In Search of Ruby Tuesday

A couple of days ago I wrote a slightly-alcohol-inspired lament that there weren’t any good covers of the Rolling Stones’ Ruby Tuesday, one of my favorites from the Stones, back before they turned into zombies and continued to shamble through the music scene for eternity. I had intended to do a little more research before that episode went live, but then I forgot about it completely, and out it came.

This morning I fired up eMusic and drifted through covers of Ruby Tuesday, and I learned a little bit; I now have a musing or two to share about music in general and covers in particular. You don’t have to thank me, it’s what I do.

It turns out there are a lot of covers of the song. It’s just that most of them suck. In my lament I asked where the guitar/folkie covers were, and I have since found the answer: “Right where they belong”. There are quite a few of these, and while some of them don’t suck, none that I found were particularly good. Overdone, overwrought, over-engineered. And while I applaud artists who change the original material to put their own identity into the music (fundamentally that’s the appeal of covers), those changes still have to make some sort of sense. Singing “When you change with every new day stillI’mgonnamissyou” with the last phrase crammed into the tightest space possible is jarring and doesn’t reflect the emotion of the song. Amazing how many times I heard this.

I suspect that one musician decided on this musical tic and then a host of others copied that cover, without referring to the original source material as well. So there was a lot of Band B covering Band A covering the Rolling Stones. It would be interesting (but not interesting enough to actually do it) to trace the family tree of the song based on mutations introduced along the way.

And thinking of songs going through generations and mutating, it would stand to reason that later mutations would be more fit to survive in the new market conditions. Darwin should totally work, here. As musical tastes and economics changes, the covers literally evolve with them, and songs diversify into different niches. Ruby Tuesday has certainly done that.

Take country music, for instance. A cat name Don Williams has put out several albums with his take on the song. It’s… OK, but it lacked a little something. Then I listened to a performance he did with Dolly Parton, and it was massively improved. It wasn’t necessarily that Parton was putting in the performance of a lifetime, but I realized at this point that vocal harmony on the chorus makes an incredible difference. You hardly notice it’s there in the original, but you would definitely notice if it wasn’t there. Without the harmony, it takes a great arrangement or a voice more versatile than any I sampled to pull off the cover of this deceptively simple song.

One of the tricky parts, and one that the Stones don’t do that well either, is handling how different the verses and the chorus are. Most of the guitar/folkies tried to manage that by adding a bunch of annoying stylisms. Yes, I’m talking to you, Jade Leonard.

On I searched. There were the inevitable elevator-jazz instrumentals and Philharmonic “do arrangements of pop songs to pay the bills” renditions. Lullaby versions so boomer parents (and grandparents) can indoctrinate further generations into “their” music. Single-synthesizer efforts programmed by some kid in his basement. Massive electronic efforts that sounded just like the one the kid in his basement did. There was one I was tempted to buy just for comedic value – I’d bet my favorite molar that it’s by the same guy who arranged William Shatner’s Mr. Tambourine Man, only on this one there’s no vocal and it’s 13 minutes long.

I heard a lot of vinyl pops while searching.

The first cover I liked enough to pay for was one of those impulse buys I’ll likely regret later. Sheena and the Rokkets is a classic bad-singer-in-front-of-reasonable-band outfit, with the added bonus that they are Japanese and Sheena has a tough time with a lot of English words. Words like, for instance, “Ruby”.

I came across a Scorpions cover that has its moments, and fits the definition of a “good cover” — there’s no doubt the Scorpions are performing, they do it their way, but they maintain the essence of the original that motivated the cover in the first place.

Momentum improved. I came across Don and Dolly as described above, and surprisingly, Twiggy, closer to the original but nicely done. Then the inevitable lounge versions started coming in, vapid and vacant. A modern-punk song called Jack Ruby Tuesday came up, and I simply could not tell if it was a cover or not, since I couldn’t make out a single word (or note, even) in the solid wall of fuzz.

After downloading the Don and Dolly version, I went back and listened to the whole thing. Ouch! Someone shoot the arranger and get the trumpets the hell out of there. Wow, what a difference between the 30-second preview and the entire song. There are times I really don’t miss the ’70’s.

Lars Brygdén did a reasonable country-ish cover on an album called “Songs I wrote”, which seems deceptive – I hope in the song data it gives proper credit to the actual writer.

