In response to Tom’s query “one bit of media that touched your life in the last year”…

If forced to pick, I would have to select Tom Petty’s “Runnin’ Down a Dream” (well covered here at Newcritics by my esteemed collegue in all things rock Mr. Ted Wilson esq.). It’s been a while since something so inspired me and so bummed me out at the same time.

It’s a long four disc DVD set, but once you press play you’re in for the long haul. It quickly captivates as my wife discovered for herself as she attempted to go about her business and I sat down to watch it a few Sunday’s ago. After thirty minutes of overhearing it, she stopped whatever it was she was doing and joined me on the couch with a cup of tea in one hand and bowl of munchies in the other for the duration. Hit after hit pounding in the background of his interview responses. His undying and uncompromised reverence to REAL rock and roll is infectous. His ability to recognize the value of keeping in a band together and his dedication to making it happen. He made Bob Dylan’s music accessible to a whole new audience (present company included) at a time that ole Bob just may have slid into the annals of mythical sixties lore and Chervokas deification (Tom made Bob rock a bit harder too IMHO). He took on the labels and was willing to go the distance with them on both record pricing and publishing rights. I’m not a big fan of his Jeff Lynn tainted records, solo, Traveling Willbury’s, or otherwise (the Heartbreakers weren’t too keen on them either), but Tom’s able to explain to me and his band why he had to make them without coming off defensive or angry and I’m left feeling very cool about it all, hell, I might actually take another listen to those records (it’ll be hard to get over the Beatles/ELO sound-a-like thing though). He’s humble about his mistakes and hides very little from us. A highlight that had my wife and I rewinding the disc was Dave Grohl’s retelling of his call from Tom asking him to fill in on drums for an SNL appearance after Stan Lynch’s not so surprising departure from the Heartbreakers. Grohl’s amazement and reverence is written in the grin on his face during the on air performance.

The film bums me out because it clearly provides hard evidence of the death spiral rock and roll is in that even the most ardent optimists can’t deny. Tom doesn’t point fingers or assign blame, or even address the subject directly, but the usual suspects are in plain sight and fully exposed for all to see as the final credits roll. Just watch Tom tear down a gaggle of label assigned producers working on Roger McGuinn’s (one of TP’s major influences) alleged comeback record. “Maybe we can re-write some of the lyrics” one of the swill merchants exclaims to the group assembled in the control room. Tom retorts, “Fuck the lyrics, how ‘bout writing some better songs for this guy. Are you even familiar with his discography? He’s an American legend for cripes sake and you want him to record this crap?”. Roger thanks Tom for sticking up for him and saying what needed to be said, but how foretelling is the piece, huh?

If forced to pick here at this blog, I’d have to say Dan Leo’s “Confessions of a Hater” as my fav of the year. I laughed again re-reading it while getting the link. His other posts rock as well.

Overall, I’d have to say the entirety of the blogging experience has again overwhelmed me and touched my life in a very positive way over the last twelve months. It has allowed me the opportunity to continue to keep in touch with old friends, find lost ones, and most importantly make new ones. That’s not such an easy thing to do as one gets older, becomes more crankier and cynical with each passing day. I can say with all sincerity that I continue to learn more from the pages of my blogroll than if I was matriculating at some university. So here’s to you Tom and fellow Newcritics on a fine first year! Look forward to reading more of your musings and meeting you all in person someday soon.

So last night I and another buddy of mine went to call on an old guitar player friend that we hadn’t seen in years. We were like the three Musketeers during our marauding singles days spending what little money we had on lost weekends of partying and recording music. While me and my buddy had gotten married, had kids, and slid in line along side millions of our peers in the white collar career world, our friend sort of faded from view. We’d receive some intel on him from time to time while he worked a few bartending gigs and set up a local wing joint for the owners, but never much beyond that. Then not too long ago, we heard that he and his brother had opened up a club in the Little Five Points section of Atlanta (Atlanta’s mini East Village type area).

