‘This Is What I Give . . .’

October 2nd, 2020

The atmospheric “Since You Asked” is the second track on Judy Collins’ hushed 1967 album Wildflowers. The album itself was part of the soundtrack of my mid- to late teen years, from the time my sister bought the album – probably in 1968, after Dad finished work on the basement rec room – to the time she took it with her on her newlywed way to a career in education in the summer of 1972.

I couldn’t have told you the title of the track until it came to mind the other day, but as soon as I called it up on the RealPlayer, it was instantly familiar, pulling me back to adolescent reveries on the green couch:

What I’ll give you since you’ve asked
Is all my time together;
Take the rugged sunny days,
The warm and rocky weather,
Take the roads that I have walked along,
Looking for tomorrow’s time,
Peace of mind.

As my life spills into yours,
Changing with the hours
Filling up the world with time,
Turning time to flowers,
I can show you all the songs
That I never sang to one man before.

We have seen a million stones lying by the water,
You have climbed the hills with me
To the mountain shelter.
Taken off the days, one by one,
Setting them to breathe in the sun.

Take the lilies and the lace
From the days of childhood,
All the willow winding paths
Leading up and outward.
This is what I give
This is what I ask you for;
Nothing more.

After my sister headed out to adult life, I went about sixteen years without hearing the song except by accident. I found it in 1988 on Collins’ anthology, Colors Of The Day, and then found Wildflowers five years later. Even during a time of increased record-buying, the two Collins albums got fairly regular play as I drifted between North Dakota, Minnesota, Kansas and Missouri and back to Minnesota

In a seemingly unrelated event, I also picked up in 1988 an album by Dan Fogelberg and Tim Weisberg titled Twin Sons of Different Mothers, a 1978 piece of work that I’ve listened to occasionally but not with any great attention.

So, until it was mentioned in a Facebook music group the other day, I’d not realized that the track on the latter album titled “Since You’ve Asked” was actually Collins’ song. After reading the note at Facebook, I wandered off and found the Fogelberg/Weisberg track in the digital stacks and of course knew it immediately. The production – framed by piano, with some slight alterations in the lyrics – makes the tune fit nicely into Fogelberg’s catalog of sometimes spare and haunting songs:

There are a few other covers of the song out there, some instrumental (and most using the title “Since You’ve Asked” instead of Collins’ original “Since You Asked”). If we dabble with those at all, we’ll do so on another day.

‘Maintain’

September 30th, 2020

Long ago, about midway through my 1973-74 stay in Denmark, the American girl I’d been seeing became very unhappy with me for very legitimate reasons. I sought counsel from my friend Gus, who was a few years older and much more experienced than I at the dance of relations between men and women.

“I messed up, Gus,” I told him, more or less. “How can I fix it? What am I gonna do?”

And Gus looked at me and said, “Maintain.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“Just maintain.”

Okay. Well, it was the early Seventies, after all, a time of seemingly weighty catch-phrases. And Gus was a vet, so maybe that pithy bit of advice came from his time in the service. Looking for any life preserver to cling to, I tried to internalize “maintain.”

Sometime in the next few days, I spent a few minutes making a small sign to tape to the cabinet that overlooked the study table in the small room I shared with a guy named Roger. It read “Maintain,” of course, in three different colored inks. It was pretty badly done. But I stuck it on the cabinet, and it brought me some comfort as the days crawled by and repairs to what had been my first serious relationship seemed less and less likely.

As the next weekend approached, I decided to get out of town. A couple of the St. Cloud State students in our program were doing their student teaching at an American school in Copenhagen that quarter, so I hitch-hiked the 120 miles to Copenhagen for a four-day weekend of Carlsberg beer, Chinese take-out, piano-led singalongs and some intense conversation.

Late on the first Monday afternoon of February, returning from Copenhagen, I opened the door to the small room I shared with Roger and stopped. Taped to the cabinet in the spot where my admittedly ugly “Maintain” sign had been was a delightfully designed sign in red marker that read “C’est La Vie!” Fuming, I unloaded my backpack, and when Roger came in, I let him have it. He had, I told him firmly (and likely loudly), no right to remove my sign. Yeah, I said, it was a crappy piece of work, but it was mine.

