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“Late for the Sky” (1974) An unapologetic triumph, and the increased prominence of Lindley in the mix is the least of it. The music works perfectly -- a crisper, yet still understated production; great playing all around -- but these tunes would work just as well if they were performed solo, "Nebraska"-style, a lone voice and instrument captured on a simple reel-to-reel.

Here the man's eyes are wide open, his pen tracing the most complex puzzles of life and living. The good ol' emotional/intellectual dialect; the twirl between thinking and feeling, the urge for escape and the impulse toward social responsibilty.

Start with the title track, a simply-wrought piano ballad, paired with Lindley’s sizzling slide guitar and a series of verses describing romantic delusions of all sorts. No finger-pointing, no self-recriminations, no self-adoration. Merely a portrait of the mismatched: “You never knew what I loved in you/I don’t know what you loved in me,” he sings. “Maybe the picture of somebody you were hoping I might be.” The next song, “Fountain of Sorrow” steps up the rhythm (despite the forlorn-sounding title) finding some comfort in even the most misbegotten connections: “You could be laughing at me, you’ve got the right/But you go on smiling, so clear and so bright. . .”

“For Everyman” (1973): Two words: David Lindley. The hippie-freaky-super-accomplished multi-instrumentalist (slide guitar, violin, bazouki, etc.) joined JB’s band just before the sessions for his second release, and what a terrific match it was: Now the maestro’s romanto-solipsisto yearning came with unexpected filigrees and skronky, drone-like textures; a raw lyricism that acknowledged more than Jackson’s measured words would ever say on their own.

The album kicks off with Jackson’s dusty take on his own “Take It Easy,” already a smash hit for the super-slick Hollywood cowboy   Eagles, but here the emphasis is on dirt roads and a yearning for escape that seems far less plausible than it could in the freon-cooled studio world of the Eagles. The journey ends - or detours into - the dreamy  desert ballad “Our Lady of the Well,” which moves back through time (months? centuries?) to describes a romance with Maria, who transcends time in some mysterious and yet viscerally captivating way. "There is a dance we do in silence/far below this morning sun," JB begins, introducing us to a primoridal love affair that is both far removed from ("Here we stand and without speaking/Draw the water from the well...") and a direct result of modern society's failures ("Across my home has grown the shadow/Of a cruel and senseless hand...")

Christ! It was like Jackson Browne knew my high school's principal! By the time I picked up this one (thank you Cellophone Square, and quite possibly its star salesman, Scott McCaughey) I was the editor of the Garfield Messenger, thus a leader among young men, and more than eager to strap on my own backpack and do some water dancing beneath the sun with Maria or anyone who would find me in the shade wide awake or in a dream (it's hard to tell). These worlds existed, not just in "Our Lady..." but also in "Colors of the Sun," the even moodier and more cryptic primo-eco-mordial tune that comes next. "Awake to understand you are not dreaming," JB begins, amid a swirling organ, a meandering bass and dueling, occasionally harmonizing acoustic guitars. I'd read about peyote somewhere. I had to imagine its effects sounded a bit like this: lost, but lovely; floating through time and space in pursuit of some undefined transcendence that was immediately available. . . but only if you weren't looking for it. "Leave me where I am, I am not losing/If I am choosing not to plan my life. . ." All that, plus a great tan (all that sun), wandering tribal chicks and a spelt-rich diet of natural grains, wild honey and home-dried peyote buttons. 

Sad, sweet, smart, sulky, sexy, and full of spelt.

To start this week-long exami-blog on the charms and failures of California's uber-singer/songwriter of the 1970's, if not beyond, we'll do the appropriate thing and start with a confession: It was the fall of 1978, another damp night in Seattle, and I was sulking in the corner of high school party. Kids dancing, kids laughing, kids flirting and having so much fun that none of it made sense to me. So I grabbed my coat, slunk out the door and made for the safety of home, and  “Late for the Sky.”

“How long have I been sleeping?/How long have I been drifting alone through the night?”

I was 15 years old, and every word of this, every cry of the slide guitar, every simple, stately chord on the piano, rang with truth and beauty.

“How long have I been dreaming I could make it right/If I closed my eyes and tried with all my might to be the one you need?”

Could loneliness ever sound more thoughtful? Could melancholy ever sound more romantic?

With the headphones clamped to my ears those elegantly composed confessionals of Jackson Browne (so handsome, dark-eyed and shy on the back of the album cover) filling my head I had access to a whole new world, peopled by the moody, the sensitive, the smart. And sexy chicks, too. Sigh. I wanted to go to there. I still do.

This is crazy talk, I know. But I’ve been listening to all those old Jackson Browne albums again, and wondering again if my affection for them -- my love, really -- is a matter of nostalgia, aesthetic wrongheadedness or. . .just maybe . . . because they actually deserve it on their own terms.

