Paint Your Wagon: Broadway to Hollywood

In 1951, while humanity vicariously ventured to the heights of the universe, under the wand’rin’ stars it’s terrestrial half constructed the heart and soul of one of the most influential moments in entertainment history which would ultimately define 1969 as a year that produced one of man’s greatest stories of Boom, Bust, Bigamy, & Brotherhood.

When the second half of the twentieth century began, playwright Alan Jay Lerner opened his 6th Broadway Musical based on the waining sense of adventure provided by the previous century and birthed the timeless story, Paint Your Wagon.


With typicacy of the stage, the original storyline is a wandering exercise that focused on the mystery of the west, it’s people, and uncertainty, while the music, from Frederick Loewe, mimicked the intricate operatic style of the time.

Fortunately, the show must go on.

For the next eighteen years, Lerner would intrench himself in the entertainment industry writing and producing the award winning shows, My Fair Lady and Gigi among many many others. As he began to understand the way of the world and transitioned his writing from New York’s Broadway to California’s Hollywood, it was only natural to adapt his already successful works and in the late 1960, production began in Oregon.

With help from composer André Previn and writer Aaron Chayefsky, Lerner’s story of the chaotic west was transformed into a story of colossal characters in search of community and meaning in the wilderness of the Californias. (As noted in the brief PaisleyTunes post “Paint Your Wagon: Greatest Musical of All Time” from December 30th, 2012)

Musically, the themes of Lerner and Frederick Loewe’s original score were closely followed, yet allowed for reasonable additions and deletions. The style and tempo experienced phenomenal orchestrate remastering with the inclusion of Preven’s modernized opera. Tony Bavaar’s I Talk To The Trees enjoyed a renewed voice with Eastwood, while Bavaar along with Olga San Juan and all of her numbers, were left out of the new production in exchange for one Jean Seberg tune, A Million Miles Behind The Door. The adaptation of James Barton’s voice by a method-acting perpetually less-than-sober Lee Marvin substantiated the exaggerated characters in a fleeting attempt to sell an exhausted audience on one more zany musical. Coupled with production, I’d consider the score a success. No matter the listener, clean studio recording and eighteen years of advancements in technology will always provide a superior sound.

As Preven modernized the opera, Chayefsky modernized the plot to bring the film into a contemporary light. With his popular ‘slice of life’ genericizing style, he created the entertaining ambiguity of Pardner’s name and facilitated changes that narrowed the focus onto Ben, Pardner, and Elizabeth while strengthening the screen presence of the minor characters to create a real world venue in the mountains. He was also responsible for creating No Name City, formerly Rumson City and certainly didn’t shy from Lerner’s notion that the film would be an outrageous production event featuring wacky sub and parallel plots. Viewers of every kind are engaged and goaded into rooting for characters of all morals means throughout the film. Ultimately the plan cost twice the initial budget, at twenty-million dollars, and involved the complete construction and destruction, by livestock, of their full scale 60-miles remote mountain boom-town.

Where am I goin’ I don’t know,
When will I get there, I ain’t certain.
All that I know is I am on my way.

And after all that, their brotherhood stands …but, of course, you know all this already.

[Paintyourwagon] clint-eastwood-and-lee-marvin-in-paint-your-wagon

Croon – The New PaisleyTunes

Over the past few years the writers and critics here at PaisleyTunes have observed significant trending within the song writing community.

In 1999, spooked by the accidental keytar death of British puppeteer Christine Glanville, PaisleyTunes has witnessed musicians erratically circling modern song-writing, searching for sustenance while staring at the carryon of the disemboweled  electronica below. As the new century came and the aughts turned into teens, artists have slowly found their calling and are flocking, high above our heads, to the nesting place of music in rhythm, melody, and stage presence.

bird calls

In observance of this movement, we’ve attempted to take aim and capture the migration, yet our current guise is more startling than participatory and our gaze has been but into the sun.  So, in order to better meet the growing expectations of our readers we’ve chosen to restructure our critical blind.


Today we launch the wing-tip of listener reviews


 Croon – a place for song as it began.


Mark Mothersbaugh: The Lego Movie

Everything is Awesome, except maybe that song. Maybe.

