Goo Goo Dolls

The Goo Goo Dolls have been a background name on my Classic Rock stations since the late ’90s, so I thought worth checking out their show at the Santa Barbara Bowl last night (9/6/25). The first 40 minutes of their set left me untouched: it was five slightly middle-aged grungy guys making a lot of noise–no melody or charm. It was the lead singer John Rzeznik’s show, but he had an average voice, little charisma and a good opinion of himself. His one attempt at telling a story went off-track. He then excused the band and went acoustic, at which point the evening picked up. He did a nice version of “Name,” the one (and only) GGD song I could see adding to my playlist. Then the band came back, the monotonous driving guitars resumed, and at the 70-minute mark of the two-hour set I departed.
The night was not a waste, however, for the opening act was Dashboard Confessional, and they were both fun and good. Their lead singer, Chris Carrabba, had fewer airs and was a better singer than Rzeznik: the distinctive sound of the band comes largely from his unusual voice. Unlike Goo Goo Dolls, I was a fan of Dashboard Confessional when they hit in the early 2000s and recognized more of the music they played (granted, they had 55 minutes for their set, as opposed to 120 for GGD). Their sound was tighter. Just as important, they had stage presence: one of their guitar players was in the back, jumping and running in a way that was endearing, not distracting. Best was their backup singer, Abigail Kelly, the only woman on stage all night. She sounded good, looked great and moved ferociously in time to the music. I could have watched her all night and was glad I’d brought my opera glasses. The difference in the two bands, for me, was epitomized when DC played their big hit, “Vindicated.” A young blue-jeaned sprite in the row in front and to our left had a dance routine she must have prepped at home for years in front of a mirror before exploding it for our benefit, but mostly hers. She lived the song and was going to show it. (A videographer noticed and started filming her before it was over.) The sheer joy she felt, and shared with her friends, reminded me what great music can do. And this was that.

Billy Joel

From the Piano Man album in 1973 through Glass Houses in 1980, with a quick step back to 1971’s Cold Spring Harbor, each Billy Joel release was a marker in time in my Young Adulthood. Piano Man itself was wonderful, and was undoubtedly my introduction, but hearing Captain Jack and Ballad of Billy the Kid first on late-night radio then on my turntable hooked me, just as Bruce Springsteen had earlier the same year with Greetings from Asbury Park. (Living in Westchester County I felt equidistant from Billy’s Long Island and Bruce’s New Jersey.) Streetlife Serenade, Joel’s followup album, was a disappointment, as was Springsteen’s The Wild, The Innocent & the E Street Shuffle, but both hit it out of the park with their next records: Turnstiles and Born to Run. From their later successes I thought of both Billy Joel and Bruce Springsteen as established stars from the start. It always surprises me when I hear people say they discovered Bruce from Born to Run (and, of course, the general amazement when he accordingly appeared simultaneously on the covers of Time and Newsweek). Now, after watching And So It Goes, Part 1, the HBO documentary, I’m astonished at the lack of acceptance and success accorded Joel before The Stranger in 1977. One of the fun stories told in the movie is when The Stranger is played for the assembled executives of CBS Records to a muted reception. “I don’t see a single here,” says one. It happened to contain five of his biggest hits, including “Just the Way You Are,” an instant classic.

The more meaningful revelation for me in And So It Goes is the extent to which Joel’s songs grew out of his life experiences and emotions. Yes, we all knew that Uptown Girl was inspired by Christie Brinkley, even without the video, but who knew that so many of the love ballads were paeans to his first wife, Elizabeth Bennett, and when the relationship grew tense it produced Stiletto. When Cold Spring Harbor, a beautiful record, produced no financial rewards, Billy and Elizabeth moved to L.A., where he supported his family by, yes, playing piano bar. “And the waitress is practicing politics”–well, the waitress in the bar was Elizabeth! When L.A. doesn’t work out, the family moves back to New York, prompting the songs Say Goodbye to Hollywood, Summer Highland Falls, Miami 2017 (Seen the Lights Go Out on Broadway) and New York State of Mind. The next album, The Stranger, reeks of Long Island, typified by Scenes from An Italian Restaurant. Someone in the movie notes that while Bruce tells stories about other people in his songs, Billy’s songs are about himself.

