Fucking Christmas is coming and don't we all hate it? Well, I don't mean I hate it. I love actual Christmas itself. The trees, the kids, the myths and the magic and the food. But not the hideous modern goddam bullshit that comes with it anymore. Like my neighbor having her lights up BEFORE Halloween. Like the mega-commercial exploitation of the beautiful gesture of giving. Like seeing or reading about the mobs of crazed consumer-zombies trampling and fighting over X-boxes and the like. The ACLU public square manger lawsuits. Too much pressure! Disgusting! Pass me one of your grandma's Christmas cookies, will ya? Mmmm, now that helps (munch, munch, gulp). Let's not blame the Baby Jesus--little sumbitch is the most blameless one in this passion play of insanity, none of which in my book has anything to do with true Christianity. Jesus, I'm fairly certain, wouldn't be thrilled with stores open on Thanksgiving or the very concept of Black Friday. No, I don't think that was the original intent of the son o' God--to gorge, exploit and regurgitate profits and low-end materialistic pleasure. Though I bet Jello Biafra would disagree. However, on the lighter, happier side, it's an excuse for me to hopefully get my editor to run a picture of the James Brown Christmas CD cover where Brother James has his nappy funky head poking out of a Christmas wreath, smiling ever so seasonally. I just think it's the funniest, funkiest, awesome-est thing in the world. And the CD is the reindeer's shnizzle. Officially titled "The Best of James Brown: 20th Century Masters The Christmas Collection," it's got 17 tracks of James at his Godfather-est. Full of himself, in other words, and up for the occasion, totally. And his band, the J.B.'s. Opening with “Go Power At Christmas Time,” what's so great about the collection is that James, smart businessman that he was once, (he realized writing your own songs pays so much more than recording those of others) wrote or co-wrote most of the songs. And of course, James being James, the titles are often a hoot. Let's Unite The Whole World At Christmas--a fine seasonal sentiment--is followed by the inimitable “Santa Claus Go Straight To The Ghetto,” “Sweet Little Baby Boy, Parts 1 & 2” (God, I LOVE that 'parts 1 & 2' bit--SO James), “Santa Claus, Santa Claus,” “Merry Christmas, I Love You” and more. Of course, whether Christmas is the subject of "Tit For Tat Ain't No Taking Back" is debatable but it is on the album. For very good measure Billy Ward's “Christmas In Heaven,” Nat Jones's “Santa Claus Is Definitely Here To Stay,” Mel Torme's “The Christmas Song-Version 1” and the Lou Baxter-Johnny Moore gem “Merry Christmas Baby” fill out the R 'n' B Christmas tree here of cheery, horns-punctuated Santa groove. He does stay true to form and pleads "please please PLEEEEASE bring me some Christmas cheer," in “Santa Claus, Santa Claus,” and it's just effective a performance as in his hit, “Please Please Please.” James Brown was no fool. They ought to teach him in Harvard Business School. -- Three albums I want you to consider for the Stones fan, the Neil Young aficionado and the Tom Waits devotee in your life, and none of 'em are new. It's just that I've connected or reconnected with them so hard this year I can't see how anybody who loves any of those guys wouldn't want 'em if they don't already have 'em. I completely fell into the second disc on the deluxe anniversary reissue of the Stones' “Exile On Main Street” unlike how I did when it first came out a couple years ago. I liked it well enough then but I don't know, something really got to me about it these past several months and baby, I was waking up in the middle of the night with any one of a number of unused 'bonus' tracks that didn't make it on to the original release back in '72. The Stones performance is so rife with languid, sensual, lazy grooves as well as swinging blues rock that even their throw aways are keepers head-and-shoulders better than the crap you hear today. Neil Young's “Psychedelic Pill” came out last year but I'm telling you, kids and parents, the haunting 27-minute first track “Driftin' Back” alone is worth every dollar you'll pay for the entire double-disc set. How is the rest of the album? To these ears, P-Pill is the finest work Neil has done in 20 years: hard-ass rock, country and Neil being Neil. Two years running a personal top three favorite. That says something in this day and age of ever-sinking stinkage passing for musical culture. The three-CD Tom Waits set, “Orphans,” has a particularly affecting disc, "Bawlers," made up of his balladic sentimentality. And when this maverick of the grotesque-sounding bares his heart, I swear he's the most human human being making music in America today. Song after song wind their way through the lonely alleys of Tom's characters, yearning for the getting of love and then regretting the inevitable losing. A Bowery bum act of profoundly deep feeling, Tom's is a mix of tragedy and comedy. Just like real life. The other two discs might again re-qualify themselves for re-entry in my personal favorites at any point, "Brawlers" and "Orphans," Tom's clever ways of grouping his odds and ends that didn't make it onto regular releases.Fucking Christmas