We had dinner at a place across the street from his club and enjoyed a great time together recalling the silliness of our joint escapades only fifteen short years ago. It was when the conversation turned to the in’s and out’s of starting up and running a club in the city of Atlanta that our friend quickly became awash with frustration and anxiety as he filled us in on his trials and tribulations over the past five years. Starting a small business in a city as corrupt as ours can do that. If it’s not one city agency or another extorting his hard earned cash, it’s lazy no show employees that let him down on a semi-regular basis, but the biggest frustration of late comes from another direction entirely. A source that I have tacitly defended on another somewhat related issue. After hearing my friends tale, I have changed my mind. The source of my nightclub owning friend’s frustration? Record labels. Record labels and ASCAP.

Yes, it appears that what Bob Lefsetz has been telling us for a long time actually has more than a ring of truth to it. The labels are losing money so bad that they have resorted to sending their legal goons out to (no, not go after illegal file traders, I support their efforts there) go after night clubs that play live music and pinch owners for unpaid points allegedly owed to them for licensed music being played by bands performing in said club. That’s right, they want a piece for cover bands playing licensed music. They sent my friend an invoice for $3000 threatening legal action if he didn’t “settle” this account. The three words that come immediately to mind; WHAT THE FUCK?!

First of all, my friends club caters to real players. He gets some residual bookings from a larger venue down the street of up and coming talent and fills the rest of the stage time with other young unsigned incubating locals and other seasoned musicians. You won’t catch a cover band playing Maroon 5 songs anywhere near his place. He himself is quite an accomplished player and would never pour his heart and soul into a place that catered to drunken frat boys howling top 40 hits. Jeff Sipe, Jimmy Herring, Col. Bruce, Derek Trucks, and others have sat in on jam sessions at his club for cripes sake. There’s no ‘Louie, Louie” being played here trust me.

Second and unbeknownst to the dickheads at ASCAP and BMI, our buddy also happens to be an avid recording enthusiast and when he installed his clubs’ system he was sure to put in both multi-track and two track digital recording devices. He exclaimed to the two of us as he showed off his impressive setup, “I’ve recorded every show that’s ever played here”. When I put the two together I said to him, “Dude, tell those fuckers at BMI to go though all those recordings and let you know what you own them, it can’t be more than fifty bucks tops”, and it was then that the pure evilness of these asshole record labels becomes crystal clear. It’s all about scaring you into folding. It’s all about the small club owner having to decide what’s going to cost him more: letting the civil action play out for which he’ll have to pony up for his own legal expenses, or just paying the invoice (i.e. fine) and getting on with his life. This is what’s called being mother fucked.

He certainly doesn’t need my advice, but if I were him and had those recordings in my pocket I’d shurely be telling BMI to go fuck themselves. If they decide to persue legal action, bring the tapes to the hearing with a per hour attorney at your side and ask the court to demand BMI show how they came up with their figure of three grand. At the same time, offer BMI, the court, an arbitrator, etc… the tapes of all the shows. My friend is certain that a BMI rep has NEVER stepped foot in his club, nor an ASCAP agent for that matter. They are simply betting that because he hosts live music, the acts that have performed have played licensed music without permission. A scorched earth tactic used indiscriminately to see if they can make a quick buck.

While I still firmly believe in protection of intellectual property and remain steadfast in my opposition to illegally downloading music, I will never again stick up for the labels on any issue whatsoever and now pray for their hastened demise. Yes, it’s jihad on the big labels for me. Although I held them in contempt for years for their historical artist exploitation and indentured servitude, I’ve also thought they were a necessity from a filtering and artist developement perspective. Even if this still holds true, their insatiatable greed supercedes any good they do for recording artists. They can just fuck off into the air entirely as far as I’m concerned.

First they go after guitar tab sites, now their extorting money from small business owners who support working musicians. The labels understand nothing about fans, musicians, and the music they create and I hope their days are numbered.

KH, good luck my friend and give’em hell.

- Georgia Satellites - Red Light

My friend Jackson and I are both fairly pessimistic about the future of rock and roll. It’s not because there aren’t any bands out there playing rock and roll, but few are playing anything credible or authentic enough to keep the fields abundant for future generations to survive. I’m talking about rock and roll the way The Ramones played it, or the way Bon Scott sung it; bands that rocked without the need of production perfection or the benefit of major label hype. Through the gilded years of rocks reign, these bands may not have topped charts, but they DID leave their mark and filled clubs Friday and Saturday nights. Labels used to have room for these sub-gold sellers.

