such as us. As for your Canadian associate, to disrespect one of the finest artist to hail from the Great White North (and a fellow countryman, no less!!) makes me lament. Surely in a world condemned to hatred and violence (Oh, these troubling times!), Gord’s message of love rings true and bright. We should cherish these musical treasures and respect them for what they are, extensions of our very matter, the embodiment of all we speak, and, more importantly, that men like your Canadian are afraid to utter. A friend is what we all need...find this friend in soft rock and allow the warm arms to embrace you, and embrace you they will...
Holiday replies:
D,
I have never felt so close to a fellow man in all my life. As I am incapable of the words to express my feelings at this moment, I will allow the lyrics of Gord's "Beautiful" to end our current exchange:
And when you hold me tight,
How could life be anything but beautiful;
Think that I was made for you,
And you were made for me
And I know that I won't ever change 'cause
We've been friends, through rain or shine
For such a long, long time
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