Okay, I know, I know. I fucking know. No one wants to see me post goddamn youtube videos.
But some things I just can't stop watching. Over and over and over again. Besides, after the videos, I have a story.
One of my all-time favorite songs:
Next song: stuck in my head. For days. And days. And fucking days:
If I ever write a movie, or a book that gets made into a movie, I need an Evie Sands song in there.
Story that semi-relates to both songs but not really: Ready?
As you might know, the Hollies covered "I Can't Let Go" immediately after Evie Sands recorded it. But what you don't know is this: "I Can't Let Go" was written for Evie by a guy that I saw playing with some novel country band.
Flash back to Double Door like five or six years ago. At the time, by the way, Double Door was the fucking coolest place I'd ever been in my entire life, and I'd been to Prague. I mean, this is where everyone hung out in High Fidelity. How fucking cool is that? You don't get much cooler than High Fidelity. Of course, right now there are people who are probably mad that High Fidelity even exists, because let's face it, John Cusack mainstreams and romanticizes the counterculture and ruins lives. God, I love that man. Just like everyone else.
Now, of course, Double Door annoys me, because I'm sooooo much hipper than I was in 2004 or whatever. And because they charge like four dollars for a PBR and you have to pay cover and it's a place to be seen, not a place to go.
Also, ordering PBR is now the sneering social equivalent of kickin' it Miller Lite, because people believe you are ordering PBR to appear hip and not because you are broke, while people that drink Miller Lite have never been considered hip because let's face it, Miller Lite? Really? Are we at a frat party? More importantly, shut up. I know, I know, I was in a sorority, and therefore socially deficient, and I have no right to make fun of the greek system. Ah-ha, but! But what if I told you that my experience raises my credibility, because I understand the system better than outsiders? Besides, I was in, like, a cool sorority, because they didn't make us...I mean, we weren't a bunch of cakebakers...and we totally could hang with like...WE WERE DIFFERENT. Okay?
Anyway, so it's five or six years ago, I'm at Double Door etc. I lean over to my friend Kim, who likes lame things like like the aforementioned novel country band and I yell over the music, "That guy next to the singer looks like a cross between Ted Kennedy and the superblonde guy from Blade Runner. Whatsisname. Rutger Hauer."
Kim laughs. "That's Jon Voight's brother."
"Fucking Rutger Hauer is not Jon Voight's brother."
"No, the fucking bass player is Jon Voight's brother."
"No fucking way."
"Huh." I sip my beer, and lean back over towards her. "You know who should play Ted Kennedy in a movie?"
"That is only logical. But I think he's a republican, now." A couple of minutes pass, and Kim starts up again. "Oh, and the bass player? He's also the guy who wrote 'Wild Thing.'"
"You make my heart sing, wild thing?"
"That's the one."
"Dang. Way to go, guy."
Do all of the supercool people here at Double Door know that we're in the presence of a musical legend like the guy who wrote "Wild Thing?" Or do they think he's just a bass player? Am I the only one who didn't know about his secret identity? Am I the stupid one? Fuck, I hate being the stupid one. I am so uncool compared to all of these people who know things like the fact that Jon Voight's brother wrote "Wild Thing" and he's standing right there.
But I know why I don't know: because I learned all about music from my dad, and The Dad is a big Hollies man, which means he is not a Troggs man. He prefers things slightly more polished, less proto-garage. More "Bus Stop," less "Wild Thing." How can one really claim to be either, though, when half of the catalogs of both bands consist of songs written by other people like Jon Voight's brother?
Still. "Wild Thing" is way cooler than "Bus Stop." I bet Jon Voight's brother is way cooler than Jon Voight, who used to be cool. Damn, remember The Champ? I loved that movie. At least, I loved the horseracing. Not so much the "wake up, Champ, we gotta go home" crying business. Stupid dads, making their kids cry. And why is Faye Dunaway always such a bitch? Dads are dumb.
I decide at that very moment to blame my father for all of my musical trivia shortcomings, and I tell Kim that it's his fault when I don't know important, life-changing things about Jon Voight's brother.
She looks at me, her eyes full of pity, and smiles sadly. "Who fucking cares?"
On another note, I think I have mono. I am sooooo fifteen.