One of the bands was the Georgia Satellites.

Yep, Keep Your Hands To Yourself, with it’s comically goofy MTV video is what most will remember most about the Georgia Satellites if they remember anything at all, and those who do remember more than likely cast the band aside as a novelty act after ‘Hands’ broke to number 2 on the Billboard charts behind Bon Jovi’s Living on a Prayer in 1986. But the Georgia Satellites were much more than the Chuck Berry driven silliness of “No huggy, no kissy…”, They were definitely for real and could deliver the goods. The magic is ALWAYS in the deeper cuts, and those smart enough to listen past the hit got to gorge themselves at the table of ass-kicking rock.

The Satellites had Rick Richards, the class of 1985 valedictorian of the Keith Richards Conservatory of juke guitar playing. Rick was also blessed with a fantastic Marlboro 100 infused voice which lent itself well to backing vocal duties and stood well on his own on when called upon to sing lead (Check out Rick belting Rod Stewart’s Every Picture Tells a Story the best version of this tune ever). Together with front man Dan Baird’s quick wit, sincere Hotlanta twang, and wicked Telecaster slingin’ in his own right, these two guys were the Less Glamorous Twins of this gang of southern born hooligans, along with Rick Price on bass, and Mauro Magellan pounding the drums (always with the handle end of the sticks).

I remember a Rolling Stone interview in which Dan Baird defined the term “Man Dancing” as something that results when a guy drinks six beers and puts on side one of Exile On Main St. The result is a great deal of spontaneous Keith Richards style air guitar convulsions and Chuck Taylor high top clad foot slapping. At that point in my life, I was relieved to know that there were others that carried on this way, and that there was actually a term for it having long perfected this dance technique to the Master Black Belt level.

Man dancing music is exactly what the Satellites inspired. I was fortunate enough to see them open for Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers at MSG in 1987. The crowd gave it up for them as much as they did for Tom and his band that night, but even better than that was the show Jackson, my sister, and I caught at The Chance in Poughkeepsie NY a couple of years later as they toured behind their recent release Open All Night. That show was as much fun as I’ve ever had in my life. The place was packed and the band ripped though a 2 hour set including original material and homages to the Gods with a version of I Wanna be Sedated, and a scorching assortment Faces, Stones, and Yardbirds covers. No pretense, no elaborate costumes, no choreography, or no light show, just a bunch of Georgia boys clad in dirty tee shirts, jeans, and Converse sneakers surprised by their success, perhaps feeling a bit like foreigners, playing to a full house in a club along the banks of the Hudson River.

The band’s records are not for the faint of ears or those looking for Peter Gabriel-like production, but they no doubt rock the roof off. The best two records were recorded by Jeff Glixman and combined the traditional twin Tele sound with contemporary big drums. Both the first and second records were hastily mixed as evidenced by sloppy fades and inconsistent dynamic fluctuations, but who cares about any of that shit anyway. I actually enjoy Keep Your Hands to Yourself off the self titled debut album, but lift the needle (for those that don’t understand, hit the forward double arrow button on your iPod) and drop it on the next track, take a deep breath of Railroad Steel, and then grab onto something for the teary eyed tenderness of Battleship Chains. Following that, you may want to put on your helmet on for Red Light, my personal favorite after which, if you somehow don’t manage to discover the art of the man dance, you may as well turn in your rock badge deputy. Flip it over for Can’t Stand the Pain, and Nights of Mystery with the acoustic guitar segue into Every Picture Tells a Story. You’re guaranteed to be huffing and puffing by the time the final chords ring out.

The Satellites’ sophomore effort Open All Night wasn’t quite as strong as the debut, but a great record nonetheless. Highlights being tracks like Sheila, Hand to Mouth, and a cover of Ringo Starr’s Don’t Pass Me By.

