The Power Of The Song

When I hear George Jones sing those heart breaking words from "She Thinks I Still Care" I can't help but marvel at the feelings that Dickey Lee and Steve Duffy packed into those three minutes of song. Of course the Possum's clenched teeth delivery is what you're drawn to but it's those gut wrenching lyrics and that sad, sad melody that pack the wallop. The same with "I Go To Pieces" whether it's Peter and Gordon's hit version or Del Shannon's original. How can such sadness be contained on a little piece of plastic? Don't even get me started about Hank Williams or Ray Charles. I'm thrilled to hear that Steve Martin and Edie Brickell possess the stuff with "When You Get To Asheville," the radio single off their new collaboration. Heck, they're rich. They're famous. What do they know about heartache and heartbreak?

On the other end of the scale if "I'm My Own Grandpa" by Lonzo and Oscar comes on the radio, my pants are wet. Don't worry. It never even came on the radio in 1947 when it was new. Hmm; 1947.

I struggle for the power to break hearts, to wet pants. That's what I do.

Who's Gonna Break Our Hearts?

Well, none of us can be surprised that ol' No Show has gone on. Eighty one years is a good run even if you haven't worked hard on self destruction for decades. Makes me start to really appreciate the power of heartbreak communicated through song. I love happy music. I could march around the kitchen to Sousa all day or slide across the floor to Arthur Conley until I wore out my socks.

Ray Charles tore my heart out, though. On a regular basis, too. When Hank Williams told us how lonely he was it killed me, even as a kid. Little Willie John wreaked havoc with my emotions. It's a long list. It would be impossible not to mention Billie Holiday and Arthur Alexander.

I never had in mind singing sad tunes. Never knew I did until folks started asking me about it. I don't see much of a future in peddling sadness. Hasn't really paid that well for the last fifty years. You do what you do, though. I'm a happy guy.

"Career" Move

You have no idea how frequently I am asked, "You have any idea how big you would be if you died?" Sometimes the enquirer will delicately phrase the question to imply that maybe I should just write a book. That's nice but I know what they're thinking.

Is it really possible that this guy has played his beat down old heart out for nearly fifty years and this is all that he has to show for it? No gold records? No big hits?

Hey, sometimes I wonder what on earth would keep a nose to this particular grindstone. I look at where the careers of folks from Hank Williams to Anna Nicole Smith were at the time of their demise and I understand what my hopeful friends are getting at.

We always end up with faulty memories of where our heroes were in the grand scheme of things, career-wise, at their demise.

My tales about Elvis offering to teach me karate or holding up Jimi's amps or Tiny Tim bringing me a photo booth picture and telling me that he would see me in heaven all get wildly magnified in any imaginary obituary piece. I'll bet the sad songs would sound a lot sadder, too.

Don't misunderstand me here. I don't want to kick the bucket. Ever. For me it's beneath cutting the grass or having a filling replaced. The whole concept seems creepy and boring to me.

Maybe we will have a little pretend poll here, though. Let me know what you think. Ex-wives are ineligible. ronnyelliottusa@gmail.com.