Merry Xmas vs. Bah Humbug: Shawn's Look Into The Holiday Season

     Here I am, entering my 20th Christmas, and I find myself thinking about the time that has passed. The fact that I am here and in good health to celebrate another holiday season is impressive. This time of year is so nostalgic for me, and I think it is for most people as well.
     20. Two ten spots. The big two-zero. That is the number of times I have awaken on Christmas morning surrounded by the ones I love. The number of times I've noticed my mom's face light up at the sight of me enjoying a new gift. Unfortunately, as I get older, I find it more difficult to stay in that jacked-up Xmas frame of mind for 25 days. I don't catch a high off the thought of Santa Claus coming like five-year-old Shawn did, and that's okay. Well...it is and it isn't.
     I don't think I was ever more grateful than when I was a kid. If I received a present, I was always happy with it. When I got to see my extended family, I always got excited. Now it seems as if when I get a gift I need to be able to use it somehow. It needs to be something I wanted; no more surprises. Also when family gathers, I have fun and love seeing them, but I lack genuine excitement. All of these childhood emotions that I've shed along the way were pivotal to the essential enjoyment of the holiday. Five-year-old Shawn would probably take a swing at me to be honest.
     Am I telling you to be grateful? Or to be more grateful? Maybe. It's up to your own interpretation. Even if you're not Catholic, Christmas can be a nice holiday for anyone no matter who/what you worship. And all this bullshit about Christmas being a commercial holiday is terrible. It just makes everyone more cynical. You don't need gifts or things or material goods. It's a decent, human gesture to give something to your fellow man/woman. So, when you're celebrating this holiday, give an extra gift. Pour an extra drink for a friend (free of charge). Look out you're window Christmas Eve like the old days. Be happy with what you receive, but be happier with what you already have. And don't forget the intangible gifts all around you. The love, trust, joy, embarrassment, comfort, confusion, and serenity. You can't throw those away. You can't return those for store credit.
     Merry Christmas. Happy New Year. Enjoy this holiday to the fullest so you don't have to worry about a younger self kicking your ass.

The Ballad of Tom Moat

Part I. The Babe and The Horse.

     The Sun did not shine the morning Thomas A. Moat entered the world. John and Michelle Moat looked upon their infant with loving eyes on that hazy June day. It would be the last time they ever felt that pure, untainted love for their son. They would never have the chance to get to know Tom.   

     Details of his upbringing may vary slightly, but basically, Tom Moat’s lifestyle was based off of what he saw in one tiny figurine. It was a stallion. Wild and free. Yet, Tom didn’t understand it. He couldn’t understand its stagnant ways. It was frozen in a gallop pose, but it could not escape to its desired destination. And when he reached the age in which a person can understand their own thoughts in the privacy of their own skull, Tom Moat made a pact with himself.

“If I ever stop moving,” he thought, “just shoot me where I stand.” 

From then on, Tom Moat kept a reckless pace, and his eyes never focused on one particular scene for more than a few hours. The wind was his riding partner and the sky watched over him.

     Tom was young when he left home. His parents loved him, but they couldn’t tame him. He knew it and they knew it. His father gave him a few coins and his mother packed him some meat and a few biscuits. As a final parting gift, Tom was awarded his favorite horse from the stable. Its name was Jonah.

     This horse was a fine animal. Its muscles looked like they could break through the skin at any moment. And when the creature moved, it was the only thing to look at that was worthwhile. If Noah were around, surely this would have been the horse he took with him before the flood hit. And Tom knew all of this when he saddled up Jonah. Like some classic western exit, Tom and Jonah made their way from John and Michelle’s ranch to the orange infinity of the setting Sun.

Part II. The Youngster and The Knife.

     The judge stared down at Tom Moat and saw the fire that burned within him.

     “You’re a long way from home, aren’t ya boy?” the judge questioned.

     “That ain’t rightfully your concern,” said Tom with a steady drawl layered with disrespect, “but yes sir, I am.”