The movie tells the story of Billy’s early years in flashback fragments, with portions, especially about his father, reserved for Part 2. He was raised on a shoestring budget by a single mother, and we are left to infer the emotional hangups left from his childhood. At the same time, he was given a remarkable music education, and Billy’s training in classical piano is one of the defining and unusual features of his personal rock’n’roll. The stories of his early bands are a hoot, and just like the Beatles and so many others, you realize that a lot of work goes into the “instant success” that rock stars have. The big wrinkle in Billy’s backstory is his falling in love with his bandmate’s wife. He marries her and Elizabeth ultimately takes over his management. She saves him from himself and makes Billy Joel a business as well as artistic success. Elizabeth Bennett (where have I heard that name before?) is the co-star of Part 1; it is her story arc that drives the narrative. When she checks out of Billy’s life after his motorcycle accident, Part 1 ends. We never see her again.

For me, The Stranger was the pinnacle of Joel’s music. Movin’ Out (which became the title of the Twyla Tharp dance-musical), Just the Way You Are, She’s Always A Woman, Only the Good Die Young, The Stranger and the iconic Scenes from an Italian Restaurant would be a career’s worth for most musicians. There was nothing comparable in 1978’s 52nd Street: the songs took on a harder edge, long gone was any youthful innocence. It was Joel’s first #1 album, but I never cared for its hits: Big Shot, My Life, Honesty. I attribute its success to the reputation Billy had built up from his earlier records: like me, everyone who had been hooked by one or more of his first five records bought into this one. Was he wearing out his gift? Were alcohol and drugs dulling his creativity? These trends continued through Glass Houses, the last record covered in Part 1. The movie plays You May Be Right as Billy’s admission that his life is going off the rails, although he must have written it before he crashed his motorcycle. It’s Still Rock and Roll To Me says it all and was worth the price of the record. In its pop purity and down-and-dirty persona it encapsulates the Billy Joel phenomenon and takes us back to where it all started: it’s still rock and roll.

And So It Goes, Part 2 covers the five remaining rock albums Joel recorded, from 1982 to 1993, plus an album of classical compositions. With one exception, the music  is dreary and covers no new ground. He had a hit with We Didn’t Start the Fire, but to me that was an unacknowledged rip-off of REM’s It’s the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine) from two years before. Innocent Man didn’t exactly cover new ground, as Joel was avowedly mimicking earlier styles, such as doo-wop and Four Seasons, but it was a breath of fresh air, perhaps inspired by his new romance with Brinkley. Our family watched the VHS tape over and over, and we sang The Longest Time at our daughter’s wedding reception. Joel shared the writing credit on This Night with Ludwig van Beethoven, and watching him play the Beethoven sonata on his piano was a reminder of how much Joel’s classical training and his piano skills (even after breaking his hand) contributed to his unique brand of rock and roll.

As Part 2 delves into Billy’s second, third and fourth marriages, the defalcations of his next manager (Elizabeth’s brother, against her advice), his endless touring with Elton John to get out of debt, and the drying-up of his urge to make new music, the documentary returns to the level of standard biopic. The novelty is gone, and so is the magic. It’s a balding, fleshy Billy Joel who returns to Madison Square Garden to revive his old hits, to the great pleasure of those, like my wife and me, who grew up with the piano man as well as their offspring, who have since discovered him. And in the end, it’s still rock and roll to me.

Brian Wilson

The death earlier this month of Brian Wilson brought out a welcome reconsideration of the Beach Boys’ legacy. They were one of my two favorite groups of my high school days, 1961-64. The other was the Four Seasons. These were the yin and yang of those years in rock’n’roll: the Beach Boys were the West Coast–sun, surf, hot rods, California girls. The Four Seasons were the East Coast–urban grit, class difference, doomed love. Bright and happy versus dark and anguished. Needless to say, at 16 in a boys’ prep school, I tended toward the latter.