And I left the room, no doubt slamming the door as I went. Some time later, calmed by a cup of coffee from the vending machine in the hostel lobby, I returned to the room, ready to apologize to Roger. I opened the door to Room 8 and started to laugh. Roger had put up a new sign on the cabinet.

Again in red marker, it read “Main-Fuckin’-Tain!”

I still have both of the signs Roger made for me, tucked away in a box full of memories from that year. And as public life has become stranger and more stressful in this awful year, I have on occasion posted my own sign of encouragement at Facebook:

Maintain1

A search through the digital stacks found one track with the title “Maintain,” a 1967 record on the Dunhill label by Jim Valley, a one-time member of Paul Revere & The Raiders. An earlier record, “Try, Try, Try,” had bubbled under the Billboard Hot 100 at No. 106, but “Maintain” didn’t chart, and Valley’s journey went in new directions, as chronicled at his website. (The single came my way via the massive Lost Jukebox collection that was posted online some years ago.)

Maybe Gus knew the record, maybe not. But as terse and cryptic as his advice was, it was valuable. Here’s “Maintain.”

Saturday Single No. 706

September 26th, 2020

The trees around the condo are doing their autumnal things. From where I write, I can see some lower branches of our flowering crab; about a tenth of its leaves are yellow, and some have fallen, while the remainder are yet green (though not at all a becoming shade of green). Down the alley, the leaves on one of the maples in front of a nearby unit are turning a vivid red.

Also near that unit, another tree – this one closer to us – has only a sparse collection of yellow leaves remaining in its branches. I do not know what type of tree it is, but its part in the autumn symphony, my favorite among nature’s performances, is almost over.

I find, though, that as October approaches, bringing the midpoint of my six favorite weeks of the year, that I am not nearly as pleased this year by nature’s displays as I have been during most of the sixty-plus autumns I can remember. As I’ve noted before, the events of the world have left me unsettled.

We try here to maintain, though. We spent an enjoyable Thursday evening in the parking lot of a local dining and drinking establishment with about a hundred other folks – all groups sensibly distanced and some, at least, masked when appropriate – listening to the country band Mason Dixon Line. Two of the band’s members are acquaintances of ours, and they and their two mates did nice work on a program of covers.

It was a pleasantly cool evening, and I sat with my attention shifting from the band and a few dancers in front of me to the sky, where the moon was in its waxing quarter phase (more commonly called a half-moon) with a planet in attendance to its east. I learned later that it was Jupiter, with Saturn only a little bit farther east.

That was our first evening out since sometime in maybe early February, and given reports of a rapidly rising infection rate in Minnesota in recent weeks, likely the last for some time to come. And as I sat there in my lawn chair alternating my gaze between the stage and the sky, there was a song that kept popping into my mind, even as Mason Dixon Line offered tunes by Alabama and Alan Jackson. “Half moon,” I kept hearing. “Nighttime sky . . .”

That’s why Janis Joplin’s “Half Moon,” from her 1971 album Pearl, is today’s Saturday Single.

September Songs 2

September 23rd, 2020

We’re going to pick up where we left off earlier this month, exploring songs on the digital stacks with “September” in their titles. We got not quite halfway through the alphabet last time, ending with a tune titled “Lucy September” by the Dream Academy. On to the letter M and beyond!

Quite a ways beyond, in fact. We have to head into the letter S before we find the next tune, a 1965 single titled “Sad September” by Grady & Brady. “It’s gonna be a sad September” because the guy’s girl – who promised last spring to come back when school started – met someone else and has possibly left town. (The latter is not clear.) The sweet but unimaginative record, which showed clearly that the two had listened to a lot of Everly Brothers tunes, was the third for the duo, the first coming on the Dolton label credited to Grady & Brady Sneed and the other two on Planetary credited to just Grady & Brady. As far as I can see, they got no chart action at all.

Then we come onto two versions of “See You In September.” We have the Tempos’ original from 1959 (No. 23 on the Billboard Hot 100), and the Happenings’ cover from 1966 (No. 3). The Tempos were from Pittsburgh, and their version is passable but a little stiff, and it has what a music professor colleague of mine from long ago called “an MGM ending,” which doesn’t seem to work. But maybe it doesn’t work because I remember the Happenings’ version from 1966, which at points could easily be mistaken for the work of the Four Seasons. Closer listening shows that’s not so, but still, there’s more excitement in the Happenings’ version of the tune. And the background chants of “Bye-bye! So long! Farewell!” rule.

