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{{EntryHead |date=20250418 |desc=Heavy on the New Orleans sound today. |link=https://grlu.us/20250418}} | {{EntryHead |date=20250418 |desc=Heavy on the New Orleans sound today. |link=https://grlu.us/20250418}} | ||
{{dc|I}}{{start|t’s been at ''least'' two weeks since my last}} listening session. I have been busy with my day job lately, so taking the time to get to Giles’ house even for a couple of hours has just not been possible. But, I finally remedied that today: I got to sit down with the system for about two hours before I had to get to Max’s celebration of life at Montessori. | {{dc|I}}{{start|t’s been at ''least'' two weeks since my last}} listening session. I have been busy with my day job lately, so taking the time to get to Giles’ house even for a couple of hours has just not been possible. But, I finally remedied that today: I got to sit down with the system for about two hours before I had to get to Max’s celebration of life at Montessori. | ||
After hitting shuffle, the first song was the Dirty Dozen Brass Band’s “It’s All Over Now,” and ''damn'' did it sound great! The sound stage, the clarity, the placement of the musicians, and a get-up-and-shake-your-booty hook—I couldn’t have picked a better first tune to remind me that my system is frickin’ ''good''. The follow-up songs also had New Orleans’ roots: Trombone Shorty and {{c|Harry Connick, Jr.}} The latter’s song “(I Could Only) Whisper Your Name,” a favorite from ''She'', an album that received heavy rotation back in the nineties when I really began my audiophile journey. It still sounds good, though a bit different throughout his system—maybe more even or neutral. | |||
{{Playlist button |image=20250418-Playlist.jpg |id=f148d16c-409b-4700-942d-849328d187ca |title=04/18/2025}} | {{Playlist button |image=20250418-Playlist.jpg |id=f148d16c-409b-4700-942d-849328d187ca |title=04/18/2025}} | ||
Continuing the New Orleans vibe, the playlist also included songs from {{c|Wynton Marsalis}} (“When It’s Sleeptime Down South”) and {{c|Jon Batiste}} (“Higher”)—and “Royal Orleans” by {{c|Led Zeppelin}}, a playful nod to the [[w:Omni Royal Orleans|Royal Orleans Hotel]] in NOLA’s French Quarter. The lyrics, written primarily by Robert Plant with contributions from the rest of the band, are loosely based on a real incident involving Jonesey. According to various accounts (and some Zeppelin lore), Jones had an unforgettable encounter at the hotel with someone he thought was a woman—only to discover otherwise later. The resulting tale, combined with the vibe of New Orleans’ smoky, anything-goes decadence, gave birth to the tongue-in-cheek lyrics of “Royal Orleans.” Musically, the track leans into a funky, almost New Orleans-style rhythm, with Bonham throwing in second-line syncopations and Jimmy Page riffing with a loose, bluesy feel. Plant sings it with a bit of swagger and mischief—this isn’t “Kashmir” seriousness, it’s more like “crazy night out, slightly scandalous, let’s write a song about it” energy. | Continuing the New Orleans vibe, the playlist also included songs from {{c|Wynton Marsalis}} (“When It’s Sleeptime Down South”) and {{c|Jon Batiste}} (“Higher”)—and “Royal Orleans” by {{c|Led Zeppelin}}, a playful nod to the [[w:Omni Royal Orleans|Royal Orleans Hotel]] in NOLA’s French Quarter. The lyrics, written primarily by Robert Plant with contributions from the rest of the band, are loosely based on a real incident involving Jonesey. According to various accounts (and some Zeppelin lore), Jones had an unforgettable encounter at the hotel with someone he thought was a woman—only to discover otherwise later. The resulting tale, combined with the vibe of New Orleans’ smoky, anything-goes decadence, gave birth to the tongue-in-cheek lyrics of “Royal Orleans.” Musically, the track leans into a funky, almost New Orleans-style rhythm, with Bonham throwing in second-line syncopations and Jimmy Page riffing with a loose, bluesy feel. Plant sings it with a bit of swagger and mischief—this isn’t “Kashmir” seriousness, it’s more like “crazy night out, slightly scandalous, let’s write a song about it” energy. | ||