Then there’s Melanie. She’s taken more than one crack at this tune, and one of them isn’t bad. Toward the bottom of the search list is the album “Pan Pipes Play Rod Stewart” in which we have the inevitable Peruvian interpretation, and the Young@Heart Chorus wheeze out a version in which the lead singer sounds like she has loose dentures. (Yes, that is mean to say, but it’s also true.)

No Hip-Hop. No Riot Grrl. A few that were labeled ‘alternative’ but really weren’t — this seems like excellent emo/shoegazer material, but none was represented. I despaired of finding a punk cover until Thee S.T.P. cranked out a definitive version that is two minutes of pure fun. We have a winner!

Ultimately, I have to conclude that maybe this is a tough song to cover, despite its surface simplicity (or because of it?). Bands with more instruments and voices seemed to do better, along with bands who are able to turn their amps up (and then turn them back down).

1

You Get What You Need

My sweetie is not a big Stones fan, yet there are plenty of covers of Rolling Stones songs that she really likes. I think that at this point we agree that a great cover must be based on a solid foundation.

No other band has gone downhill for forty damn years and still had a down to go. The Stones, at their peak, were so insanely great that for the next few decades of giving a shit or not, they went on making money.

But there are others ready to recast the Stones’ songs with modern sensibilities and lyric urgency. (Note: I said ‘modern’ but I’m pretty sure I don’t know what that means.) These new bands just try to carry a bit of Mick’s swagger.

I’m pretty sure that almost every Stones song has been redone better, or, at least, closer to my taste. But those songs would not have happened without Mick. And we can argue about which performance is better, but Paint it Black tears my guts out, and maybe the covers do it better (not maybe, they do) but in the end it’s the magic of the way the sounds play against my nervous system. I see the red door, and I want to paint it black. The covers wouldn’t be there without the original.

I’d be curious to see what 1960’s Mick would do if he toddled onto the stage for the first time here in 2013. Honestly I don’t think it would work out that well, if we noticed him at all. Mick Jagger would be just another one of the herd of dissolute and profligate rockers. The thing is, while the Stones may not have invented that identity, they certainly perfected it. Mostly by accident, but you can’t hold that against them.

And those early Stones tunes are still with us, getting more play and more respect (covers = respect) than anything the band has produced in the last thirty years. To me that’s an indicator that those songs were from the gut; they have an emotional resonance that later generations of performers have understood and exploited.

Except maybe “Ruby Tuesday”. One of my favorite Stones tunes of all time; released at about the moment they started going downhill for the next few decades. I love that song, but their performance of it is, well, clumsy. Ham-fisted. Doesn’t matter, I still love it. But… where are the covers? Where is the Seattle lesbian band to take that song and throw it through the speakers so hard your nose bleeds? Where’s the ska band enraptured with the way the lyrics sound? Where’s the coffee shop singer asking, “who can hang a name on you?” Where’s the alt-band banging out their big bwangy guitar chords lamenting how she changes with every new day? Where is the rendition that eclipses the original? It seems like the easiest thing in the world, recasting such a soulful song.

I’m sure the covers are out there, and I hereby resolve to go find a few. But as far as mainstream goes, all we get is a chain of fake ’60’s diners.

It’s Inside the Building!

You know in that horror movie where the girl is on the phone and there’s some crazy mofo who’s freaking her out but for some reason she doesn’t hang up and eventually it turns out the crazy mofo is already inside the house and really has no reason to call? I had a moment like that tonight. I’ve had a rash of spam lately, all using my Facebook identities. I waited for my spam-catchers to get a clue, but the comments kept coming. “Fine,” thought I, “I’ll just block the addresses they’re coming from.”

I fired up my diagnostics, and found the source. localhost. My server thought the comments were coming from itself! Double-plus ungood, to quote Orwell. Extra double-plus. My spam-detecting software, it turns out, recognized the evil of the comments, but was immediately overridden by the administrator. By me, or a vile piece of software pretending to be me.

I just changed a lot of passwords. I hope I can remember them later. I also set a switch that requires that all comments be approved before they go live. Alas, this is likely more an inconvenience to legit comment traffic, as the evil robot has already proven capable of emulating me and giving permission.