There are twenty-one tracks on the digital shelves whose titles essentially start with the word “September.” I count six versions of “September Song,” five of “September In The Rain,” two of “The September Of My Years” (both of those – one live and one in the studio – by Frank Sinatra), and several single versions of tracks that name the month in their titles.

We’ll consider the five versions of “September In The Rain.” The earliest is a 1937 take on the tune by Guy Lombardo & His Royal Canadians, with vocals by Carmen Lombardo. As one might expect, it’s pretty and competent big band music. Twenty-four years later, Dinah Washington made the song the title track of a 1961 album. Her version is more rhythmic but still pretty standard pop jazz, except for the idiosyncratic quality of her voice. It went to No. 23 on the Hot 100 and to No. 5 on both the magazine’s R&B and Easy Listening charts, but it leaves me wanting something more.

In 1963, easy listening maestro Ray Charles took hold of the song, slowing it down a little too much and sanding the rough spots off entirely. The version by his Ray Charles Singers on the album Autumn Moods is a bit smooth and slick for even my easy listening-tolerant tastes. A year later, Chad & Jeremy did a tasteful version of the tune for their album Yesterday’s Gone, a take on the tune that I kind of like, maybe because of the harmonica solo.

And in 1971, a group called Aeroplane released a version of “September In The Rain” on singles in both France and West Germany, according to the website 45cat. Their take on the tune came my way in the Lost Jukebox project that showed up online some years ago (as did the single by Grady & Brady at the top of this piece), and the on-line discography for that venture indicates that the version I have is one of the two French releases on the Pink Elephant label. Aeroplane gives the tune a folk-rock setting that seems to work pretty well.

We’ll leave the rest of the September songs for another day in the next week and take a listen today to the only charting version of “September In The Rain,” Dinah Washington’s 1961 take on the tune:

Saturday Single No. 705

September 19th, 2020

We had a busy day yesterday, the Texas Gal and I: We did a grocery run in the morning, then spent the afternoon preparing the house for company for the first time since March. Tom, a friend from our Unitarian-Universalist Fellowship, had offered to come over and help us with a household problem, and we in turn had offered him dinner.

The problem was basically pretty simple. The light bulbs in the ceiling fixture over the landing had finally died. The fixture hangs from the main floor ceiling and can only be reached from the landing a story-and-a-half below. Not long after we moved here, we bought a twelve-foot step ladder, but we soon learned we were uncomfortable – both of us being a bit wobbly – near the top of the ladder.

Tom isn’t. Soon after he arrived, he was checking out the light fixture, tightening screws on the fan blades and installing light bulbs. Not long after that, he and I were quaffing Oktoberfest brews while the Texas Gal put finishing touches on dinner, and then all three of us were dining on chicken breasts with an apple-onion-raisin curry sauce and roasted sweet potatoes.

It was good to have company again. And yes, it’s good to have lights over the landing again, but we would have been pleased with the company even without the household assistance. As I’m sure many folks out there agree, the last six months have been fairly isolating, and a taste of safe normality – we’ve known Tom long enough that we trust him and he trusts us in all matters, not just those related to the corona virus – was good for all three of us.

But I’m tired today. So I’m not doing a whole lot here this morning. I just dipped back into the Billboard Hot 100 we looked at yesterday – released on September 19, 1970, fifty years ago today – and looked for something interesting in its lower reaches.

And I found a cover I’d never heard before, a take on Stephen Stills’ “For What It’s Worth” by Sergio Mendes & Brasil ’66. Fifty years ago today, it was bubbling under at No. 101, and that’s as high as it ever went, although it went to No. 10 on the Billboard Easy Listening chart. I do wonder why Mendes thought 1970 was a good time to cover the tune, which the Buffalo Springfield originally released in 1967. Whatever the reason. it’s today’s Saturday Single.

No. 50 Fifty Years Ago (September 1970)

September 18th, 2020

As promised earlier this week, we’re playing Symmetry, looking back fifty years to whatever record was sitting at No. 50 in the Billboard Hot 100 at this point in September 1970. First, though, we’re going to take a look at the Top Five released fifty years ago tomorrow:

“Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” by Diana Ross
“War” by Edwin Starr
“Lookin’ Out My Back Door/Long As I Can See The Light” by CCR
“Patches” by Clarence Carter
“Julie, Do Ya Love Me” by Bobby Sherman

This is not a particularly great five (or six) from where I listened long ago. There are some nice moments here, especially the intro to the Diana Ross single (although the spoken word portion of the record tamps that down a bit for me), and “War” is always going to get one’s attention. I like the CCR B-side, and the Bobby Sherman single always reminds me that there was a young lady named Julie during that long-ago season who was – clearly in retrospect but not evident to my seventeen-year-old self – interested in me.