We'll work chronologically, starting with "Jackson Browne," the auteur's debut album. So dig into your old vinyl collection. Blow the dust off your turntable and consult the optometrist (Doctor, my eyes....)

Bouncing off the Sirius satellite last Friday, guesting on Dave Marsh's "Live from the E Street Nation" talk/music/call-in show, my host posed the question that had been dominating the show for ten or 15 minutes: What does Bruce Springsteen mean to you? 

What do you say to that one? I had seen it coming, had even tried to prepare an answer that included some intellectual processing-slash-non-fawning while also honoring the intense emotional connection already described by my host and fellow guests, along with the listeners who had already called in.

I came up empty. Stammered something silly about Springsteen's commitment to his art, his belief in community and etc. etc. What I really meant to say had more to do with his ready acknowledgment of his own gray areas, the co-existence of sin and righteousness, the striving for justice in a world that is perpetually, sometimes overwhelmingly unjust. And despite his anger and frustration (also thoroughly and movingly described), his appreciation for/belief in humanity in general: This train carries saints and sinners/this train carries losers and winners, and etc.

Then Dave took some more calls. A guy from near NYC i.d.-ed himself as being in advertising and spoke enthusiastically about how Springsteen is one of the great American brands - trustworthy, on-message, and widely perceived as honest. Dave winced and disowned the guy, relatively gently, but still with a pointed refutation of such dehumanizing/commodification-like thinking. And he was right! But so was the caller, because if you do step back and view Springsteen as if he were a line of products (which he sort of is!) he is a remarkably consistent and effective brand. After nearly 40 years even his failures (more than a few) seem as genuine and real as his greatest achievements. Win, lose or implode, he invests himself into his work and lets it fly. You and I may cringe at the "Dancin' in the Dark" video (shudder) but how many of those are there, really?

We found some common ground with the advertising guy, then Dave took a call from a Jeff of Texas, who talked about his childhood in some conservative evangelical church with a stern belief system (no love for gay folks, gen'l contempt for minorities, outcasts and etc) he'd shaken off in favor of love, social justice and a Bruce-centric philosophy. On one level I was thinking: Oh man, can you really build a whole life and worldview based on Springsteen songs? But Jeff was choking up during all of this, and sounded like such a warm-hearted, genuine and socially-conscious person that I felt like a real toad for even flirting with critical reasoning.

 
By Nick Gorini
 
They say good things come to those who wait. I don’t know who “They” are, and I’ve learned that occasionally, patience isn’t always a virtue.
 
But waiting almost always gives you one thing: perspective.
 
It was never my intent to document my immediate, visceral reaction to the ending of ‘Lost’. Going into Sunday night, I knew whatever my initial feelings may be (“That was PERFECT!” or “How could they have done this to ME?”), I needed time to reflect on the ending in the context of the entire Lost experience.
 
I mean, that’s what it has become for those of us who love this show, right? It was more than TV – it was a journey, a ride that for one hour a week put us somewhere else. Not just on the screen, but in our own noggins’. And if you believe in some of Lost’s theories, it may have been our collective consciousness-noggins, otherwise known as “col-coggins”.
 
Maybe at the end of our lives, we will all meet at some alternate bus depot in the sky (don’t call it Purgatory!) that we created out of our own desire, the desire to figure out every remaining Lost mystery. So, so many…
 
We can spend our oddly-houred days kissing strangers or beating the crap out of them with no repercussions. Heck, in some cases, they may even THANK us, even after running them over with our car. Then we can meet in a balmy, tropical Catholic Church with non-denominational stained glass (we wouldn’t want to exclude any of our viewers), hug it out one last time, and realize that the mysteries aren’t what mattered in the end.
 
What mattered is that we all experienced Lost, for better or worse, with joy or frustration, together.
 
Before I digress into any specifics of the finale, I want to say something that is all too obvious, but needs to be heard, so bear with me:
 
Network television is dying.
 
We all know it. The viewers know it, the advertisers know it, the executives know it, the cable companies and satellite/Direct TV entities know it, the writers and actors know it, too.
 
It may take a few years before the last rites are read, but network television is like Lost’s Michael, wandering around a magical wonderland, unable to move on because of it’s past indiscretions, haunting us with cheap reality shows, tabloid news and crappy copies of "Lost."
 
"Lost" snuck under the radar. It remains one of the most expensive shows ever produced. Cinematic in quality, epic in scope, complicated in plot, and deep, deeper than most anything found in popular culture today.
 
Apparently, we hate that kind of stuff. That’s why we get endless seasons of Dateline NBC, C.S.I., Two and a Half Men, The Biggest Loser. Dumbed down and cheap. You want intelligent? You want challenging? Watch AMC, HBO or Showtime. Read a book.
 