     Tom was being tried for the murder of some nameless drifter. The drifter had lived for 42 years, and probably had more life to live. Tom was 16, and the Lord Himself didn’t know when Tom was going to end his stay on earth.

     “Slit his throat. That’s how ya did ‘em in, eh?” questioned the judge as if he was oblivious to the truth.

     “Sounds like a winner,” Tom boasted.

     The cowboy had lost it. When the drifter sent an innocent little wink in the direction of Tom Moat’s lady company, it didn’t sit well with him. The woman was a whore, but still, the fact that some older gentleman thought he could flirt with Tom’s girl and get away with it was appalling to the reckless youth. He asked the drifter to step outside. The drifter refused. He escorted the drifter outside. There was no refusal involved that time around.

     “You sly motherfucker,” Tom said to the poor soul.

     “I was just trying to have a good time. No harm meant boy,” the drunken nomad blurted.

     “First of all, I hope you said goodbye to your company in there. Second, I ain’t your boy. Hell, I ain’t a boy.”

     And as Tom Moat finished that sentence he felt obligated to prove it. A boy wouldn’t slit a man’s throat. A boy couldn’t watch the blood run from a helpless body onto his own hands. A boy couldn’t handle the jagged intervals of gurgling and gasping and pleading for a last breath. Yes, Tom Moat was no boy. He was either a man, or a monster in the form of human flesh. Regardless, Tom cried after the man’s head turned over, devoid of life. It could have been out of sorrow, or he could have been moved by the beauty of his work. No one knows because Tom hardened up even more after that night, which was good. Going to jail when you’re soft isn’t an easy thing to do.

Part III. The Lover and The Woman.

     He did some hard time. Some hard time. Not all the hard time. Tom could bribe like no other. He made friends with all of the half-wit guards in the prison and they really liked Tom. That was a quality he could be proud of, but Tom didn’t realize he possessed it. It just came natural to him.

     After some promises he’d never be able to keep and some quite unpleasant acts, Tom managed to stage a break-out. It was guaranteed to work too because the guards would simply look the other way. Once he was on the other side of the fence, a silky whistle escaped Tom’s mouth and Jonah charged to his side. The two were riding again.

     With his new found talent of trickery, Tom decided to get into sales. He would sell the most elaborate utensils and gadgets. Some were so advanced that most of the people he sold them to never even heard of such devices. They never got to see them either. As simple as it sounds, Tom would pitch these amazing images of tools that would make life much easier. He collected his payments and told the customers that due to the new tools’ popularity, a production time of two days was needed before they would receive these immaculate devices. He would deliver them personally. People don’t always trust family, but a cunning tongue deserves some loyalty.

     One day, when Tom was on the prowl for another gullible citizen, he made his way to a modest shack in the middle of nowhere. Tom knocked gently and lowered his head as he prepared the phony sales-pitch. When the door opened, Tom lifted his head until he met eyes with a goddess, or so he thought.

     “May I help you?” the sweet brunette cooed.

Tom stood dumbfounded. This was new to him.

     “I, ah, wanted to, ah, sell some…”

And he never finished the lie, because he had a feeling that someone so delicate and sweet didn’t deserve his low-life deception.

     “To be honest, Mam,” Tom said, “I have seen some ugly things and some wretched places, but among some of the beauty I’ve seen, your face is certainly the victor.”

The young lady blushed and said,

     “My name is Monica. Monica Blake.”

As they stared at each other, Ms. Blake began to fall for the vagabond. Tom had fallen for her the moment that wooden door swung past her enticing body. They were two lonely souls that happened to meet up by chance, and they both knew it. Loneliness is easy to sense when you’re basking in it all the time.

They didn’t speak much, but the two managed to walk down to a quiet lake where they continued to look at each other through fresh eyes. Once the Sun went down, it didn’t take long for the Moon and the lake to work their magic. Ms. Blake and Tom made love. They didn’t fuck. They didn’t have sex. They made love. It was the purest moment in Tom’s life.

