I don’t know how I kept this song off my radar for so long. Lou Rawls recalls his childhood in the windy city, on a dead-end street, “where there was nothin’ to block the wind, the elements- Nothin’ to buffer them from me… to keep them from knocking my pad down- I mean, really sockin’ it to me!”
It’s not that cold yet in New York, but the the Christmas lights are already lit on my street by the old Italian club that demands 50 bucks from business owners to fund the thing. The 99-cent stores already have a Christmas aisle. The pharmacy is playing Christmas music. Soon enough we’ll be in the dead of winter. I intend to bring the music more frequently this winter. The somber, lonely stuff that one feels like listening to as the sun fades away at 4:30 in the afternoon. Which is the best time to start drinking, no?
Mark Twain and Bret Harte were apparently drinking buddies. Twain visited the Old Crow distillery in the 1880s, and was a fan of the sour mash. I would love to sit in front of a fire with a pal reading to me their latest draft of great American literature, while sipping on the crow.