With stunning stop-motion-esque digital animation, almost every Lego character we know and love, comes to live with the same yellow-headed always-happy-go-lucky personas we’ve manufactured for ourselves. The world abounds with serialized parts, new and old, ubiquitous and rare. Water flows and buildings crumble same as if they were under the bed. Scenes are a wonderland of classic color and sound and the viewer is torn between the feeling of participatory transformation and the existential existence of the legos before them.  Trauma, elation, and character prowess evolve for each character as if they were in our hands, with time precisely imaginative and death separate from mere disembodiment

Contrary to the vague trailers, the plot is somewhat harsher than anticipated, but trite enough to enjoy the twists and turns of the adventure. As Emmet, the main character, begins his journey, the viewer enjoys the perfect sense of order that is demanded of any self-respecting lego city and is comforted by the familiar comrade shared by the identical characters in building perfection around them, to which Emmet participates directly. However, tensions build as Emmet is exposed the the truth behind a world of mini-figures and structures built to standards and perfection. 

Enter the Master Builders, representing the lingering cadre of creative genius, consequently, the life-blood of all lego cities, who directly and obviously, oppose all that stand for order. The Master Builders, collected from the robust Lego mini-figure line foreign to many ‘retired’ enthusiasts, give the requisite nod to many of the special characters throughout time, delivering personas appropriate and realistic and jokes worth laughing at. They are also the core of the adventure and the road map of the journey. 

I don’t think it’s too much to give away saying that the good guys win, but keep in mind, it is worth enjoying the film to the headers of close-to-home conflict, where the audience is left with a suitable compromise and yet terrified of their own future.

Enjoy the film, but beware the theme song that embeds it’s self in you life like a flat one by one on a building plate. 




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The Head And The Heart

My six-year old friend turned me onto The Head and The Heart this week and I’m satisfied.  Then I learned they’ve been around since 2009; seems word within the kindergarten circuit isn’t as quick as I’d expected.

The Head and The Heart is a harmonizing, soulful soft-jamming sextet with a mindful oscillation of instrumental emphasis, rolling through their ensemble with measured precision. I can’t help but believe, in some respects, they’ve attempted to reincarnate major Cobain themes into the folk-pop harmony-drone, drawing the aging grungers who left urban Seattle for Liliwaup and Gold Bar.  Lead vocalists, Josiah Johnson and Jonathan Russell, sing in the familiar style of the show-tune tempo’d Mumford and Sons forte-front man, Marcus, yet their music delivers a greater dynamic and appealing texture.

So too said the fans it seems. After forming, they settled into great (relative) success self-promoting ten-thousand copies of their debut eponymous album release in 2009. Since that release, they’ve grown with astoundingly invasive-grassroots velocity. They rolled through DayTrotter back in 2011 and have opened for a plethora of names I regularly see on appealing playlists and pandora stations.

Their album The Head and The Heart features a wide range of viable tunes, many already well regarded beyond this echo-chamber, including  Down In The ValleyLost in My Head, and six-year-old favorite Rivers and Roads. Have a listen and look for their newest offering, Let’s Be Still. Visit: The Head and The Heart 

*Special Concert Note: For those of you near PT-West, they’ll be at The Fox, in Oakland on December 5th of this year. Check ’em out.


Newton Faulkner: Gone In The Morning

My recent search for Sailing Naked turned up a great deal of porn.

I’d really really like that to be the extent of my post, but alas, this is about introducing a well known up-n-coming (or going); Newton Faulkner.

I’m have no evidence that he sails naked, nor endorses the hobby, but with a name like Newton, one would expect only fig leaves. (waka-waka-waka)

Faulkner is an amalgamation of music we’ve been listening to for the last decade-plus. With four Studio Albums between 2007 and 2013, Faulkner is the accumulation of many uneventful production exercises. His songs are wildly inconsistent, in the style of Creed-crappy, Dispatch-jazzy, chatty-beat-box-Maraz, Christian comfortable, and almost always lyrically-disappointing. I’m Not Giving Up Yet, is an unfortunate four minutes of trite soulfulness and 3rd grade insight and She’s Got The Time is an blatant rip off of a beloved retrospective childhood theme. Who knows, maybe the joke is on me, but as a SinoPopaphile I’m hard pressed to think my standards are too high.

Fortunately, between his 2007 album Hand Built By Robots and Studio Zoo (2013), Newton did produce at least one track worth it’s airplay. Gone In The Morning (2007), is a fun, uncomplicated tune that has the likable qualities necessary for success; including dynamic vocal trills, a catchy chorus, bright guitar, airy percussion, and periodic rhythmic disruption. The song doesn’t challenge the listener or Faulkners vocal range, or ask too much of the listening environment. It’s a play anytime, anywhere kind of song and it sets the bar appropriately low for Faulkner to achieve with grinning success.