Future efforts were marginal, cash-infused attempts by Elektra to fit the band into a more marketable box, but not without some serious gems like Stellazine Blues and the Lowell George tribute Shake That Thing from In the Land of Salvation & Sin not to mention awesome solo albums by Dan Baird (another sign of rock’s eminent demise: other than the debut and Sin & Salvation, all the other records are no longer in print).

After moving to Atlanta in 1991, I had heard from a few folks in local music circles that, much like the great Danny Gatton and Jeff Beck, they band parted ways and members willingly returned to the simple life wanting to do nothing more than hang out and work on their cars after growing weary of travel and the bullshit that is the music business. They still show up now and again in various forms in local clubs playing mostly for the fun of it. If you happen to find any of their stuff while flipping through your local used vinyl or CD store, buy them all. Then, on your way stop at the gas station and pick up a twelver of PBR (in cans of course), drop the needle, and clear some space for some serious man dancing. Don’t be shy girls, you can do it too!

Man, I miss the Georgia Satellites.

Rock is dead, long live rock!

“Does anyone know where the love of God goes…?” I’ve had that unattributed lyric in my head for over thirty years. Many times I’ve sat down in attempt to scribe a few words for a riff I’ve come up with, and that lyric has found a way to the surface time and time again. I always knew it was someone else’s so I never tossed it out there while collaborating with others. I’d always had a sense that it was a partial bit too. It would still be a mystery if it wasn’t for an archived Rhino podcast of the Lefsetz Letter I tuned into recently that blew the lid off the mystery and all the pieces fell into place as I instantly remembered where I had first heard it and why it stayed with me all these years.

The words come following the denouement of the song. The instruments drop to a sparse hush, the snare drum reverberating in the distance, and then this…

Does any one know where the love of God goes
When the waves turn the minutes to hours?
The searches all say they’d have made Whitefish Bay
If they’d put fifteen more miles behind her.
They might have split up or they might have capsized;
May have broke deep and took water.
And all that remains is the faces and the names
Of the wives and the sons and the daughters.

These words are of course from just one of the seven verses of the Gordon Lightfoot hit The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald the tale of an American freighter that sank in an early winter gale on Lake Superior in 1975 with twenty-nine crew on board.

I first heard it during one of our family’s long drives to our grandparent’s house in North Carolina sometime in 1976. Five kids, my parents, and a big dog all packed into a green Chevy station wagon that could fall apart at any moment. I was 12 years old. It was late in the evening and my brother and I were stretched out in the back and my head was right up against the mono radio speaker. My dad had the radio on and a DJ spun The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. I listened to every word and was filled with such sadness when it was over, especially after my folks told me that the story was true. This song is probably responsible for my life long affinity for dirges.

Wikipedia has this definition, which is a good start, but I stretch it to include the ability to be sung when drunk, and the lack of a definitive chorus. Its melody should memorable enough for listeners to actually want to hear the story being told. While some damn fine dirges have been written all over the world, the Irish seem to have a zest for them having written so many great ones, Arthur MacBride and Foggy Dew being two examples and a couple of my personal favorites (If I didn’t read that Lightfoot was a born and raised Canadian, I’d swear he had Erin blood running through his veins after hearing his Edmund Fitzgerald tale).

The story of Arthur McBride as he and his cousin go for a stroll on a Christmas day and end up crossing paths with a British Sergeant out looking for conscripts…

“But “, says Arthur, “I wouldn’t be proud of your clothes
For you’ve only the lend of them as I suppose
And you dare not change them one night, for you know
If you do you’ll be flogged in the morning.
And although that we are single and free
we take great delight in our own company
And we have no desire strange faces to see
Although that your offers are charming
And we have no desire to take your advance
All hazards and dangers we barter on chance
For you would have no scruples for to send us to France
Where we would get shot without warning “

Arthur is clearly not one for serving in the King’s army and his taunts do nothing but anger the sergeant. I’ll let you discover the outcome on your own.

