Now, if you're a Dylan/Young/Donovan fan, I can understand that. I was there, man. But I'm here now. Enough.
Being retired, I can finally do with my time as I damn well please, and it pleases me to have music blasting for about 15 hours a day. So that's what I do. Provided I can master the technology, I mean.
Music delivery systems have been rolling over faster than Beethoven delivering the news to Tchaikovsky. When first I came to sunny Geezerland, I kept a couple hundred vinyl records that I couldn't bear to part with. As for my tattered collection of Dylan, Young and Donovan - especially Donovan - I happily let them go for two bits a record. But the blight of obsolescence hunkers over my surviving platters, for needles wear out and turntables grunt and roll over. Try to replace a Denon moving coil cartridge, which was the state of the art 30 years ago. Ma foi! No matter - the album art is still nice. My Springsteen five-record set will likely remain in pristine condition long after The Boss is reading Tchaikovsky the headlines.
Oh, I'm no hoarder. I pitched out my 8-tracks and audio cassettes decades ago. Most of them. Today I have more invested in CD's than in my retirement account. I once figured laser-read music was for the ages. Nah, not really, as it turns out.
So I signed up for Sirius in its first year and still own the only two coal-fired satellite radio receivers still in existence. But for all its gazillion stations, Sirius is spiraling precipitously toward the lowest common denominator in each of its music genres. Bor-ing.
I haven't bought a dedicated MP3 player yet. I'm not exactly an early adopter. Nevertheless, I have a couple thousand bootlegged (by someone else) tracks on my clumsy old Blackberry. I'm sure I won't have enough time to fill a whole big iPod with iTunes before that medium also kicks the technological bucket. (Um - I was being sarcastic when I drafted that last comment, but I read today that Apple is swearing to God that it is not discontinuing the iPod. No siree, Bob. Does anyone else hear the death-knell knelling?)
So now I've signed up for Pandora's premium on-line service.
What an outstanding concept. Pandora feeds me the music I ask for, and then kicks in some stuff I didn't know I needed. I plug in John Prine, and Pandora opens its box and spews out not only Prine, but - whoa! - a trove of artists that Prine certainly loves: Steve Goodman and Guy Clark and David Bromberg (who can out-Neil-Young Neil Young) and the transcendent Dan Reeder. Oh, and Dylan, Young and Donovan. Oops. Nothing's perfect.
I ask Pandora for Leonard Cohen and also get John Hiatt, Tom Waits and Townes Van Zandt. Yee-hah! But ... Dylan/Young/Donovan creep uninvited into that mix, as well. Okay, I say, try Phoebe Snow. Out pops Emmylou Harris and Madeleine Peyroux. Oh, and D/Y/D. Crap. Louis Armstrong begets a very cool mix of Eric Bibb, Keb' Mo', Dr. Michael White and Coleman Hawkins. And D/Y/D. Yikes!
All right - I get it. Dylan and Young and maybe even Donovan did some seminal stuff. But c'mon - Coleman Hawkins? My guess is that plugging in J.S. Bach would generate D/Y/D on amplified harpsichord, but let us not tempt Fate.
Which brings me back to the 60's, where I started. I'm living here in a trailer park full of even riper old farts than I. Sometimes I push my walker around the block in the quiet of the evening. The peaceful, abiding silence. Ahhh. Interrupted only by a dozen stereos cranked up to deaf-defying volumes by other doddering old coots kicking out Chuck Berry, the Beatles, the Stones . And Dylan, Young and Donovan.