Part IV. The Coward and The Bar

     Poor Ms. Blake. She saw the loneliness in Tom and she was vulnerable, but that would never be enough to slow the degenerate down.

     If I ever stop moving, just shoot me where I stand.

Ms. Blake woke up by the lake that morning, but she was alone once again. While she cried, she read Tom’s note that graced the spot where he had put his head to rest:

     “I gotta keep movin’, my dear,” it read. “I’ll keep you close.”

     From a distance, Tom gazed at his one-night lover. He knew that he couldn’t stick around. He just felt it. Whatever was driving him away was similar to a disease that kills a person. It’s manageable at first, but as life goes on, it gets stronger and feeds off of weakness. Again, the cowboy turned his back on something he loved just to satisfy the disease.

     He remained hasty, but old age was gaining on him. Finally, he stopped at a tiny saloon and began to drink. The whiskey flowed day and night and day and night until Tom Moat became Old Tom Moat and Old Tom Moat became Old, Drunk Tom Moat.

     The locals were fascinated. They had never seen a man sit in one place for so long and drink so much whiskey. One man asked Tom why he had been sitting in the same place for so long and Tom replied,

     “Makin’ up for lost time. Or maybe wasted time. One of the two.”

This statement puzzled everyone. The bartender often asked Tom to share his story, because Tom was the kind of fellow who looked like he had a story ready to pour out of him. But, everyday Tom declined and just ordered another whiskey. The pain and discomfort in Tom’s face won him favor with the bartender though, and Old Tom Moat never paid for another drink.

Part V. The Drunk and The Story.

     On a particularly hot day, Tom was downing drinks and looking haggard. He leaned back in his chair as if to stretch all the bones and joints he had forced to keep up with him for so long. As he fell back into his normal slouch, his hand rustled around in his pocket.

     “Damnit. Damn this thing to hell,” Tom mumbled to himself.

     He had found it on accident, and today decided to take it out of his pocket. The stallion figurine from so long ago. The little green horse trying to run off somewhere. Somewhere Tom wanted to go when he was younger, but now that he was old, he began to curse. Maybe he did it all wrong.

     “Gather ‘round fellas,” Tom said with a smile. “Today’s your lucky day.”

     It came like a flood. Like a driving rain. The story of Reckless Tom Moat and his trusty steed Jonah. The men cringed at the murder. Laughed at the deceit. Smiled at the escape. And wondered about the different scenes Tom had taken in and taken down. Then, Tom reached the encounter with Ms. Blake.

     He took a shot of whiskey and described the whole night. It wasn’t dirty, but refreshing. All the hard drunks and outlaws put their heads down to hide any ounce of emotion. Tom, struggling to continue, took a deep breath and said,

     “Gentlemen, out of all my terrible wrongdoings, the most ruthless crime wasn’t the breaking of a law or commandment. It was a love I left behind. A love that was never given a chance to blossom.” 

     The men reflected on the tale, as did Tom, and they each drew their own conclusions. No one dare speak what they thought, except the man who needed to put an end to his own story. Tom raised his whiskey glass slowly and toasted,

     “Here’s to youth, may it never get old.”   

     The men in that bar cheered and drank from their glasses. They were in the company of a ruthless criminal, but they all felt compassion for the old man. The drinks continued to flow as did the questions, and outside of that bustling saloon a cold wind began to blow. It carried Tom’s story across the countryside until it reached the Pacific and vanished amongst the waves.

The New Pride of New Jersey

I haven't been this excited about a band since I first listened to Appetite for Destruction.

The Gaslight Anthem, a quartet from New Jersey, is the next band to save Rock N’ Roll. Give any one of their albums a listen and you will be aching for more. Brian Fallon is a superb vocalist. He's got that rough growl style voice, and can handle a guitar as well. Alex Rosamilia is credited with guitar duties also, but not lead. Rosamilia plays riffs, and he plays the hell out of them. Alex Levine plays a solid bass and the other half of the rhythm section, Benny Horowitz, masters the drums. Together, Levine and Horowitz create a powerful and reliable foundation while Rosamilia and Fallon add the sugar, spice, and everything nice. They have been classified as punk, but their work has really torn down the labeling barrier. The debris and rubble left over is The Gaslight Anthem.