Keep in mind, this listener is still not through the Faulkner collection. For the sake of Newtons street cred, I’ll be sure to deliver any exceptional updates as I hear them.

Visit Newton Faukner

Until then, enjoy 5 Tips For Naked Sailing:


September in Arivaca

The PaisleyTunes Desk is a nice looking cross hatch writing desk. It sits in front of a window that looks out across a garden onto a river (well, river levy – but we pretend like we’re in the reeds)

paisleytunes - desk

It’s at this desk that the PaisleyTunes Music Machine is oiled and fed, where the incessant paperwork is managed. Where we keep the official seal of approval for each post. This is desk is what truly keeps The PT running smoothly and our interns happy.

Sometime in July, whilst we were pondering a rising river and our imminent demise, the Westerly passed under our noses and let itself in.  At that moment an eire quite passed over PT West and the machine coasted to a standstill. Later, as we (& God) shuffled our feet and fired lightening bolts into one another, our pinky fingers gingerly turned the same record over and over again in amazement of the seemingly infinite number tracks on The Days of Future Past.  The calm eased our soul and brightened our spirits and we called each other on the telephone to talk about the great new sound on Our Children’s Children’s Children.  Content, the PT bureaucracy dried up.  It was not easy to perceive that there was something missing.


Papers piled and dust settled and we began to consume Italian coffee for no reason at all. The numbing sound of static pervaded every song we reviewed and our quieted discussion hammered out the legitimacy of physical sound and the artistic value of the 1/4 inch chip modifying both I Want To Hold Your Hand & Don’t Bother Me, by necessity.  Our sentences decreased in number as we consumed commas with fervor. Resolution was abundant.

At the time, it was unclear what instigated the change, perhaps the seasons, or the full moon. the harvesting and pickling of banana peppers, or the end of months of travel and tasks. The stark emptiness in our souls was staggering and the September arrived.

September holds a lot of value here at PT; It was the month The United States was given it’s name – The United States of America, the month the first glass plate photograph was taken by John Herschel, the month Texas lost 1/3 of it’s territory, and the month California joined the Union. So we often celebrate it with fan-fare. – Remarkably enough, the fan fare streams deeper into the PaisleyTunes past, as September also ushers the cooling of the desert.

September in Arivaca

[Arivaca] Van_BrianIt’s been three, maybe four months of harsh summer days in Arivaca.  The Monsoons are lingering and September means soon the days will be comfortable and cool. Where once there was an expansive emptiness, people return and we get to see friends again. The small coffee shop that serves hunters and the lost and wandering suddenly bursts with brew, pastries, and sound. Guitars, harmonicas, tambourines, saxophones, trumpets, percussion, hoots, hollers, and the inevitable applause for the encore. 3AM is too early to quit in September.

Soon it will be February in Arivaca, and a cold wind will pass through town, nights will creep up faster on the single street light and travelers will burden the highway. But today is September and it feels like Christmas in the abundant silver desert sage and creosote.

Celebrate with PaisleyTunes and Arivaca and listen to some good ol’ fashioned folks.

Enjoy Arivaca – Friday Night Group (<- download the Friday Night Recording)

Another New World – Josh Ritter

The fleeting Bostonian love affair, Ms. Annabel Lee.

In the same year Captian Schroeder arrived in San Francisco, California, Edgar Allen Poe penned his enchantment; a short note of love lost to the bitter cold reapers of a New England Nor-Easter. One-hundred sixty years later, long after Poe’s demise on the streets of Baltimore, the melancholy moon still holds the sea as the sea holds the clouds as the clouds hold the cold bitter wind and the bitter wind graces her sepulcher by the sea.
2,500 miles across two mountain ranges, where a Western wind harshens the soul, American singer song-writer, Josh Ritter of Moscow, took up the very same tragic love, sailing Annabel Lee into the ever-new world of the raging Arctic sea. Another New World bemoans the bitter-sweetness of eternal partners in love. Partners in the adventure, lost by the sea is lost to the sea becomes lost because of me and the survivor suffers the worser fate, drink and decline.

