By on Sep 28, 2017 in Blog, Uncategorized |

Ten years ago, my world changed. First, though, my heart broke because radio god, Howard Stern, was leaving the regular air waves for something called Sirius satellite radio. Mornings without Howard seemed unimaginable, a step backwards in life, hollow. Love him or hate him. He’s the Ali, Jordan and Gene Simmons of talk radio. The best in his game. Satellite radio sounded sketchy to me, though. I didn’t know much about home computers, let alone something you needed to rig up in your vehicle in order to get your daily dose of hilarity by the King and his crew. Unwilling to let go of Stern, I bought a satellite radio, paid the plan, and a tech at Best Buy wired my 97′ Honda Accord. Without missing a beat, Howard came out of the gate hot, and a decade later hasn’t let up on the gas, albeit working a much leaner schedule. Must be nice. After four hours of being...

Bonded Through the Music

By on Sep 18, 2017 in Blog |

Growing up, my brother, Mike, was mad about his music. He’d lock himself downstairs in the basement of our home for hours cranking Jackson Browne, Leo Sayer and a whole lot of James Taylor. We didn’t communicate much in those days, him a senior in high school, me, eight years younger, just a knot of nerves with nothing to say. But telepathy entered in through the music, and I grew as he grew because the music he played downstairs, because well, he didn’t hold back on the volume. Seemingly always there, before school and after, cutting through the gloom and good times in our home, the music Mike played reached me in ways that still influences me today. The simple beats, the heavy thinking wordplay, the triumphant hero leveled by a life less given. These songs filled me with a kind of beautiful sorrow that I wanted to drink in, feeding me in ways that didn’t require a textbook or...

The Year Without a Summer

By on Sep 13, 2017 in Uncategorized |

You could ask me in a flyby conversation how many home runs former third baseman of the Boston Red Sox, Butch Hobson, hit in 1979 and I would tell you 28 jacks without blinking or googling it. Ask me the song list on Bob Dylan’s “Desire” record as I’m biting in a burrito, and I’ll rattle off “Hurricane” to “Sara” and sing you a line from “Oh Sister” before I swallow back a single black bean. But ask me anything outside sports and music, and I mean anything, like, history, and I am doomed, a stuttering mess of nothingness. That’s why when Ashland musician, Paul Hubert, was telling me in the WKXL studio recently about a new song he wrote and was about to perform with his friend, The Chicken Man, called “40 Bushels,” I was flabbergasted to hear the tale about the “Year Without a Summer” in...

Killin’ It with “Say Darling”

By on Aug 31, 2017 in Uncategorized |

One must come out of the gate hot when presenting a body of work that you’ve been cursing, sweating and grinding over for months in a studio, living with the thing, breeding it till that thing becomes an opening riff that kills on impact.   Not “kill” as in kill, like dead kill.  More like:  Bam!  I just got slapped in the face with the sweetest of cold waters, all in the name of music. That kind of kill.    Song one, line one, joke one – they all need to land right with the audience at the git-go.  And that’s what “Say Darling” did on their new self titled EP. They crushed it, right from the git-go.     A fierce finger roll of the Hammond organ, then crashing drums bleeding into a blazing guitar riff born out of the stylings of Chris Hersch and that, my friends, is the way to open up a song.   And that’s just the first twenty seconds of...

By on Aug 8, 2017 in Reviews |

Being raised by a fiery tongued Irish woman who weighed no more than a 100-pounds but carried herself as if she was Josey Wales in a housecoat, you never quite knew what kind of mood my mother would be in any given morning. On those unpredictable dawns when the mood of the day hung in the balance, there were two thing I could always count on: If the house was quiet, well, we were all screwed. That only meant that my mother was marinating somewhere about something — a light left on in the basement, an unzipped bag of cold cuts wasting away in the crisper, sneaker marks on the hallway rugs lined tighter than the outfield grass at Fenway Park. You know, the big stuff. Sometimes during those early hours, my mother would launch into a fit of rage, never quite knowing what she was raging against, but rage she would with the thunderous clap of a thousand lightening storms. It was an...