Surfin’ was released in 1961 and caught my attention well before the Boys hit it big the following year with Surfin’ Safari. The latter solidified a gimmick I loved: a surf song on one side of the record, a car song–in this case 409–on the other. I knew as little about cars as I did surfing, or surfin’, as they insisted, which only increased the attraction of their music: a world I didn’t know but could appreciate from afar (somewhat similar to my infatuation with Elvis). 1963 was their apogee, before being eclipsed by the Beatles and the British Invasion. Surfer Girl established their ballad bona fides, while Little Deuce Coupe carried on the hot-rod B-sides. The Beach Boys were still getting better, and Brian Wilson’s songwriting more sophisticated, in 1964, with WendyLittle Honda, When I Grow Up (To Be a Man) and I Get Around. I have an especially warm spot for Fun, Fun, Fun. I was singing along in my senior year dorm room one evening when the housemaster stopped by and “posted” me (the step beyond a demerit) for playing my radio after 8. I found the Beach Boys less interesting after high school. Two of their 1965 hits, Barbara Ann and Sloop John B., were retreads that appealed to the lowest common taste. They had one more great single in 1966, Wouldn’t It Be Nice, but that era is more notable for their so-called masterpiece, Good Vibrations, which I couldn’t stand then or now. Gone was the straight-ahead rock, as well as the world of cars and surf. I am quite fond of a 1972 album, Holland, which takes us back to California, but this is a coda to the Beach Boys’ era. (Yes, they had one more hit, Kokomo, 16 years later, but this was without Brian Wilson.)

The Four Seasons burst on the scene in 1962 with Sherry, a number one hit as was the even better follow-up, Big Girls Don’t Cry. Their third consecutive chart-topper, Walk Like A Man, accompanied me as I walked around campus junior year, and that summer they followed it with the double-sided hit, Candy Girl/Marlena. Nothing, however, prepared me for the power of Dawn (Go Away), which at one point I judged the greatest rock song of all time. In a rank injustice from which I never recovered, it didn’t make number one because it came out at the same time as I Wanna Hold Your Hand. My longstanding antipathy toward the Beatles partly stemmed from my dismay at their superseding the homegrown Four Seasons. Still in 1964, the Seasons came out with Ronnie, Rag Doll and Big Man In Town, each of which was publicly overshadowed by the onslaught of Beatles music. Their songs went downhill after ’64: Bye, Bye, Baby and Let’s Hang On in 1965 were becoming formulaic; and their final top ten number, C’mon Marianne in 1967, is relatively charmless. Without going into a deep analysis, you can see a similarity in subject in all Four Seasons hits. There’s a guy longing for a girl. Sometimes she’s too good, sometimes he is, usually there’s some impediment or misunderstanding, there’s never true love running smooth. And although it isn’t explicit, you feel the boy and girl are in an inner city, not on a farm. Again, it wasn’t exactly my high school world, except for the longing for romance and general teenage angst.

Personal Hall of Fame

In addition to my Top 25 described in a post from 2009 I’ve decided to make a running list of up to 25 more songs that I’m enshrining in my Personal Rock Hall of Fame. I’m only including Classic Rock songs that get played, not obscure personal favorites. No descriptions or analysis, just a list.

Alison, Elvis Costello
Better Man, Pearl Jam
Boat Drinks, Jimmy Buffett
Brandy,
 Looking Glass
Don’t Stop Believing, Journey
Father and Son, Cat Stevens
Friday I’m in Love, The Cure
Heard It In a Love Song, Marshall Tucker Band
I Don’t Want to Go Home, Southside Johnny & Asbury Jukes
Melissa, Allman Brothers
More Than A Feelin’, Boston
Piano Man, Billy Joel
Sister Golden Hair, America
Waterloo Sunset, The Kinks
The Weight, The Band

