Spitball Army

Bottle of red wine ($20 min), preferably a cabernet (please include a bottle opener!)

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I need Rachmaninoff’s Warsaw Concerto in Blue.

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Late last year the fearless Josh Ritter took up residence in the L.A. County Natural History Museum’s North American Mammal Hall and played a live set with his band. The animals, while providing a primal setting with their presence, were unmoved and unmovable (because they’re stuffed, taxidermised!). Nevertheless, Josh & co. roared through a rockin’ live show that was filmed and will be broadcast on Ovation TV at the end of this month.

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No, it’s not what you’re thinking.

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It’s always been a myth that Dylan interviews are rare: they average about one a month for all four and a half decades of his career.

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“At 56 I am old enough to remember a time when every public high school in this country had a music program with choir and band – usually a jazz band, too, and sometimes even an orchestra. … I am sorry to say that these programs are no longer widely available. This once visionary and democratic system has been almost entirely dismantled by well-meaning but myopic school boards, county commissioners, and state officials, with the federal government largely indifferent to the issue. Art became an expendable luxury, and 50 million students have paid the price. Today a child’s access to arts education is largely a function of his or her parents’ income.”

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No, the title of this post doesn’t refer to the band – it’s the Spanish translation of the title of the following song by the fabulous Bell Rays, a little ray of sunlight provided by your friend at Spitball Army headquarters.

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So, being a man of the times, I typed “blessings on your head” into my toolbar, and here is some text from one of the entries that came up:

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I’m just now starting to notice and investigate what new music is on the way for the coming months. It looks OK.

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I’ve got a pile of these lists, going back decades, and it’s sometimes an unwelcome jolt to see the music I was championing back then. Other times, it’s the trigger that forces out a barely audible “Aw,” then a scramble to find that recording I haven’t heard in ten years.

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