is coming and don't we all hate it? Well, I don't mean I hate it. I love actual Christmas itself. The trees, the kids, the myths and the magic and the food. But not the hideous modern goddam bullshit that comes with it anymore. Like my neighbor having her lights up BEFORE Halloween. Like the mega-commercial exploitation of the beautiful gesture of giving. Like seeing or reading about the mobs of crazed consumer-zombies trampling and fighting over X-boxes and the like. The ACLU public square manger lawsuits. Too much pressure! Disgusting! Pass me one of your grandma's Christmas cookies, will ya? Mmmm, now that helps (munch, munch, gulp). Let's not blame the Baby Jesus--little sumbitch is the most blameless one in this passion play of insanity, none of which in my book has anything to do with true Christianity. Jesus, I'm fairly certain, wouldn't be thrilled with stores open on Thanksgiving or the very concept of Black Friday. No, I don't think that was the original intent of the son o' God--to gorge, exploit and regurgitate profits and low-end materialistic pleasure. Though I bet Jello Biafra would disagree. However, on the lighter, happier side, it's an excuse for me to hopefully get my editor to run a picture of the James Brown Christmas CD cover where Brother James has his nappy funky head poking out of a Christmas wreath, smiling ever so seasonally. I just think it's the funniest, funkiest, awesome-est thing in the world. And the CD is the reindeer's shnizzle. Officially titled "The Best of James Brown: 20th Century Masters The Christmas Collection," it's got 17 tracks of James at his Godfather-est. Full of himself, in other words, and up for the occasion, totally. And his band, the J.B.'s. Opening with “Go Power At Christmas Time,” what's so great about the collection is that James, smart businessman that he was once, (he realized writing your own songs pays so much more than recording those of others) wrote or co-wrote most of the songs. And of course, James being James, the titles are often a hoot. Let's Unite The Whole World At Christmas--a fine seasonal sentiment--is followed by the inimitable “Santa Claus Go Straight To The Ghetto,” “Sweet Little Baby Boy, Parts 1 & 2” (God, I LOVE that 'parts 1 & 2' bit--SO James), “Santa Claus, Santa Claus,” “Merry Christmas, I Love You” and more. Of course, whether Christmas is the subject of "Tit For Tat Ain't No Taking Back" is debatable but it is on the album. I guess what I'm saying, especially when it comes to the Stones and Waits, is that there is no expiration date for when their music gets to you and won't let go. None whatsoever. It's just that I can't think of anything released this year that did that. Of course, any music at any time might jump into me and take over my subconscious. It's just these guys never leave me alone. -- A man named John Petric passed away one chilly morning last week. He was 88 and he was a great man. When his first-born son was a boy, he idolized this man, as most boys do. And indeed, there was much to truly admire. John Petric was athletic, fast as hell and with a throwing arm to match. He was smart, a certified genius whom the nuns and priests couldn't control and whom he despised in return for the rest of his life, giving his own son a healthy authority problem they'd both find themselves at odds with at one time or another. He could shoot so well the Army Air Force in WWII took him straight from basic to instructor, the Browning .50-caliber his main expertise. Probably saved him--B-17 bombers were dropping like flies over Germany. Later in life, he became a bow hunter. When the neighbors needed a rabid squirrel brought down from on high, they called my dad: one arrow, one draw, one squirrel dropped. No problem. His brilliance with numbers made him the youngest comptroller in Republic Steel history, the country's then-third-largest steel-maker. Between his brain and work ethic, he was a resounding professional success. And yet he had an artistic side, too. He could draw and paint beautifully. And with those same talented hands that could hunt and fish and create, he was also a master craftsman, especially with wood but also metal. And did I mention he could play the accordion like ringing a bell? Oh, yes, and the sense of humor—wicked. It has been a blessing and a curse to have his name. Who could possibly live up to such accomplishments, how does one come out from within the shadow of such a man? It hasn't been easy, I'll tell you. At least he didn't name me Sue. But now I find myself wondering, with him gone, two questions: who have I been? And who am I to be? Right now, I don't know. In the meantime, I can only say thank you to the man who made me what I am. He was a hard task master, as you could well imagine. But without him I wouldn't have nor be what I am today. I loved him madly, truly, I did. But he was of the old school and that sort of thing wasn't to be shown. Quite the opposite. But what I think he really wanted was for me to be like him. But who could? How does one follow footsteps like his? Some day, I might get there, make him proud. So, rest easy, dad, you've earned it. You were the greatest. I know that now if I didn't then. And I know I have a lot of work to do.