Crosby Collective

The newly formed Crosby Collective vindicated, nay glorified, my devotion to Classic Rock with their highly musical performance of “mashups” last night at the Lobero, which they chose for their only (so far) Southern California appearance. Each mashup seamlessly combined two rock standards in leader Jason Crosby’s own arrangement, all played in a lushly harmonic sound put out by seven crack musicians (keyboards, strings and percussion) and four singers. I wish I could remember the exact combinations, but  the original artists represented included Led Zeppelin, the Grateful Dead, Michael Jackson, ELO, Allman Brothers, Neil Young, the Doors, the Kinks, the Beatles, Wings, Marvin Gaye, Sly Stone and Jackson Browne. Speaking of Jackson Browne, he came on for the second act and sang “My Opening Farewell,” the number he also sang at Town Hall for Steve Earle last fall, and “Colors of the Sun.” At show’s end he returned for an encore of “Running on Empty” and “Oh, Happy Day.” Seeing the hirsute Browne was of course a highlight, and the reason, I suspect, many people came, but it was the Crosby Collective that was surprising and special. When they broke into the explosive”Lithium,” I was left to imagine how mind-blowing it must have been to see Nirvana in a club, live. The Collective’s versions captured the magic of the original songs and made this one of the most satisfying concerts I’ve seen.
June 13, 2025

Worst Rock Lyrics

Maybe not really the “worst” rock lyrics ever, but here are lines I cringe at whenever I hear them:

My shavin’ razor’s cold, and it stings…” Whoever says “shavin’ razor”? And what is how a shaving razor feels doing in a love song? (Daydream Believer, The Monkees, courtesy of Neil Diamond)
Names have been changed, dear, to protect you and I.” There are numerous examples of lyrics that confuse the objective and subjective forms of the first-person pronoun, often, as here, for reasons of rhyme, but this one stands out, coming at the very climax of this heartfelt ballad. (My True Story, The Jive Five)
Caught between the longing for love and the struggle for the legal tender.” C’mon, who has ever said they struggle “for the legal tender”? Jackson Browne is a great lyricist, but he apparently dug himself too big a hole by needing rhymes for a song titled “The Pretender.” The next one, “the junk man pounds his fender,” isn’t much better. Compare this to another great lyricist, Jimmy Buffett, who came up with “booze in the blender” down in Margaritaville. (The Pretender, Jackson Browne)
Love is like a stove, burns you when it’s hot.” Perhaps the least romantic description of love on record. What it follows is no more poetic: “Love is like a cloud, holds a lot of rain.” (Love Hurts, Everly Bros.)
Now I’ve found/that the world is round/and of course, it rains every day.” Early Bee Gees were my favorite group but for their soulful tunes and sweet harmonies, not their simplistic, even absurd, lyrics–e.g., “And the lights all went out in Massachusetts,” “Lemons never do forget,””New York Mining Disaster 1941.” (World, Bee Gees)
They said you were gonna put me on a shelf.” Don Henley is a wordsmith, Glenn Frey not so much, so this is probably Frey. “Self,” “myself” and “yourself” are all useful words in a love song, but unfortunately their only rhyme is “shelf,” which leads to this tortured locution. (Already Gone, The Eagles)
She’s giving me excitations.” The only use of this word from physics in rock music, or mainstream prose, in a forced rhyme with “vibrations.” (Good Vibrations, Beach Boys)
Can’t get no girlie action.” Unintelligible as Mick sings it, my Internet sources alternatively cite the lyric as “girl reaction” and “girl with action.” None of these, however, is a phrase a human has ever uttered. (Satisfaction, Rolling Stones)
No one heard at all, not even the chair.” Thanks to Dave Barry for this one. Does anyone think a chair can hear? (I Am, I Said, Neil Diamond)

List in progress…

Ronstadt Revival

A funny thing happened when Ronstadt Revival featuring Shannon Rae performed at the Lobero last night (9/14/24). After her second number, Ms. Rae confidentially told the audience they could ignore management’s request not to photograph or take videos of the artists. “Go ahead and take your pictures and share them on your social media account. Just put your phone down for a minute from time to time to enjoy the music.” Obviously, unlike actual stars, she was looking for publicity. But unlike usual audiences, the mature folks who had come out for this cover band, either didn’t have social media accounts or couldn’t care less about advertising their attendance. I didn’t see a single iPhone raised to take a picture all night. Later, she gave us a choice for audience participation: we could wave our arms in the air or raise our flashlights. The arms won.

