Just picture it – half a million children of the Woodstock generation on half a million little desert islands, each one clutching to his/her breast his own personal, worn, beloved copy of “Rubber Soul”.

My worst nightmare came true this week–I became my mother, listening to “nice” music.

Oh, how they jangled.

Have you heard the one about the farmer’s daughter and the traveling troubadour?

The maelstrom of emotion – Doc Pomus watches from his wheelchair as his new bride dances with another guy. All in 2’34”.

Wanna hear a GOOD song?

Community singing.
Say what???

The pogroms in Częstochowa, the African-American folk magic tradition of hoodoo, and how my bootlegging booze across state lines prevented my girlfriend from being picked up by a blues legend.