The subject of these songs are often unsung hero’s or soldiers. From Foggy Dew (Check out Sinead O’Connor with the Chieftains for a haunting version of it)…

‘Twas down the glen one Easter morn to a city fair rode I
There are Ireland’s lines of marching men in squadrons pass me by
No pipe did hum; no battle drum did sound its loud tattoo
But the angelus bells or the Liffey’s swell rang out in the foggy dew

The historical events are foretelling. You can picture it like a scene in a movie. A little girl on her horse going to the market without a care in the world when she comes upon a line of grim-faced soldiers marching to the Easter Uprising of 1916.

Most of the time these songs feature everyday folks like the crew of the Edmund Fitzgerald. Many historical dirges inspire me to do research on the events or individuals being sung about. A good one will put you right in the story. In The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, we’re there watching helplessly in the safety of voyeuristic distance as the crew begins to realize that the storm is going to sink them…

When suppertime came, the old cook came on deck sayin’.
Fellas, it’s too rough to feed ya.
At Seven P.M. a main hatchway caved in, he said
Fellas, it’s been good t’know ya
The captain wired in he had water comin’ in
And the good ship and crew was in peril.
And later that night when his lights went outta sight
Came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.

It doesn’t get anymore helpless than that does it? Watching the lights of a ship go out as it sinks to its cold watery grave. No Jack/Rose bullshit here, just twenty-nine men leaving loved ones who are expecting them home in a couple of days. According to a recent Coast Guard review (the wreck was only recently discovered), lake water filled the container area loaded with iron ore pellets which caused the load to shift towards the bow. Once the ship crested a wave, it nose dived 1,100 feet to the bottom of Lake Superior. As Lefsetz remarks in his podcast, the water of Lake Superior is so cold, that even in the heat of whatever summer they get up there, you couldn’t stand ankle deep in its water for more than 30 seconds. As I learned during my last visit out to Lake Tahoe (another deep and cold lake albeit no iron ore laden freighters to be found) that bodies are rarely recovered following a mishap since the cold water at depth prohibits normal decomposition. This macabre reality provides us this opening lyric…

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake they called ‘Gitche Gumee’
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead
When the skies of November turn gloomy

That’s some right ominous shit. The vernacular of the sea is so made for dirges isn’t it (sailors refer to their ships and waters in female tense as symbol of undying respect for both)?

All sailors are probably required to know fifty sailing dirges at a minimum and recite them upon command since their occupation provides such a ripe field of material for these tunes of tragedy and heroics. Successfully performing one of these songs is not as easy as one might think. The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald is simple enough four chord song (B, F sharp minor, A, E), but singing those words without sounding hoaky is a whole other matter entirely. Hell, just remembering all the words is a challenge enough for me which is why these songs I play for myself and my loyal fans only (i.e. my wife and kid).

Dirges rarely if ever end up being a hit in the top 40 sense which makes The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald a rare bird indeed, but if they’re good they live forever whether they be about a tragedy, lost love, war, or some horse race that took place two centuries ago. Often times, they’ll get new lyrics such as the case of Lily of the West and The Banks of the Ponchatrain. They become the way legends get passed down from generation to generation. It’s a pretty solid way to create staying power I’d say.

Heck, here I am writing a blog post about an iron ore boat, one of thousands, which sank in the great lakes three decades ago. I’d call that a hit in my book.

Thru and Thru is a Keith Richards track David Chase dug out from the obscurity mine of post heyday Rolling Stones albums for his hit HBO series The Sopranos. He let the tune play over the fade to black and credit roll for the season two finale as “Big Pussy” Bonpensiero’s bullet riddled body sinks into the cold abyss off the coast of New Jersey. It was a perfectly sublime audio/visual sequence. I had owned a copy of Voodoo Lounge for a year or so and never heard the song up to that point, but immediately added it to my list of favorite Stones tunes, not for its Sopranos association, nor for Keith and Ronnie’s brutal twin guitar attack, but on account of the song possessing a key element that I find absolutely hard to resist; the lyrical mention of the telephone.

I simply cannot get enough of a song that draws on or otherwise alludes to the use of the telephone.