I also spastically updated all my wordpress plugins (I do this fairly often anyway) — including, perhaps significantly or not, the one that passes comments between here and Facebook. Later, going back, I see nothing in that plugin’s update info to the tune of “closed egregious spam hole.” But the attack vector seems to be through my Facebook identities. It may be that the conduit trusted the origin of the messages too much.

So now I wait and watch, and your comments will take a little longer to reach the page. Hopefully I can loosen things up soon.

Oops

The first time you use sudo on a UNIX/Linux/FreeBSD computer, it gives you a warning. The warning is brief and says (more or less), “don’t ever forget that using this command gives you the power to really f— things up.”

So today I meant to type:

sudo chown -R Jerry:admin .

But instead I typed:

sudo chown -R Jerry:admin /

The first command says, “change the owner of every file and folder in this directory and all subdirectories to Jerry.” That’s what I wanted to do. The second command? It does the same thing, but for every file and directory on the whole damn computer. I won’t go into the whole UNIXology of ownership; just take it from me that what I did could be very bad.

I stopped the process while it was still rampaging through my /Applications folder. I stared at the terminal window for a while, wondering if I was about to “nuke and pave” — wipe things clean and start over.

But wait! Part of Apple’s effort to bring *NIX to the masses is a tool specifically designed to go through all the files on your hard drive (particularly the /Applications folder) and fix ownership and permissions problems. I ran the utility, it fixed a bazillion issues, and, Turing willing, I’m A-OK.

Today I was glad my operating system came with training wheels.

1

It’s Anecdotal, But…

For the last few winters, there’s been less hockey in Canada. Facilities near the arctic circle are installing air conditioning and refrigeration.

Leave it to Canadian climate scientists to put the danger in a context their countrymen could appreciate. Shortened skating season. What if: Gretzky’s pond never freezes over, and the Great One plays soccer instead. The next Gretz might be looking at the not-yet-frozen pond in his little town as I type this, thinking maybe he should go shoot hoops instead. Alarmist? IT COULD HAPPEN!

Far from the suburban thermometers that global warming deniers make such a big deal about, it’s been a warm decade way up north, and the trend is accelerating. Ten years is actually a pretty small sample to consider as proof for climate change (you can completely ignore people who say that any one season is proof for or against global warming), and since these indoor facilities weren’t around fifty years ago, there’s no baseline for the sub-arctic indoor ice rink refrigeration metric. But the ponds aren’t freezing as early, either. There’s just not as much ice up there as there used to be.

Will Canadians be as congenial without hockey? Do you want to find out?

My 21st Birthday

I am sometimes served beer by people who are not themselves allowed to drink the beverage. One such just informed me that tomorrow is her birthday. While I know that no gentleman ever asks a lady this question, I could not resist inquiring of her how old she was going to be. “Twenty-one,” she said, making the “air quotes” gesture, holding up both hands and flexing the first two fingers on each. The message: She still won’t be twenty-one, but she’s going to drink anyway. Kids these days.

It may come as a shock to some of you, but I also experienced the taste of alcohol before I reached the statutory age for such. This story starts on a Saturday, the last Saturday I would spend as a minor. I would be celebrating my birthday the next day. I invited everyone I knew to the celebration that Sunday evening. (My actual birthday was, according to my calendar, on Monday. Somehow the story in my head managed to forget this technicality. Now I’m sorry I looked it up. Anyway, I was committed for Sunday.)

By ‘invited everybody’, I mean ‘invited every female’. I went to a small, male-dominated engineering school, and I had, as any good engineer would, arrived at a simple party algorithm. Invite every female you can. Half of the ones who say they will definitely show up actually will. Twice as many males will show up.

Party set for Sunday. That’s where planning is required. Back then, on Sundays in New Mexico, the booze stores were closed. No problem; with the true foresight that five and three-quarters semesters of physics and abstract math will give one, I mounted an expedition to the local beer store on Saturday and stocked up. Thus equipped, My roommate and I sent out word far and wide. Even divided by two, the number of women who said they would definitely be there climbed into the double digits. Hell, yeah, we had a party!

Saturday evening some people came by, then some others, and of course one has to entertain. Sunday morning dawned and our stockpile had vanished. We were going to have a party, with as many as twelve female guests, and we had no alcohol. Roommate Janne and I pulled out a map.

