Can't Get It Outta My Head








                A Baby Boomer


       Muses on The Music

Happy Anniversary, Baby!

Last week marked the first birthday of the music blog you are reading, Can’t Get It Outta My Head, so it’s a good time to reflect on what I’ve written over the past 52 weeks. To begin with, I’m kind of amazed that there have been 52 new posts — essays, really, mostly of 500 words or more — during that first year. I retired from writing for a weekly newspaper nearly two years ago, and it’s nice to know that I can still produce regularly. Going back through the archive, it’s interesting to look at the themes I used. Unsurprisingly — considering that we are a half-century and more into the rock and roll project, and taking into account our Biblical “three score and 12” — more than a dozen of th

All Alone on the Watchtower

Forty-six years ago this week, Johnny Allen Hendrix died in a London hospital. OK, Johnny Allen had been his birth name, and was soon changed to James Marshall. But the man better known as Jimi went through much bigger changes in his short span of 27 years on this planet, and he put The Music through more than a few changes, too. Hendrix was born Nov. 27, 1942, in Seattle, Wash., the son of a World War II U.S. Army draftee who was so eager to go home and see his newborn son that he was locked up in the base stockade. That son ended up with his own Army connection, the man known for his signature Afro hair and outlandish wardrobe serving for a time in one of the USA’s elite military units, th

Lawyers, Guns and Werewolves

Thirteen years ago today (Sept. 7), The Music lost one of its most extraordinary songwriters. So this week, I will Muse upon the works of Warren Zevon. I think I read about Zevon before I heard him — probably a record review in 1978, the year that he released his third album, “Excitable Boy.” (That was at the time when I had drifted out of the orbit of Radio Free Madison [Wis.], and didn’t hear as much new music as I had a few years earlier.) The piece made a reference to the line “he smeared the pot roast all over his chest,” from the album’s title track; I thought, “this sounds interesting.” I didn’t run right out and buy the album, but Zevon’s songs started showing up on FM radio, either

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