An Annabel LeeRitter’s sea-worthy adaptation on Poe, speaks to the eager helmsman and cautions of the risk in such an amorous endeavor of escape and truth, while simultaneously encouraging life lived in anticipation and hope. What’s more, to forever embrace her presence for she has found the New World, and it is the survivor who is lost.

Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea. – Poe

Another New World

Listen to the 2010 Josh Ritter Day Trotter Session

An Annabel Lee 2

The leading lights of the age all wondered among themselves what I would do next,
After all that I’d found, in my circles around the world, was there anything left?
“Gentlemen,” I said, “I’ve studied the maps, and if what I am thinking is right,
There’s another new world, at the top of the world, for whoever can break through the ice,”

I looked ’round the room, in that way I once had, and I saw that they wanted belief,
So I said, “All I’ve got are my guts and my God,” then I paused, “and the Annabel Lee.”
Oh, the Annabel Lee, I saw their eyes shine, the most beautiful ship in the sea,
My Nina, my Pinta, my Santa Maria, my beautiful Annabel Lee

That spring we set sail, and the crowd waved from shore, and on board the sailors waved caps,
But I’d never had family, just the Annabel Lee, so I never had cause to look back.
I just studied the charts, set the course north, and towards dark I drifted toward sleep,
And I dreamed of the fine, deep harbor I’d find past the ice, for my Annabel Lee.

After that it got colder, and the world got quiet. It was never quite day or quite night.
And the sea turned the color of sky turned the color of sea turned the color of ice.

After that all around us was vastness, one glassy desert of arsenic white,
And the waves that once lifted us, shifted instead into drifts against Annabel’s sides.
And the crew gathered closer, at first for the comfort, but each morning would bring a new set
Of tracks in the snow, leading over the edge of the world, til I was the only one left.

And as the going got slower, colder and colder, my crew drifted closer to me,
At first for the comfort, but then it was more like the icebergs rammed Annabel Lee
As the floes shrieked her hull, the shouting began, and a mast snapped off in the wind,
And I woke up much later, my crew disappeared, and they never were heard from again

After that it gets cloudy, but it feels like I laid there for days, or maybe for months
But Annabel held me, the two of us happy, just to think back on all we had done

I told her {We talked) of the other new worlds, we’d discover as she gave up her body to me.
As I chopped up her mainsail for timber, I told her of all that we still had to see.
As the ice {frost} turned her moorings to nine-tails and the wind lashed her sides in the cold,
I burned her to keep me alive every night in the loving embrace of her hold.

I can’t {won’t} call it rescue, what brought me back here to this old world to drink and decline,
Pretend that the search for another new world was well worth the burning of mine.

But sometimes at night, in my dreams, Comes the singing of some unheard tropical bird,
And I smile in my sleep, thinking Annabel Lee’s finally made it to the top of the world.

Yeah, sometimes at night in my dreams comes the singing of some unheard tropical bird,
And I smile in my sleep, thinking Annabel Lee’s finally found another new world. – Ritter

Sing the Songs Of Fabric

As PaisleyTunes celebrates it’s second year afloat in the great sea-net, we amazed to reflect on the community of readers we’ve built. Today, we’re happy to announce the unveiling of our True intent. The exploration of Fabric and design.

PaisleyTunes, was started as an opportunity for us to write about our love for the weaves and artful coloring within each thread. Imagine, with 220,320 inches of thread, how many nuanced modifications you could make to your average pair of jeans. Micro-paisley could dance across your fly, while polka-plaid could barber-pole each leg. In 3240 square inches of fabric are an infinite number of possibilities, and a lifetime of study.


Polka dots, originated in persia as a weapon against the invading Normans. The dots, often colored with the blood of the defeated, made the invading armies believe their opponents had already been injured and subdued. Combined with the artful ‘skip-advance,’ the Persian armies were able to swiftly defeat each battalion sent. Across Europe, they were known as tireless warriors who could fight and dance longer than the polka gypsies of the hills. It did not take long for the shops of London and Paris and their wealthy customers to adopt this styling, the Polka-Dot.

Concurrently, as the bourgeoisie was learning to love the Polka-dot, The Scots were furiously fighting for their king-rock (not to be confused with The Jesus and Mary Chain). This eternal in-fighting caused a great deal of death and destruction across the country, where many strong soldiers laid to rest away from their homes. Soldiers were often taken care of by the community in which they were killed and covered not by their own shrouds, but by that of the provence in which they had died. These burials were confusing to many, since they were not soldiers of the provence, but actually enemies. These burials were posted as a “provincial laying to rest” so morning could be appropriately managed by the community at large. Overtime, this tradition became a way of burying any stranger, rambler, or drifter who had died in a community and the coroner would request the weaver for the provincial liad cloth, quickly shortened to plaid. As with all cloths, once available en mas, it become style. This time, among the youth and rebellious.