By Alfa Romeo odometer, it is 156 miles from my dorm to the closest liquor store in Arizona. It was a good drive, over the continental divide, bundled up against the chill air as Janne and I drove with the top down. That kind of day on that kind of road demands swiftness, but the state trooper was not inclined to agree. He pulled me over and strode to the driver’s side of the car with a swagger that cannot be trained.

He asked us to step from the vehicle. It was cold, once we didn’t have the heater blowing on our feet. Trooper shook his head. “I remember when I was young and stupid,” he said as he assessed our top-down state. It didn’t seem derogatory, coming from him. He was all right. I learned later that highway 60 had become a primary drug artery heading west to California. Not smugglers, he had decided, just dumb. One speeding ticket heavier, we continued to Springerville, Arizona, there to buy a ridiculous amount of ridiculous booze. One of everything, basically*. And beer.

Back we scampered, careful not to tempt the radar gods again.

That night, the party commenced. It was pretty good, but my invitation theorem was shattered to pieces. Of the members of the distaff who said they would definitely show up, none did. Not a single one. Yeah, I had a way with the ladies, all right (probably I told too many of them my party algorithm). Still, I was surrounded by friends, and while the party was not a rager it was a good way to stagger into adulthood, story-heavy.

———
* the new cocktails invented from the leftovers of this party are legendary: Lollipops, Bro Cones, and let no one forget Pink Drool.

2

Is That Really a Good Thing?

The lads at Jaguar have come up with a slogan in their latest ads: As alive as you are.

That’s either a pretty damning indictment of their target market or they’re building really scary cars now. “The new XK Stephen King Edition. For a limited time at your local Jaguar dealership.”

A New Way to Stop Worrying About Privacy

Hey, if you don’t want to worry about your privacy anymore, why not publish your DNA? The old-fashioned method of publishing your family relationships for the world (and insurance companies) to see still leaves some shreds of privacy and potential for falsification. With this deal, that problem is solved!

Descending From the Mountain

Snowflakes, fat and fluffy, falling poco tiempo, dance out of the way of my car, sliding up the windscreen and out of view, as I glide along Barranca Road. It is quiet, modern car quiet, the rental’s motor almost inaudible. The flakes aren’t piling up yet, but the road is cold and it won’t be long.

I take a breath, inhale the silence.

By the time I reach Santa Fe the sun is shining; my sunglasses are in my bag in the trunk. I lower the visor, squint, and roll on south, joining the Interstate traffic and setting the cruise control for a speed just a little over the posted limit. Going with the flow. Time for the radio. The station I listened to as a kid is still playing the same list it was thirty years ago. Some things never change.

I’m tired, my nerves raw from rambunctious nephews, back stiff from a night on a too-short sofa, nose and eyes still irritated by the christmas tree. Not the kid’s fault he had a toothache last night. I’ll miss those guys. Who knows how old they’ll be when I see them again? The younger nephew probably won’t even remember me.

Man it was a hoot hanging with those guys. Non-stop entertainment. By the time I reach La Bajada hill I’m missing everyone already. I turn up the radio. Twofer Tuesday. Nirvana – not on the list when I was a kid, but I’ll take it, at the intended volume.

1

The Seeger Bros., 2012

The Seeger Brothers

The Seeger Brothers

The Seeger Brothers

The Seeger Brothers

The Seeger Brothers

The Seeger Brothers

6

Safety Features that Frighten Me

Honda has a new safety package on some of their cars. The ads go something like, “Sooner or later you’ll be driving when you’re on the verge of falling asleep. Sooner or later you’ll make a sudden swerve across several lanes of traffic. Sooner or later you’ll be driving and not watching where you’re going. Our car has technology to make it safer to do those things! Yay Honda!”

Wait… what?

Already there are people out there, who, when the moment comes to make a life-and-death decision, will, because of this technology, be more inclined to choose death. Death for themselves and for those around them. Death for me, perhaps. Some of those people will choose death anyway, but now, with the assurance that their car is looking out for her, a teenage girl will veer across four lanes of traffic and be represented at her prom by a table with her photo on it, with candles and little mementos. Elsewhere, some guy is going to decide to cover an extra hundred miles while his wife sleeps in the passenger seat, confident that his car will wake him up, and he will leave his children orphaned.