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Another yacht-rock favorite was next: {{c|Boz Scaggs}}’ “Jojo” is one of those songs that glides on a groove so slick it practically leaves a wet trail behind it. It’s nighttime in some city that feels like New York, but it could just as easily be L.A. or Miami. There’s heat in the air, horns in the background, and somebody shady making money just out of frame. And that somebody is Jojo. Lyrically, Boz paints this cool, slightly grimy character portrait that could have hitchhiked in from a {{c|Steely Dan}} song: Jojo’s a pimp, basically, but the song never gets heavy-handed or moralizing. It’s more cinematic than judgmental. We catch glimpses: Jojo “runs the show,” hangs around “42nd Street,” moves through the nightlife with confidence and danger. He’s part predator, part phantom, fully charismatic. There’s a little menace, a little allure—the kind of figure who might have been played by a young Al Pacino in a late-night movie. This is primo yacht-funk. Scaggs leans into a Latin-tinged, urban groove with a killer horn section, a slick jazz-fusion rhythm, and that classic session-player precision. The rhythm guitar scratches and syncopates like it’s wearing shades after dark. The bassline slinks. And Boz’s voice? Effortless. Smoky. Like he’s leaning on a bar, telling you this story between sips of Makers Mark. | Another yacht-rock favorite was next: {{c|Boz Scaggs}}’ “Jojo” is one of those songs that glides on a groove so slick it practically leaves a wet trail behind it. It’s nighttime in some city that feels like New York, but it could just as easily be L.A. or Miami. There’s heat in the air, horns in the background, and somebody shady making money just out of frame. And that somebody is Jojo. Lyrically, Boz paints this cool, slightly grimy character portrait that could have hitchhiked in from a {{c|Steely Dan}} song: Jojo’s a pimp, basically, but the song never gets heavy-handed or moralizing. It’s more cinematic than judgmental. We catch glimpses: Jojo “runs the show,” hangs around “42nd Street,” moves through the nightlife with confidence and danger. He’s part predator, part phantom, fully charismatic. There’s a little menace, a little allure—the kind of figure who might have been played by a young Al Pacino in a late-night movie. This is primo yacht-funk. Scaggs leans into a Latin-tinged, urban groove with a killer horn section, a slick jazz-fusion rhythm, and that classic session-player precision. The rhythm guitar scratches and syncopates like it’s wearing shades after dark. The bassline slinks. And Boz’s voice? Effortless. Smoky. Like he’s leaning on a bar, telling you this story between sips of Makers Mark. | ||
Speaking of the Dan, “Any Major Dude Will Tell You” was also on the list—another perennial favorite. It’s like a warm arm around your shoulder from the world’s most literate, sarcastic friend who—for just this one moment—is being sincerely kind. (Why do I always think of [[David]] when I hear this song?) This is Steely Dan doing something rare: letting the guard down. Most of their catalog is filled with sardonic, jazz-inflected jabs at broken people, busted dreams, and weird L.A. detachment. But “Any Major Dude” is tender, honest. Lyrically, it’s a comfort song—Fagen singing to a friend (or maybe to himself?) who’s clearly going through it. There’s talk of madness, a “world gone wrong,” and “when the demon is at your door,” but the chorus keeps circling back to reassurance: “Any major dude with half a heart / Surely will tell you, my friend.” It’s got that signature Dan crypticism, but also this clear undercurrent of real human empathy.{{efn|In the most basic sense, a “major dude” is ’70s hip-speak—a cool guy, someone in the know, unflappable, maybe a little older, wiser. He’s the guy who’s been through some things and can pass down a little chill wisdom. The phrase predates the song—you’d hear it tossed around in surfer culture, among freaks, maybe by aging hipsters who’d burned through a few decades of disillusionment and were now mellowing out. It’s got that gentle ironic detachment baked in.<br />{{sp}}But in the song, Steely Dan flips it just enough to give it a warm, emotional edge. This “major dude” isn’t some slick operator or mysterious Zen master. He’s more like your emotionally literate friend who knows when to say the right thing—not because he’s got it all figured out, but because he cares. He’s the guy who listens when the world breaks you down and tells you, not in some dramatic way, but in this cool, half-smiling shrug, that it’s going to be OK | Speaking of the Dan, “Any Major Dude Will Tell You” was also on the list—another perennial favorite. It’s like a warm arm around your shoulder from the world’s most literate, sarcastic friend who—for just this one moment—is being sincerely kind. (Why do I always think of [[David]] when I hear this song?) This is Steely Dan doing something rare: letting the guard down. Most of their catalog is filled with sardonic, jazz-inflected jabs at broken people, busted dreams, and weird L.A. detachment. But “Any Major Dude” is tender, honest. Lyrically, it’s a comfort song—Fagen singing to a friend (or maybe to himself?) who’s clearly going through it. There’s talk of madness, a “world gone wrong,” and “when the demon is at your door,” but the chorus keeps circling back to reassurance: “Any major dude with half a heart / Surely will tell you, my friend.” It’s got that signature Dan crypticism, but also this clear undercurrent of real human empathy.