As to the CCR A-side and the Clarence Carter single, I’ve never been interested, though I could no doubt sing along without errors as each of them played.

The four I dealt with two paragraphs above are in fact in the iPod and thus are part of my current listening, but if I were forced to trim, say, a hundred tracks from the device, three of them would likely be among those culled. Julie would stay.

And what do we find when we drop halfway down the Hot 100? We chance on one of the great singer-songwriter singles, one that’s been, I think, devalued and set aside somewhat as a result of its prominence, its ubiquity, and its status as one of the foundations of the decade’s singer-songwriter movement: James Taylor’s “Fire & Rain.”

I don’t remember the first time I heard the record, but I do know that as I heard it frequently during the autumn of 1970, its personal and confessional lyrics touched something in me. I’d guess – not for the first time – that the record was part of what moved me to begin writing my own stuff later that school year. (The other part, of course, was an unrequited affection for a sophomore girl, the tale of which I told in 2009 and revisited some years later in a post found here.)

If one tries to listen to the record with fresh ears – an almost impossible task after so many years and so many hearings – it remains a remarkable piece of work, one that went to No. 3 on the Billboard Hot 100 and to No. 7 on the magazine’s Easy Listening chart.

Keeping Odd & Pop Happy

September 16th, 2020

It’s been a couple of years since we checked in with my imaginary alter egos, tuneheads Odd and Pop. I think they’re happy here in the condo. There are fewer records, of course, about 1,000 LPs instead of the 3,000 or so that were crammed into the EITW studios on the East Side, but there are more CDs and reference books these days, as the passing pandemic seasons here resulted in – as I’m certain is true elsewhere – fairly frequent online shopping sprees.

Anyway, they’re here, Odd and Pop, with their internal radios tuned to different stations.

Pop likes the familiar, the pleasant, the unchallenging. He loves records he’s heard a thousand times, and if he wants variety, he’ll gladly listen to a thousand different records he’s heard a thousand times before. He’s the reason why the digital shelves once held eighty-four different versions of “The Girl From Ipanema.” (The external hard drive crash three years ago eliminated many of them, and he’s been scheming to get them back ever since.)

Odd, however, likes different things. Very different. He’s the one whose eyes widened with joy the other day when the mail carrier dropped off, with its accompanying CD, the book Stomp and Swerve, subtitled “American Music Gets Hot, 1843-1924.” He laughed loudly when he learned that the tune “The Smiler,” written by Percy Wenrich and recorded sometime around 1908 by the Zon-O-Phone Concert Band, was craftily subtitled “A Joplin Rag” not because of any connection with ragtime giant Scott Joplin but because Percy Wenrich was born in Joplin, Missouri.

And . . . well, here it is. The date of 1907 on the video may well be correct.

And, of course, Pop says it’s not fair that Odd gets a treat and he does not. So, okay, we’ll check the list of covers of “The Girl From Ipanema” at Second Hand Songs and choose something he’s not heard before. A foreign language, maybe. And that’s fine with him, as long as the melody is familiar.

And here’s Finnish singer Laila Kinnunen with “Ipaneman Tyttö,” recorded on November 10, 1964, and released later that year on the Scandia label. (Odd likes it, too.)

‘Everything Is Everything . . .’

September 11th, 2020

I remember, as does nearly everyone, I guess, what a beautiful morning it was – in Minnesota, it was mildly cool with a sky as clear and blue as I’ve ever seen – nineteen years ago today. I was driving the Texas Gal to work in the Minneapolis suburb of Eden Prairie from our home in the suburb of Plymouth, normally about a forty-minute drive. About five minutes into that drive, we began hearing news reports from New York City, the first one indicating that a plane had accidentally flown into the North Tower of the World Trade Center.

