Life is in one of those miserable patches for me right now. So I’m looking to the SuperBowl for a minute of relief. How bourgeoise of me, how working class.
I’m hoping for a Seahawks win. I like Russell Wilson and how can you not like Richard Sherman. I have issues with Peyton Manning going all the way back to Tennessee. (Remember he never won a National Championship, Tennessee got it the year after Manning graduated.) But mainly I think Pete Carroll is the greatest coach our sport has yet seen. He alone still thinks of the game as fun and he still admires the young men who condition themselves to be in a state to excel.
Someone who believes and trusts in others in an ultra competitive tiny world has to be acknowledged as a great man.
I remember feeling stung when Variety reported, in one of those little throw away capsule bits, that Hall And Oates had passed the Everly Brothers as the best selling pop duo of all time.
Hall and Oates. I think it was Billy Miller who commented, “There’s just a lot more people buying records now than there used to be.” Which makes sense if you don’t think about it and just makes me sad if you do think about it.
I met Don Everly. Maybe met is too strong a word. I was within 10 feet of him for 3 hours. My friend is an Animal Behaviorist. Don had a pair of Belgian Shepherds that were running his house. My friend invited me along because I loved Belgians. He didn’t know, or care, that I also loved the Everly Brothers.
A couple of other celebrities I knew shipped their “unruly” dogs to places unknown. But Don Everly was spending 3 hundred bucks an hour so he could learn how to live with his dogs. That was all he wanted. I liked him. I like the way he acted with me and I liked the way he acted with his dogs even more.
Phil had dogs too. Big dogs, pure breds and mutts. They were southern boys and boy and man they loved their dogs.
They were entertainers who loved to rock. On stage since the early fifties, they learned to sing and play in front of an audience.
With their chiming chunking Gibson B210’s and those insane harmonies that sounded like the Tibetan throat singers, like two voices coming from one throat; how could you not love the Everly Brothers. What could be so wrong with you that you’d buy “Maneater” instead of “May You Always Drive a Cadillac”.
I don’t know. I only know that Phil Everly is dead. In the last pictures before he passed he looked like how I’d wished my Grandpa looked, not how you’d expect that razor cut ferret cheeked, lazer eyed JD killer from the album covers to end up. I like that. I like it because every pop group that has ever used a harmony, from the Beach Boys to the Beatles to the Lolas owes a little something to the Everly Brothers. And when you look down that long line of faces it’s nice to end up on the content lined face of Phil Everly.
Don Everly’s only comment was, “I don’t know what to say. I always figured I’d die first.”
The Everly Brothers gave us the rhythm and the beat, the heart and the tingling sounds, the peace and the vision and all they wanted was for us to listen. And some money, but who doesn’t want that?