Some would say it’s because I’ve worked in the telephone business for more than fifteen years, but that’s not it at all. The telephone and the act of talking on it, answering it, not answering it, waiting for a call on it, etc… just does it for me. Run down your own list of telephone songs and I think you’ll get what I mean. It’s such a lonely thing isn’t it? There’s such a sense of desperation and vulnerability in someone waiting on a telephone call. You’re totally at the mercy of the person on the dialing end. Will they remember to call? Are you a priority enough in their life for them to take the time to call you? Even more concerning, do they really even WANT to call you?

Speedball rang the night clerk, said “send me up a drink”
The night clerk said, “Its Sunday man, wait a minute let me think…
There’s a little place outside of town that might still have some wine.”
Speedball said,”Forget it man, can I have an outside line?”

- Tom Petty Something Big

The telephone provides the perfect veil for deception and all things sinister too. Even if she calls you, is she telling you the truth? Is she rolling her eyes as you prattle on? Even still, will she even TAKE your call, or just ignore it? Is the mere act of taking your call something she is loathe to do? Pink has to listen to his wife’s lover answer the phone as he attempt’s to connect a collect call to her from across an ocean. A sympathetic operator’s voice is heard asking him, “I’m sorry sir, but they keep hanging up, would you like me to try again?”

The phone provides a shameless and most cowardly vehicle for lovers to end relationships. In films, talking on the phone is usually done in uncomfortable and oppressive environments. Has anybody ever had a relaxing or otherwise pleasant conversation in a phone booth? “I gave her my heart and she gave me a pen…” Lloyd tells his sister while standing in a phone booth in the pouring Seattle rain. How many times have we seen people draw their last breath in a phone booth, a body slouching against the inside of the grotty glass enclosure as the receiver dangles. A voice crackles, “Hello? Is there anybody there?”

Told me you loved me, why did you leave me all alone?
Now you tell me you need me when you call me on the phone…

- J. Timberlake Cry Me A River

While it’s true that in most songs and films, they are more likely to be used as the source of delivering bad news, we’re so desperate for the phone to be some sort of a Star Trek like transporter, but it will never meet that expectation and therefore the telephone always disappoints. It will never replace actually being somewhere with someone no matter what technological improvements are made. The commercial with the business guy at the airport is a good case study. He’s had a tough day, his flight has just been delayed, and it’s late. So what does he do? He takes out his phone and calls his kid. Her ghostly image is then sitting next to her dad in the gate area and he says, “How was your day darling?”

But, even in this scene, the telephone is a disappointing substitute for being there. The sad reality is a phone call must always end and once it does you are again alone. While they don’t show it, you know he must hang up at some point and the smile that was once on his face will disappear. We feel terrible for him, I know I do.

It seems like such a gloomy way to think about the telephone, but maybe that’s why guys by and large hate talking on them. Maybe, all things considered, when it comes to making or taking a telephone call, the odds are that nothing good will come of it, yet men make up a much higher percentage of cell phone ownership. We own phones we dread talking on. I’m not sure what that says about us, but I wonder if once the glomming period of his new discovery had passed, perhaps in the early morning hours of a sleepless night, if Alexander Graham Bell wasn’t somehow deeply disappointed in his new invention.

Someone’s on the telephone desperate in his pain
Someone’s on the bathroom floor doing her cocaine
Someone’s got their finger on the button in some room
No one can convince me we aren’t gluttons for our doom

- Indigo Girls Prince of Darkness

The fact that Tom Watson finds anything I write at all interesting tells me a few things about him: He is either certifiably insane, bored, both, or he possesses the uncanny ability to ignore all the poor grammar, misspelling, terrible syntax, etc… somehow get what it is that I’m attempting to say, actually thinks others might be able to do the same, and somehow find it the slightest bit interesting. So, on the strength of that assessment here goes nothing…

One of the cool things about our trips back to the NYC area is that I get to see my young nephew. He’s now a seventh grader and it pains me to hear his voice deepening and listen to him speak of the opposite sex without the adolescent disdain that was so abundant during our last visit only a year ago (see the opening sentence of this post). He’s an extremely bright and well-mannered kid that any parent would be proud to have as a son. He’s also a video game addict.