Besides the sound, TGA have some of the strongest lyrics in contemporary music. The lyricism is one reason TGA have been compared to Bruce Springsteen (the other being they both hail from New Jersey). Their words tell stories, much like the words of Springsteen. You not only hear words when you listen to these songs, you feel them. You identify with the protagonist and cheer for victory. It is a gift passed down by acts like Bruce Springsteen and Bob Dylan to commiserate with and inspire the “every-man”. TGA opened that gift, embraced it, and put it over the raw energy of The Clash while bringing in a fresh and youthful element.

I suggest listening to their work in the order it was released. First is Sink or Swim. This is the album that gave TGA the punk label. The sound is aggressive and the musicianship is relentless. These songs are short (the longest clocking in at 3:45), but have so much to say. “And tonight the coast line is quiet, it's quieter than it's ever been/Honey this town is a prison, with its four walls closing in/And they got one pill to make you smaller, they one pill to make you scream/Darling this heart is on fire, and this life is but a dream,” Fallon howls on “Wooderson”. When you’re looking to slow things down, there are two great acoustic gems on Swim. While “Red at Night” is the stronger of the two, don’t skip over “The Navesink Banks” because it is a great listen as well.

Second on the list (skipping the well crafted EP Senor and the Queen) is the incredible The ’59 Sound. In my humble opinion, this is TGA’s best album. Every song will be stuck in your head. The lyricism is phenomenal and TGA’s influences shine through brightly. “Great Expectations” opens the album with a little left over juice from Swim while the rest of the album finds a different energy. “Meet Me by the River’s Edge” sounds like a song Springsteen forgot to record, and the fragile “Here’s Looking at You, Kid” will melt even the coldest of hearts. Don’t miss “Film Noir” (“But nobody never gonna tell you the way/You gotta figure it out boys/And suffer the rain, and the fools in the night, and the heat of the day/When all you ever really wanted was for someone to understand”), and if you purchase the album from Itunes, you will get a bonus cover of Robert Bradley’s Blackwater Surprise’s “Once Upon a Time”.   

Now we get to the most recent effort by TGA, American Slang. Yet again, the band manages to recreate their sound but does not lose their artistic integrity. You may have to listen to this one multiple times though. The first time you will wonder if this is the same band on Sink or Swim. The second listen will comfort your doubting mind, and any further listens will welcome American Slang to the family. The title track has a stealthy intro leading into powerful vocals and a catchy chorus. “The Diamond Church Street Choir” is a light tune with a cool doo-wop guitar riff. “Old Haunts” delivers a meaningful message, while “Boxer” opens with some bouncy lyrics, “Got your pride and your prose/Tucked just like a tommy gun/Somewhere in the smoke/Just in case you need it.” The rest of the tracks are commendable, but I still skip over “The Queen of Lower Chelsea” from time to time. Also, I want to like “We Did It When We Were Young”, and if it were done acoustically, I probably would.

The Gaslight Anthem is here to stay. With a collection of evolving work and so much to offer today’s young music lovers, TGA will rejuvenate Rock. They’ve already gotten to me, a twenty-year old who’s last musical thrill was discovering Guns N’ Roses. Needless to say, the wait was well worth it.  

FYI

     I never thought I'd see the day when I would create a blog. Not there's anything wrong with blogging, but I'm more of a print guy. I like having something I can hold onto while I read. That way I can throw it if I'm displeased or place it down gently if I'm satisfied. Plus, I always feel the need to play a game when I'm on my laptop, so many times I will become sidetracked.
     I do not claim to be an expert on anything. I know nothing of politics or science. I am merely an observer. I created this blog to polish a craft that I hope to make a career out of some day, but for now, it's all in good fun. 
     Enjoy.