The accidental part wasn’t true, of course, and we learned that sixteen minutes later, as we heard reporters’ shock at seeing a second plane hit the South Tower. Both of us shaken, I dropped her off at her office and headed back home, hearing on the way about the attack on the Pentagon. As I neared home, I heard reporters tell me about the collapse of the South Tower.

And less than half an hour later, amid early reports of a fourth plane having crashed in rural Pennsylvania, I watched on television as the North Tower came down. What stands out to me, after nineteen years of pondering the events of September 11, 2001, is the horrifying speed at which things happened. From the time the first plane hit the North Tower to the time that tower joined its twin in collapsing, only an hour and forty-two minutes elapsed.*

And those one-hundred-and two minutes changed us and continue to do so, socially, geopolitically, and – for thousands – in intimately personal ways.

That’s all I’m going to say about that day nineteen years ago. We all know what happened and where we were. Instead, I’m going to think about the response that came from Bruce Springsteen. The story goes that a day or two after the attacks, Springsteen was in Rumson, New Jersey, when an unidentified driver yelled at him, “Bruce, we need you now.” The following July, Springsteen released the album The Rising, a meditation on loss, courage, faith, and grief and on finding one’s way through to acceptance and eventual peace and even more eventual joy.

I listen to The Rising occasionally, and of course, its tracks pop up on random sometimes. The track that affects me the most is “You’re Missing,” with its details of ordinary life left with a gaping hole. Here it is:

*That elapsed time is based on the timeline published this week at the website of Newsweek.

Whence Goes Quinn?

September 9th, 2020

Among the more interesting things that have happened during this summer of face masks and cultural squabbles (and neither of those things will go away anytime soon) were the decisions by the professional football teams based in Washington, D.C., and Edmonton, Alberta, to drop their nicknames of long standing.

Both teams will eventually select new nicknames, but until then on will compete, respectively, as the Washington Football Team and the Edmonton Football Team (or EE Football Team).

I applaud the changes. I’ve been advocating quietly in my personal sphere for such changes since the Minnesota Twins faced the baseball team from Atlanta in the 1991 World Series, and the American Indian Movement – based in Minneapolis – made known its opposition to the Atlanta baseball team’s nickname (and corollary opposition to the nicknames of several other athletic entities, the Washington football team among them).

When the subject arose this summer and the Washington team announced it would change its name, I figured it wouldn’t be long until the team that plays in Edmonton would do the same in response to complaints that the team’s long-standing nickname trivialized the native Inuit culture. So the second move did not surprise me.

And those decisions, and other events in the past few months, now make me wonder – on what may be a truly trivial track – what does a music fan do now with “The Mighty Quinn (Quinn The Eskimo),” written by Bob Dylan and first recorded with The Band (in 1967 during the Basement Tapes era) and recorded since by many.

(I’ve had similar discussions with myself over the years regarding the title of, and the war whoops in, the Cowsills’ 1968 hit “Indian Lake” and the performer’s name and title of the 1969 hit “Keem-O-Sabe” by Electric Indian. I’ve also pondered the place in my listening and in the larger cultural milieu of The Band’s “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down.” There are likely other tunes that spark such thoughts, but they do not come to mind immediately.)

The genesis of “The Mighty Quinn,” at least according to some sources, was Dylan’s having seen Anthony Quinn’s performance as an Eskimo in the 1960 movie The Savage Innocents. Dylan, says Wikipedia, “has also been quoted as saying that the song was nothing more than a ‘simple nursery rhyme’.”

The song, according to the website Second Hand Songs, has been recorded at least eighty-one times since Dylan and The Band created it in 1967. That first recorded version wasn’t released until six years ago, when it was part of The Basement Tapes Complete – The Bootleg Series Vol. 11. The version by Dylan that most folks likely know comes from his 1969 performance at the Isle of Wight festival, released in 1970 on Self Portrait and two years later on his second greatest hits collection.

The first cover versions came from Manfred Mann in January 1968, from a group of British studio musicians for an album titled Hits ’68 in May of that year, and in August of that year from a performer calling himself Uncle Bill for an album titled Uncle Bill Socks It To Ya. (From what I can tell, “Uncle Bill” was a man named Burt Wilson, and the album was a collection of songs recorded as if performed by the long-dead W.C. Fields.)

The covers have continued – they were sparse in the 1980s – with the most recent one listed at SHS coming last year on an album titled Strictly Dylan Vol. 3 by a group called the Clarksdale Brothers. (The album is also of interest as it’s home to one of only three covers listed at SHS of Dylan’s 1971 song “George Jackson.”)