This technology is part of a larger, encouraging trend towards cars that drive themselves, that plan ahead long before the desired exit, pull over when the human monitor is asleep, and talk to each other to warn of obstacles and negotiate safe passage. Steps like the ones Honda has introduced are valuable in reaching that goal.

But these intermediate steps? I don’t want them on the road with me.

Open Letter to Yontoo

Tonight I came home to discover that whenever I looked at this site, it was wrapped in advertising. Yikes! I was relieved to discover that it was ‘only’ on my machine; I had unknowingly inherited a browser extension that turned Safari into a giant billboard. Panic gave way to annoyance.

The creator of this extension is called Yontoo. They suck. But you can be sure that I didn’t run a Yontoo installer recently. Something else I installed did me the favor of sliding that sucker onto my machine. Tonight I wrote Yontoo this message:

How can I find out how you [sic] software was installed in my browser? I certainly didn’t ask for it, but obviously at some point when I thought I was installing something else, I got your stuff too. I want to know who to yell at.

1

Merry Happy and Whatnot

It’s been rainy here lately, downright Portlandic (do you feel the ’90’s?). The other day I stepped out onto my front porch to discover the poinsettias there bejeweled with glistening drops of rainwater. In the spirit of the holiday, I thought I’d share. You don’t have to thank me, it’s what I do.


Click the images to biggerize them. I think my favorite is the middle one.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

2

Our Kitchen, Filled With Treats

Our kitchen, filled with treats.

Our kitchen, filled with treats.


Here’s a panoramic view of our newly-reconstructed kitchen. It’s awesome! It’s kind of hard to tell when it’s wee small (click to biggerize it), but there’s about ten different kinds of yummy holiday goodies piled up in there.

Yeah, life is good.

1

This is Why We Don’t Get You Nice Things

xPad

xPad

Last weekend I decided that, before I went to a friend’s house, I’d knock down a couple of chores around the house. One of those chores was to unstick the gate to the backyard. I don’t have exactly the right tools for this job, but I have ones that are close enough.

It was Sunday, and while I’m not an avid sports-watcher, I have come to enjoy listening to a game on the radio while I putter about. And by “radio” I mean iPad with the Tune-in app. (I came close to buying a cheap radio for the garage before I realized I probably already had one.)

Due to the geometry of house and WiFi station, when I’m outside I need to keep the iPad elevated to get the signal. So I propped it up where the fence attaches to the house, double-checked it for stability, and set to work on the gate. Fast forward to when I was working on the pier that the gate latches against. Apparently the vibration caused the iPad to slowly scoot to the left, unobserved by me. As I attacked the wood with the sander I heard the clatter behind me. I turned with my heart in my throat and saw the iPad, face down on concrete, six feet below where it had been, the sound of the broadcast still coming from its dinky speakers.

It still works, if you don't mind dragging your finger across broken glass.

It still works, if you don’t mind dragging your finger across broken glass.

I allowed myself a moment of hope. If it was still working, perhaps it had miraculously survived the fall. Gingerly I picked up the fallen gadget. As you already know from looking at the pictures, the iPad was now an exPad.

Had I purchased AppleCare with the iPad, I would have been able to get a free replacement. In general I’m not a big fan of warranties on solid-state devices, however, preferring to simply not break them in the first place. Which is a perfectly workable theory except when I do break things.

Happily for me, I work with a group of people who are, shall we say, ethusiastic about iPads and whatnot. A co-worker had an iPad substantially better than mine, that she no longer used because there’s one out now that’s even better yet. She was willing to sell it to me for a (relative) song, and now I have my retina display (which is sweet). And, oddly enough, AppleCare.

Photo notes:

Turns out my 24-105mm zoom has pretty nice bokeh as well. I was using it as a macro lens, and actually stopped it pretty far down to get more depth of focus. When you get that close, however, there’s only so much you can do. The pros use a technique called focus stacking to overcome this difficulty – they take a series of pictures with focus at slightly different distances from the front edge of the product to the back, and combine them together with electronic magic, taking the in-focus portion of each slice. The high-end shops actually have servo-controlled gizmos that move the camera a tiny bit at a time between shots. I saw an animation of an iPod photo that had fifty-something individual slices.

Photoshop has the tools for focus stacking, but taking the slices would have required far more effort than I was prepared to put into the project today.