{{efn|In the most basic sense, a “major dude” is ’70s hip-speak—a cool guy, someone in the know, unflappable, maybe a little older, wiser. He’s the guy who’s been through some things and can pass down a little chill wisdom. The phrase predates the song—you’d hear it tossed around in surfer culture, among freaks, maybe by aging hipsters who’d burned through a few decades of disillusionment and were now mellowing out. It’s got that gentle ironic detachment baked in.<br />{{sp}}But in the song, Steely Dan flips it just enough to give it a warm, emotional edge. This “major dude” isn’t some slick operator or mysterious Zen master. He’s more like your emotionally literate friend who knows when to say the right thing—not because he’s got it all figured out, but because he cares. He’s the guy who listens when the world breaks you down and tells you, not in some dramatic way, but in this cool, half-smiling shrug, that it’s going to be OK.<br />{{Sp}}“Major dude” becomes not just slang, but a quiet archetype—the kind of person you want to be when everything’s going sideways. Someone who keeps their cool, not out of apathy, but out of knowing too much to panic. In a way, you can be the major dude. The song’s an invitation: when the demon’s at your door, be the one who opens it calmly and says, “I’ve been expecting you.” Maybe offers it a drink.}} “Have you ever seen a squonk’s tears? / Well, look at mine.” A [[w:Squonk|squonk]], for the uninitiated, is a mythical beast from Pennsylvania folklore—so ugly it hides and cries all day, eventually dissolving into tears when captured. Leave it to Steely Dan to drop obscure Appalachian cryptozoology into a soft rock song about emotional resilience. And somehow it works. The sadness, the absurdity, the beauty—all wrapped up in that image. Musically, it’s laid back but deceptively tight: smooth acoustic guitar from Jeff Baxter, gentle electric piano, a breezy groove that feels like a summer afternoon spent trying not to fall apart. The chord changes are classic Dan: jazzy, unexpected, but never jarring. It floats more than it drives. So yeah, “Any Major Dude” is the emotional support Dan track. Still cool, still clever, but with just enough heart showing through to make you pause and maybe call a friend. | ||
Other stand-outs include David Gray’s “Babylon,” Morcheeba’s “The Sea,” Bill Frisell’s “Big Shoe” (which had some MMW late-90’s vibes), and Roy Hargrove’s “Song for Audrey.” It’s a ballad, but not in the “jazz standard” sense. It’s more like a personal letter in horn form, unsealed and left out in the open air. The composition is minimal, maybe even deceptively simple, but every note that Hargrove plays on flugelhorn is soaked in intimacy. There’s this round, glowing warmth to the tone, just breath and longing. You can feel the space around each note; it’s got that Miles-ish restraint, but with a deeper hush, like Roy’s whispering to someone asleep in the next room. And who’s Audrey? Hargrove never really made that clear, but that kind of mystery only adds to the charm. Could be a child, a lover, a muse, a memory. The beauty is, it doesn’t matter. He’s playing it like you know Audrey. Like everyone has an Audrey—someone who stays with you, even after the music stops. | Other stand-outs include David Gray’s “Babylon,” Morcheeba’s “The Sea,” Bill Frisell’s “Big Shoe” (which had some MMW late-90’s vibes), and Roy Hargrove’s “Song for Audrey.” It’s a ballad, but not in the “jazz standard” sense. It’s more like a personal letter in horn form, unsealed and left out in the open air. The composition is minimal, maybe even deceptively simple, but every note that Hargrove plays on flugelhorn is soaked in intimacy. There’s this round, glowing warmth to the tone, just breath and longing. You can feel the space around each note; it’s got that Miles-ish restraint, but with a deeper hush, like Roy’s whispering to someone asleep in the next room. And who’s Audrey? Hargrove never really made that clear, but that kind of mystery only adds to the charm. Could be a child, a lover, a muse, a memory. The beauty is, it doesn’t matter. He’s playing it like you know Audrey. Like everyone has an Audrey—someone who stays with you, even after the music stops. | ||
Revision as of 08:27, 19 April 2025
It’s been at least two weeks since my last listening session. I have been busy with my day job lately, so taking the time to get to Giles’ house even for a couple of hours has just not been possible. But, I finally remedied that today: I got to sit down with the system for about two hours before I had to get to Max’s celebration of life at Montessori.
