Today in Music History:
In 1977, The Sex Pistols played their last ever UK gig, (until 1996), before splitting, at Ivanhoes in Huddersfield. It was a charity performance before an audience of mainly children.
I guess it was inevitable, christmas and the end of the year and stuff. Homercat is flying out to Alberta for the holidays, specifically the Lethbridge area. So if I have any fans out there, homercat could be available for autographs at that water tower restaurant thingy they have there if the masses decried that I must. Since I doubt that will happen, I must say that I will be out of commission until the new year. I wish the best for all of you who stop by here and stress to you all stay safe and if you're going to party like the homercat, then take a taxi, get a designated driver, ride the bus, but don't drive drunk eh. Not a cool thing to do.
As I prepare for my trip I feel it is only fitting to feature a song by a poet spirit that left us recently and is quite fitting for the end of the year. Wealth and fame, platinum records and sold-out concerts, a musician’s ear for beauty — none of it could protect him from the prostate cancer that stalked him the last three years of his life. I speak of Dan Fogelberg, his songs weren’t the kind that got heavy radio play. “Too soft,” said his critics. Too introspective. Not commercial enough. Which is exactly why his fans love him.
That, and the poetry of his lyrics.
He was the son of a high school band teacher and a classically-trained pianist who sang opera. As a teenager, he sat on a river bluff, playing Gordon Lightfoot songs on the guitar. He listed Mozart and the Beatles as some of his musical influences. My own father knew Dan's father, who he says was a great man. As was his son.
Dan, I don't care what anyone says, I loved your stuff.
Until next year folks, I will be in Alberta as we all celebrate another Trip around the Sun.