He’s played video games for as long as I can remember him having the dexterity to operate a joystick. I always feel bad when I see him because he immediately wants to show his prowess at the latest game flying off Best Buy shelves everywhere, and I sometimes have to fane interest since I can not readily identify the subtle graphical enhancements between Madden Football IV vs. V that he’s so amped to demonstrate for me.

This past holiday season was different though. His parents were actually able to hunt down a Nintendo Wii system for him as a well-deserved reward for his continued success with his school work. Since I read a crap-load of tech blogs, I was genuinely curious to see what this thing could do with it’s forearm mounted virtual controller and all. As soon as we hit his front door, predictably he dragged me post haste to his room to check it out. As he cut the machine on, up came a graphic for the game Call of Duty 3.

Within a few seconds, we were in the 1^st person behind an M-1 rifle making our way through the Normandy seawall breech. Extremely realistic graphics. Frighteningly realistic graphics. My nephew was able to hurl hand grenades, reload his rifle, direct mortar fire at enemy armor, navigate the ruins of war torn French towns, etc… To say this gaming system is amazing would simply be the understatement of the year. But it wasn’t the gaming system that caught my long term attention though; more it was the content of the game he was playing.

Since I don’t play video games of any kind (I’m a pinball man; again see the opening sentence of this post), I’ve found myself struggling not to overreact to strong feelings that bubbled up while watching my nephew take such great joy in German soldiers flying through the air after the grenade he just heaved into their machine gun nest exploded. I will tell you that I’m the one who you’d normally find scornfully rolling his eyes at children’s birthday parties when I hear some parent say, “We don’t play guns, army, war, etc…”.

We played war in the woods as kids all the time. We made M-16’s out of tree branches if we didn’t have plastic replicas already and none of us went on to pick off innocent civilians from a clock tower after all. But this game with its shocking detail and historically accurate depictions gave me great pause, great pause.

I wonder if it’s the right thing to be doing creating a game out of the “Day of Days.” Are we desensitizing this young man to the sacrifice our grandfathers made for the liberation of Europe and for all mankind? Marginalizing for our youth the horrors of warfare perhaps? Will my nephew experience the same feelings of awe I did when I first saw the opening twenty minutes of Saving Private Ryan? Will his eyes well up with tears, or will he see it as another redundant recreation, just another level in a game he’s long since mastered? Does he know that these stories are real? That entire companies of men lost their life in an instant after the sea baring carrier that brought them to shore let its door down? That thousands of fathers and mothers would get a telegram delivered to them by an Army Chaplin driving an olive drab car informing them of their loss as a result of what transpired on June 6^th 1944?

I want to think that perhaps this game will make learning about historical events like WWII more interesting since he will have visual references to draw on, but are these the preferable references we want our kids to have? The thing that had the greatest impact for me regarding the release of Saving Private Ryan was the feedback from surviving veterans I read in so many magazines and a few of my father’s military publications.

Many stated that the realistic 1^st person aspect of the opening montage was a quintessential testament for the benefit of the ages and all who weren’t there. After seeing the D-Day sequence many experienced emotions long since buried deep within their psyche. I wonder if we’re not somehow doing a dishonor to these men by making a game out of their most horrific memories.

I don’t pretend to have reconciled any of this, and to be honest, have come to not a single conclusion other than to say that I still have that sickly feeling in my lower abdomen when thinking about kids my nephew’s age all over the world laughing and smiling while they lay waste to a division of Nazi infantry. It’s just a feeling of wrongness that I can’t overcome and get right with the progressive side of me. However, I’m keenly interested in hearing others thoughts on this subject and when Tom invited me to contribute to this new venture, I thought this post would be perfect for this forum.

So what is it? Am I just getting old? Is it becoming a parent that has brought all this on? Am I out of touch with today’s youth and their reality/fantasy separation capabilities? Whatever anyone’s feelings are about our countries current engagements, my gut says that one thing we should all agree on is that every American should understand the consequences that fall solely on the shoulders of our men and women deployed in combat . Do games like this help teach our kids, or do a disservice?

This is the question I ask to you all…