After hitting shuffle, the first song was the Dirty Dozen Brass Band’s “It’s All Over Now,” and damn did it sound great! The sound stage, the clarity, the placement of the musicians, and a get-up-and-shake-your-booty hook—I couldn’t have picked a better first tune to remind me that my system is frickin’ good. The follow-up songs also had New Orleans’ roots: Trombone Shorty and Harry Connick, Jr. The latter’s song “(I Could Only) Whisper Your Name,” a favorite from She, an album that received heavy rotation back in the nineties when I really began my audiophile journey. It still sounds good, though a bit different throughout his system—maybe more even or neutral.
Continuing the New Orleans vibe, the playlist also included songs from Wynton Marsalis (“When It’s Sleeptime Down South”) and Jon Batiste (“Higher”)—and “Royal Orleans” by Led Zeppelin, a playful nod to the Royal Orleans Hotel in NOLA’s French Quarter. The lyrics, written primarily by Robert Plant with contributions from the rest of the band, are loosely based on a real incident involving Jonesey. According to various accounts (and some Zeppelin lore), Jones had an unforgettable encounter at the hotel with someone he thought was a woman—only to discover otherwise later. The resulting tale, combined with the vibe of New Orleans’ smoky, anything-goes decadence, gave birth to the tongue-in-cheek lyrics of “Royal Orleans.” Musically, the track leans into a funky, almost New Orleans-style rhythm, with Bonham throwing in second-line syncopations and Jimmy Page riffing with a loose, bluesy feel. Plant sings it with a bit of swagger and mischief—this isn’t “Kashmir” seriousness, it’s more like “crazy night out, slightly scandalous, let’s write a song about it” energy.
“Sara Smile” by Daryl Hall and John Oates was another stunning song. It begins small, a minimal, bluesy groove in the center of the stage, but adds lush strings, stage-left and backing vocals, stage-right. Released in 1975, this was the duo’s first Top 10 hit, and it really helped put them on the map beyond their cult R&B-following. It’s mellow, soulful, and somehow simultaneously sad, sexy, and sweet—a ballad that doesn’t beg so much as it swaggers gently into vulnerability. The backstory makes it even better: Sara Allen was Hall’s longtime girlfriend and creative partner. She co-wrote several songs with them over the years (though not this one), and the tune is basically Hall’s love letter to her. It’s personal without being overwrought. He’s not grandstanding, he’s crooning, confiding. When he sings “Sara, smile / Won’t you smile a while for me”—it’s so direct and unpretentious it hits like a quiet sigh from across the pillow. It’s warm and intimate—no frills, no fluff, just feel. Such a great song.
Another yacht-rock favorite was next: Boz Scaggs’ “Jojo” is one of those songs that glides on a groove so slick it practically leaves a wet trail behind it. It’s nighttime in some city that feels like New York, but it could just as easily be L.A. or Miami. There’s heat in the air, horns in the background, and somebody shady making money just out of frame. And that somebody is Jojo. Lyrically, Boz paints this cool, slightly grimy character portrait that could have hitchhiked in from a Steely Dan song: Jojo’s a pimp, basically, but the song never gets heavy-handed or moralizing. It’s more cinematic than judgmental. We catch glimpses: Jojo “runs the show,” hangs around “42nd Street,” moves through the nightlife with confidence and danger. He’s part predator, part phantom, fully charismatic. There’s a little menace, a little allure—the kind of figure who might have been played by a young Al Pacino in a late-night movie. This is primo yacht-funk. Scaggs leans into a Latin-tinged, urban groove with a killer horn section, a slick jazz-fusion rhythm, and that classic session-player precision. The rhythm guitar scratches and syncopates like it’s wearing shades after dark. The bassline slinks. And Boz’s voice? Effortless. Smoky. Like he’s leaning on a bar, telling you this story between sips of Makers Mark.
Speaking of the Dan, “Any Major Dude Will Tell You” was also on the list—another perennial favorite. It’s like a warm arm around your shoulder from the world’s most literate, sarcastic friend who—for just this one moment—is being sincerely kind. (Why do I always think of David when I hear this song?) This is Steely Dan doing something rare: letting the guard down. Most of their catalog is filled with sardonic, jazz-inflected jabs at broken people, busted dreams, and weird L.A. detachment. But “Any Major Dude” is tender, honest. Lyrically, it’s a comfort song—Fagen singing to a friend (or maybe to himself?) who’s clearly going through it. There’s talk of madness, a “world gone wrong,” and “when the demon is at your door,” but the chorus keeps circling back to reassurance: “Any major dude with half a heart / Surely will tell you, my friend.” It’s got that signature Dan crypticism, but also this clear undercurrent of real human empathy.[a] “Have you ever seen a squonk’s tears? / Well, look at mine.” A squonk, for the uninitiated, is a mythical beast from Pennsylvania folklore—so ugly it hides and cries all day, eventually dissolving into tears when captured. Leave it to Steely Dan to drop obscure Appalachian cryptozoology into a soft rock song about emotional resilience. And somehow it works. The sadness, the absurdity, the beauty—all wrapped up in that image. Musically, it’s laid back but deceptively tight: smooth acoustic guitar from Jeff Baxter, gentle electric piano, a breezy groove that feels like a summer afternoon spent trying not to fall apart. The chord changes are classic Dan: jazzy, unexpected, but never jarring. It floats more than it drives. So yeah, “Any Major Dude” is the emotional support Dan track. Still cool, still clever, but with just enough heart showing through to make you pause and maybe call a friend.