Network television, still free. For a limited time. And it gave us Lost. How did J.J. Abrams ever convince, coerce or blackmail ABC into putting this show on the air? Is Abrams the modern day Robert Johnson, selling his soul at the crossroads so the devil may gift him with unworldly talents? Or was it that mysterious elixir of talent, luck, timing and connections that got this gift off the ground?
 
If J.J. Abrams was a character on Lost, he’d be asking himself if it was his destiny to bring Lost to the masses, something he was always fated to do, or if it was hard work and sheer determination that put him into that position.
 
Whatever the case may be, Lost is like network television’s supernova, a final, bright hot burst of energy and beauty before the final, slow sputtering of a dead star.
 
Blah, Blah, Blah. What did you think of the finale?
 
The finale was overwhelmingly satisfying on an emotional level. But like Icarus, I think Lost may have flown too close to the Sun.
 
(Yes, just one paragraph ago, I called Lost a sun, more or less. But it’s the internet, and I can mix my metaphors. Writing on the internet is like the Frat Party Jungle Juice. It could be good, but there’s about 18 different flavors in it, and no one’s really sure what all’s in there. Just drink it.)
 
Before I explain what didn’t work for me, let state for the record, that Lost is still my favorite show of all time. Well, okay, top five of all time, for sure. It’s given me so much, and will continue to do so for many, many years.
 
In an effort to mend this dichotomy, and to heal my lost, broken heart, I have suddenly split off into two equally annoying bloggers (me, and me). Each will give his thoughts.
 
The Original Timeline Blogger
 
Oh gee whiz! What’s not to like? Some of my favorite moments:
 
· Naturally, all the enlightenment moments were incredible, especially Juliet/Sawyer’s, and Jin/Sun’s. What these couples went through to get… What? They’re dead? Oh man, that breaks my heart even more. Makes those scenes even more poignant.

· The Island as a real place. A daring move. And keep Locke/Smokey as a villain all the way to the end. No mystical spiritual wake-up call. Just a bad man needin’ some killin’.

Quick update: I'll be guest-hosting on Dave Marsh's Live from the E Street Nation radio show on Sirius tomorrow (Friday, May 28) at 10:30 edt. Should be plenty of music, wisecracks, Springsteen talk and listener calls, too. Check it out, it should be a grand time. Thanks to Dave, if not me. . . 

The father, the son and the holy hottie

In the end there were no fireworks. No yelling and screaming. No fingers in the chest nor recitations of missed ballgames, withering slights, alcoholic screw-ups or Oedipal murderousness. The surface anger melted and all that remained - in the sheer white light outside the Unitarian church - was a father and son sobbing happily in one another's arms.

Their friends sat in the pews, unbloodied and unbowed. And, finally, together.

The island, with its heroes, villains, monsters and constant life-threatening struggles, was less a literal place than a stage for a greater emotional battle: a thrill-ride version of psychotherapy:, where the patient is made to confront, engage and then move beyond the obsessions and weaknesses that have defined his/her life. 

Everyone's answer is different. For Jack it was accepting surrender; for Hurley it regaining self-confidence; for Miles it had something to do with discovering his faith in duct tape.

What matters is that what once were lost are now found. And what was "Lost" is now a memory. A long series of memories, actually, packed with action and adventure and dark humor, but also yearning and heartbreak and frustration and all the stuff of human exerpience. But no matter the blood and bombs and bad-ass thugs and monsters and on and on, the source of all that white light  came from within the characters themselves.

The mythology, as cool and confusing as it could be, was exactly like the cool, confusing mythology we all weave for ourselves: A Hollywood-style animation of the internal drama flickering behind all of our eyes.

Are you ready to move on? That's always the question. And for most of us, pretty much most of the time, the answer is emphatic: Helll, no. Thus psychotherapy, if you're a secular urban mod with health care and/or expendable cash. College kids can take philosophy classes, and engage in dorm room bickerfests about reality. Everyone else gets religion, or worst case, primetime tv. And just in case you wanted to wrap it all up in one tidy package, these last six years have also given us "Lost."

You said Jack. Heh-heh.

By NICK GORINI

Howdy, gang. For my readers out there (all four of you) who were wondering why I didn’t post any thoughts about last week’s polarizing Beavis and Butthead back-story, let me tell you something:
 
After reading about twenty articles, twice as many blogs, and endless other forms of barely digestible media, I sat down at my computer, started to type, and realized, I HAD NOTHING TO ADD TO THE DISCUSSION.
 
So many people had vociferous opinions, diatribes, and post-traumatic stress-posts…. Look, either you hated it, or you really hated it! HA HA ha…. I keed, I keed. Seriously, though, while the episode left me a little underwhelmed, I don’t think it deserved even half of the hate mail volleyed in its direction.
 
