An allegory, in which Demon Alcohol gets the last word.

Michael McGlynn’s Anúna invents traditional Irish Holy Music, Folk Music,neo-Gregorian Chants, New Age and Riverdance–all a cappella, in costume, in candlelight.

Bob Dylan at his best. It don’t get no better than that.

James Blake is the boy from the haunted house next door – Bela Lugosi’s visiting nephew. Haunting ain’t the word. He possesses you. Beacon don’t fly too high.

Women are a superior breed to men, but everyone from God to James Thurber knows they sure like to talk. Girl Talk.
I personally wouldn’t have it any other way.

50 years ago I was at the Woodstock festival, in the mud and the mire and the morass. Joni wasn’t, but she got it right in the song. True Woodstock is in the mind.

50 years ago the Woodstock festival took place in upstate New York. I was there. I got wet and muddy and cranky and went back home after one night to listen to some of the same artists on my headphones.

The albatross of fame and fortune. Young Joni crafting her disillusion into a gem, 1970.