Big wheels keep on turnin’

I spend a surprising amount of my waking life inside overheated metal tubes in motion. It was all so thrilling once, going from town to town, laying it down for the people, but now the rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle is wearing me down. Oh, sure, there’s money to smoke, dope to spend, and chicks to put up your nose, but can any of that really make you happy? You can’t spend your bread on the band bus, and them
bony-elbowed chicks give you a pain in the ribs…
Forgive me. I could blame it on the fact that I’m listening to Cracker’s anti-Virgin Records diatribe, “It Ain’t Gonna Suck Itself.” Though in truth, that just queued up on the iPod serendipitously. Intergalalactic shuffle mode rules!
With everything else going on, I didn’t even get the chance to write about Marshall Crenshaw last Saturday. Stripped-down combo, just a lead guitar and stand-up bass (played by an Eisnerian creature, free of bone, just groovin’ on his own deep bass notes) added to Marshall’s rhythm guitar. Played a bunch of new stuff I llked, plus everything you would expect. Critics are perplexed that he hasn’t broken big, but he just doesn’t fit. His music isn’t folk, and some have made the mistake of calling it rockabilly. The fact is, Marshall Crenshaw is the last pop genius standing who works in the pre-British Invasion mode, making quirky, perfect pop confections that are always infused with a modern sensibility.
Meaning, he rocked.