I understand some of the criticism: The writing was a little stale, the mythology seemed too little in comparison to the big picture, and Jacob and his bro seemed to be a little on the immature side. But, it had great acting, it deepened the moral dilemmas without offering cheap resolutions, and the Lucky Charms Leprechaun never danced out of the glowing golden cave.
 
And, after watching this week’s fireside chat with Jacob, I’m going to go out on a limb and say that many of you most vocal critics might have secretly (no one ever admits they’re wrong anymore – ever! Have you noticed?) felt a little sheepish.
 
Nevertheless, this week, it was good to be back on track with the crew in whom we have invested so much emotion. For what it’s worth, if I had been Carlton and Damon, I would’ve just aired the Jacob/Smokey episode much earlier in the season. It’s just a little too late for us to get invested in that stuff.
 
ONWARD AND UPWARD, OR OFFWARDS AND DOWNWARDS
 
Despite Jack’s mystery shaving wounds, things are going his way. His kid’s hanging out at home, his newly-discovered sister and impending messiah/nephew have moved in, hey! Oceanic found dad’s coffin! All part of a healthy breakfast.
 
Only, it’s that sunny trickster Desmond, up to his tricky-tricky-trickies. But when he’s not making prank calls, Desmond’s also busy beating up teachers in parking lots. He smacks Ben around, telling him he was trying to get Locke to “let go”, but we know Desmond is beating the almighty island timeline into Mr. Linus, who it turns out, likes this sorta thing. Thank you sir, may I have another!
 
Ben shares the good news (you know – guess what! That dude that rammed his car into you slapped me with the ugly stick! I like him! He seems like a nice fellow!).
 
I tell ya, people with English, Irish or Scottish accents get away with bloody murder here. As an American, I thought the reverse would be true, too. Come to find out, when Americans travel abroad, we’re told we “sound funny.”
 
Anyway, we quickly move to the jail, where Desmond surrenders to Miles and Sawyer, who I bet will have their own mid-season, sci-fi cop show premiering on ABC sometime in March.

Get some back-end points on the new Miles & Sawyer series, and follow the jump. . .

The shoot-em-dead, brain-bell jangler/The one you never seen before. . .

There's this badass in your neighborhood named Stagger Lee. He does all manner of wicked shit. Rolls dice. Talks trash. Steals your woman. Slits your throat. But on the other hand he has a really cool hat and slick clothes and does whatever the hell he wants to, virtually all of the time, and so you can't help digging him. Dude plays by his own rules, yo, and no cop or uptight civic hero is going to mess with his party.

It's a black thing -- an African-American thing, I mean -- the by-product of centuries of slavery, institutionalized racism, and more. Centuries of scary badasses, from Stagger Lee to Mick Jagger to NWA to Jack Abramoff to Ticketmaster and on and on. They are the living animation of our own worst instincts and straight-up evil actions. Bombs bursting in air, stolen civilizations, burning villages, crazy-eyed parents, the foreclosing of any pure-hearted person's free will.

The story of civilization, and now the undergirding of "Lost."

Which is why Jacob created the Smoke Monster, whose (not entirely ill-placed) anger begat centuries of evil, which begat Jacob's need for Richard, who created Ben, whose flaws begat Jacob's need for Jack, whose righteousness infuriated Ben so much he has been pushed to the threshold of becomingm yes, that's right, the new Man in Black.

follow the jump and go easy on your cloak and dagger

Mom always liked the Marx Brothers best, actually....

Another hour closer to The End (but please, please, please, ABC, can we NOT set the whole 2.5-hour climax to the dull-witted college-boy philosopher drone of Jim Morrison?) and now comes an episode-long peek back in time takes us to the birth of Jacob and his mysteriously unnamed dark-eyed twin, and then to the glowing (literally!) headwaters of some of the most crucial riddles at "Lost"'s heart: Is there a connection between the golden light of faith and the piercing Klieg light of science? How will the show be able to explain the distinction between the two, and the bond that links them? 

More questions: Are Jacob and his twin brother merely fancier versions of Goofus and Gallant? Why are the show's good guys just as capable of lying/murdering/pillaging as its antagonists? How will they ever bring the most intellecutally, philosophically and sc-fily sprawling series in the history of American tv dramas to a satisfying conclusion?

Forget about that last one. Already this morning the blogosphere -- including the level-headed James Poniewozik at Time, who is always my go-to guy for day-after recaps -- is bristling with crankiness over the episode titled "Across The Sea," musing on the line between too much information and how-the-hell-could-they-NOT-resolve. . . . 

JP raises excellent questions, as ever. Still,  I just can't kvetch about "Lost" with a lot of conviction, no matter what happens in the next two weeks.

And, by the way, I also thought "Across the Sea" did a fairly miraculous job of explaining a lot of the series' most complicated moral, philosophical and sci-fi-intific assertions. Let's take them one-by-one...

...but after the jump.