As for the show itself, the music was good, the patter phony. Ms. Rae’s attempt to dress and wear her hair a la Ronstadt was lame, and she had no authentic stage presence of her own. If “How’re you doin’, Santa Barbara?!” is the best you can do to relate to the crowd, better not try. The songs were well played and fun to hear–”Different Drum” and “Desperado,” especially–but I probably would have enjoyed them more if I had kept my eyes closed.

Toad the Wet Sprocket

Most bands you see “come from” somewhere, generally some place I’ve never been so I can fantasize about the music scene there. The original members of Toad the Wet Sprocket, however, grew up in Santa Barbara, which is mainly why I went to see them at the Lobero last week. A local band somehow seems less the real thing, even though these guys had several national hits that still receive airtime on classic rock stations. With family, friends and their former manager in the audience, the show had a different feel. It was a little less like a “rock concert” and something of a community gathering. Of course, Santa Barbara is a pretty special “community.” Leader Glen Phillips admitted the occasion made him nervous, and a roving videographer who ran around stage recording the whole concert added to the informality of the event. But the music, regardless of when or where it was from, went down easy, above all the hits: “Walk On the Ocean,” “Something’s Always Wrong,” and “All I Want.” Phillips ended the concert by saying, “Pretend we’ve gone offstage and have now come back for the encore. Here it is.”

Donavon Frankenreiter

I’ve never been to a Phish concert, but I got the sense that the experience could be similar to the ALO concert at the Lobero last night. Described as a San Francisco jam band, the four nondescript members of ALO spun out 10-15-minute instrumentals with incidental lyrics, all with a lilting rhythm that had the audience bobbing, first in their seats but by set’s end all standing. It was perfectly pleasant, and I didn’t feel I was missing anything when I stayed seated, closed my eyes and let the sounds flow. But after an hour of what seemed the same I took off for home.

I had gone to the show in the expectation that Donavon Frankenreiter would be the headliner; that was how it was advertised on the Lobero website. But he opened and, arriving late, I only got to hear the last half hour of what might have been a 45-minute set. All his songs had a rolling rhythm that was easy on the ears. With his cowboy hat, suede jacket and husky voice he was a magnetic presence–more frontman than anyone in ALO. I didn’t know any of his numbers, but I felt quite familiar with each by their end. He wasted no time on patter, although I wouldn’t have minded some insight into personality. One song followed another, catchy and compact. It was enough to make me want to tune into Spotify the next day for more.

Justin Hayward

From “Tuesday Afternoon” through “Question” and “Nights in White Satin,” Justin Hayward gave us a retrospective of the Moody Blues’ greatest hits at the Lobero last night (June 20). What was different was his backup: instead of Graeme Edge, Mike Pinder, Ray Thomas, John Lodge and, perhaps, a full orchestra, he had a lead guitar, a synthesizer and a flute. No bass, no drums, no pounding rhythm section. The songs went from mellow to ethereal; we were surrounded, not assaulted. Of course it helped that the Moody Blues were my favorite group of the ’70s, and I lived by their first seven albums (and bought the next three as well). Their later hits rock more and are probably played more today: “Your Wildest Dreams” and “The Story in Your Eyes” brought the audience to their feet. The three or four standing ovations mid-show were three or four more than I saw at the Bowl for Daryl Hall. For me, the happiest surprise was Karmen Gould on flute. I don’t remember the instrument playing such a big role in the Moodys’ music: here it was beautiful, as was she, and my spirits rose every time she picked up her flute. Julie Ragins resembled a blonde Joan Jett as she stood behind the Mellotron and added background vocals. Again, the female voices replacing the all-male Moodys resulted in a different, slightly softer sound. The long-haired Mike Dawes played a rather inconspicuous guitar for a self-proclaimed virtuoso: he opened the set with twenty minutes of acoustic guitar solo and hawked a nine-hour guitar clinic available on thumb drive. But with so few people on stage, each was a personality we came to know. Unlike Elvis Costello’s band, they were all a generation younger than Justin, who is my age and married 53 years. His voice showed some age, but he hit the notes and charmed us. The music is just as good today as it was a half-century ago.