Other stand-outs include David Gray’s “Babylon,” Morcheeba’s “The Sea,” Bill Frisell’s “Big Shoe” (which had some MMW late-90’s vibes), and Roy Hargrove’s “Song for Audrey.” It’s a ballad, but not in the “jazz standard” sense. It’s more like a personal letter in horn form, unsealed and left out in the open air. The composition is minimal, maybe even deceptively simple, but every note that Hargrove plays on flugelhorn is soaked in intimacy. There’s this round, glowing warmth to the tone, just breath and longing. You can feel the space around each note; it’s got that Miles-ish restraint, but with a deeper hush, like Roy’s whispering to someone asleep in the next room. And who’s Audrey? Hargrove never really made that clear, but that kind of mystery only adds to the charm. Could be a child, a lover, a muse, a memory. The beauty is, it doesn’t matter. He’s playing it like you know Audrey. Like everyone has an Audrey—someone who stays with you, even after the music stops.
Finally, I’ll end with a song from Nostalgia River: Styx’s “Boat on the River”—perhaps my favorite track from Cornerstone (1979). While the song never made a splash in the U.S., it became a huge hit in Europe, especially in Germany and Switzerland, where people apparently have a higher tolerance for accordion-driven existentialism. This track feels almost medieval, or maybe vaguely Eastern European—like something you’d hear wafting from a tavern in a fantasy novel. It’s deceptively simple, but a bit urgent: acoustic instrumentation, a gently swaying waltz rhythm (in 6/8 time), and Tommy Shaw singing like he’s got one eye on the river and the other on a memory he can’t quite shake. Lyrically, it’s about escape, but not in the usual Styx “Come Sail Away” kind of way. “Take me back to my boat on the river / I need to go down, I need to come down”—this is quiet longing, not cosmic adventuring. It’s about retreating into a simpler, slower space. Away from the noise. Maybe even away from yourself. There’s a world-weariness under the beauty, a sense of “I’ve seen too much, and all I want now is peace.” It's got the melancholy flavor of a late-summer sunset: beautiful, but you know what’s coming next. And yet, it’s not hopeless. It’s accepting. That little boat is waiting, and maybe the river knows the way better than you do.
| Reference Audio System (02/2025) |
|---|
| Rogue Audio Cronus Magnum III Stereo Tube Integrated Amplifier • Gold Note DS-10 Plus DAC • Gold Note PSU-10 EVO Power Supply • DeVore Fidelity O/96 Speakers • REL T/9x 10" SE Powered Subwoofer (Racing Red) • PS Audio Duet Power Center • Morrow MA3 Interconnects • Tellurium Q Black II Speaker Cable |
Note
- ↑ In the most basic sense, a “major dude” is ’70s hip-speak—a cool guy, someone in the know, unflappable, maybe a little older, wiser. He’s the guy who’s been through some things and can pass down a little chill wisdom. The phrase predates the song—you’d hear it tossed around in surfer culture, among freaks, maybe by aging hipsters who’d burned through a few decades of disillusionment and were now mellowing out. It’s got that gentle ironic detachment baked in.
But in the song, Steely Dan flips it just enough to give it a warm, emotional edge. This “major dude” isn’t some slick operator or mysterious Zen master. He’s more like your emotionally literate friend who knows when to say the right thing—not because he’s got it all figured out, but because he cares. He’s the guy who listens when the world breaks you down and tells you, not in some dramatic way, but in this cool, half-smiling shrug, that it’s going to be OK.
“Major dude” becomes not just slang, but a quiet archetype—the kind of person you want to be when everything’s going sideways. Someone who keeps their cool, not out of apathy, but out of knowing too much to panic. In a way, you can be the major dude. The song’s an invitation: when the demon’s at your door, be the one who opens it calmly and says, “I’ve been expecting you.” Maybe offers it a drink.