There are eleven different versions of the song (and a few duplicates) on the digital shelves here, three of them by Dylan and The Band. Other performers whose covers are in my collection are Brewer & Shipley, the Brothers & Sisters Of Los Angeles (for an album titled Dylan’s Gospel), Kris Kristofferson, the Grateful Dead, Ian & Sylvia, Julie London, Hugo Montenegro, and Klaus Voorman & Friends, featuring the Manfreds. (The Manfreds, according to Wikipedia, are former members of the group Manfred Mann but did not include Mann himself. Voorman was a member of the band during the late 1960s.)

So, do I include a version of the song with this post? I will, but I might not ever again. I have to think about it. But in the meantime, here’s the version from the 1969 album Dylan’s Gospel by the Brothers & Sisters Of Los Angeles (a credit shortened to just the Brothers & Sisters in re-release).

Saturday Single No. 704

September 5th, 2020

Among the 81,000-some tracks on the digital shelves, there are a bunch that name “September” in their titles. How many is a bunch? I don’t know. Let’s find out, taking the first half of the alphabet this week and the second half in a couple of posts over the next week.

Alphabetically, the first one that shows up is “23 Days In September” by Richie Havens, from his 1973 album Portfolio. The same song shows up again with a slightly different title: Its writer, David Blue, used it as the title track for his 1968 album These 23 Days In September. Blue’s version of a lover in depression and a love fading into silence is languid with some nice sonic touches; Havens’ take is faster, driven by his acoustic guitar work.

Then we come to Teddy & The Pandas’ “68 Days To September,” a poppy 1968 tribute to the girl the singer will miss during summer vacation: “Things will be so fine when we’re together again . . .”

“Black September/Belfast” from Mason Proffit’s 1972 album, Bare Back Rider, is an odd an disconcerting piece of work, focusing on the murder of eleven Israeli athletes and coaches by Black September terrorists during the summer Olympic Games in Munich, Germany, in 1972 and citing as well the concurrent sectarian Troubles in Belfast at the same time. References to U.S. Olympic swimmer Mark Spitz and to the ongoing war in Vietnam make it all seem a little scattershot, despite evocative, haunting music.

And from that we go to easy listening maestro Mantovani taking on a tune by country singer Hank Thompson: “Come September (I’ll Remember)” is two minutes and forty-one seconds of shimmering strings, the kind of stuff I remember KFAM-FM playing in St. Cloud during the mid- and late 1960s. Beautiful music, you know.

Up next is is a Wall of Sound-ish piece less than a minute long from Brit Paul Weller. “The Dark Pages Of September Lead To The New Leaves Of Spring” comes from his 2008 album 22 Dreams, where I imagine it served as a transition between two longer pieces. I’ll have to go back and verify that some year.

There are two versions of Carole King’s “It Might As Well Rain Until September” in the stacks here: King’s original, which went to No. 22 in 1962, and a cover by Peggy Lipton from 1968, when Lipton was one of the stars of the TV show The Mod Squad. King’s version is pretty standard Tin Pan Alley pop, while Lipton’s is more subtle, almost easy listening with some nice saxophone work in the background. But Lipton’s sometimes uncertain voice seems overpowered by the production. If I could have King’s voice with the production Lipton had behind her, I’d be very happy.

‘It’s September” by Stax man Johnnie Taylor starts in September and chugs and grooves through the autumn and then – by the end of the record – the entire year, wondering where his woman is while he and the children wonder when life will get back to normal. The 1974 release got to No. 26 on the Billboard R&B chart.

The last track we find in the first half of the alphabet comes from the Dream Academy, perhaps best known for the 1985 hit “Life In A Northern Town.” Today we’re listening to “Lucy September,” a tale, it quickly becomes apparent, about an addict:

Lucy September’s put a hole in her arm
She wonders where all daddy’s money’s gone
Lying on the bed with a wasted friend
Oh yeah she could have been someone
With all the advantages under the sun
But sad to say this is where her story ends

It’s an okay piece of work, but not quite to my taste this morning.

So what is our choice this morning? Well, David Blue’s track haunts me, as his work seemingly does whenever it pops up here. That makes his “These 23 Days In September” today’s Saturday Single.