How does a Scottish shroud fashion get mixed up with the high-fashion of the French-Persian Bourgeoisie? As one may expect, it only takes the impassioned love of a young-peddler and his foreign love-affair.

As these to fashions were at their height, the French had begun sending delegates to the many corners of the earth, developing what is now well regarded as a national state department. It took no less than a year for the French delegate to Scotland’s daughter to find love and marry while abroad. Fortunately, the Delegate was an understanding father and respected the work and tenacity of the young peddler and his undying love for the young woman and conceded not only to the marriage, but to the informality of a new family fabric, a blending of the designs in which the marriage was made, and so became Polka-Plaid – the design of an international union and symbol of global peace.

Talk To Me of Mendocino

I have a small vial of Persian water. It sits on my desk here at PaisleyTunes West. It was a gift from a holy man to my wife and I and it brings us peace of mind to feel like we can hold a brief second of such a powerful natural force; an exercise feasible without the small gold-hatted vial. What moves us to become religious, spiritual, reverent and conversely combative and self-righteous are the pieces of the world rushing by us, floating beyond us, and growing tall above us.

I think this notion is what drives us here at PaisleyTunes. The opportunity to give our readers depth of understanding and perspective is a challenge and a thrill and may amount, someday, to our very own musical poem. But until then, we’re challenged to filter through that which already exists and help it float to the top, foam on the waves.

Since the *temporary* schism of PT-Perspective in the last few years, PT-West has sought to better understand the depth of differences defining the beauty of the East and majesty of West, the nuance of our Southern deserts and linearity of the in-betweens. We seek out those who write for us, so it’s not this paragraph that tells it, but the blue link at the bottom.

Talk To Me Of Mendocino

Debuted on the 1975 album Kate and Anna McGarrigle, “Talk to me of Mendocino,” or simply “Mendocino,” embodies our search.

Kate, from Montreal, Canada and wife of Louden Wainwright III and mother of Rufus Wainwright, wrote the song in Ann Arbor, Michigan, telling of the trees of New York, the plains of the great basin, and the magnificent Rockies all within the context of California’s coastal redwoods.

Unlike my first impressions, this song isn’t about the Mason Jennings California, nor escapism or adventure. It’s about the eighth-ounce of water I have on my desk. It’s about the story of natural grandeur that fills out our dreams and memories and temporarily becomes our reality, thirty-five hundred miles away. Reminiscent of a Michener axiom, Kate sets you down in a land where only the rocks remain, where the sun sets on the ocean before it rises again over the redwoods, delivering you to Montalvo’s California.

Kate’s sounds encompassed the folk-rock of the 1970s, and while well known for her performances, her career was certainly driven by her writing and she and her sister enjoyed and suffered many demonstrations of ubiquitous song versioning.

In 1977 the English duo Julie Mairs & Chris Stowell grabbed the song for “Sea Soft Blue” (remade in 2004) absolutely drowning the song in the soft soft sea. Then, Tucson native and folk rock superstar Linda Ronstadt grabbed “Mendocino” for her 1982 Gold album, “Get Closer”, and the song experienced a renewed life.

While no other major artists ran the song with such powerful results as the McGarrigle and Ronstadt circuits, it enjoyed a healthy life nonetheless.

In 1980 Pricilla Herdman produced an terrifyingly operatic version. In July of 2004, the English mother daughter duo, Chris and Kellie White, performed the song on their eponymous album, belting the story through the speakers and undoing Kate, Anna and Linda’s vocal instrumentation. In 2007, John Howard‘s version, on his EP “The Bewlay Brothers,” was a mediocre demonstration of mediocre skills, to give accolades. In October of 2008, Liam Clancy, and his concertina, shanty’d the song. Sadly, as this author is a shanty enthusiast, the whisky sound was was diluted to island beer with Mary Black overlaid vocals, perhaps as a gesture to the soft landlubbers, whom ever they be. And in 2010, or close to it, New Yorker Cara Lane covered the song with an absolute lack of fanfare.

However, in 2011 a Minneapolis choral group recorded the song on a three track eponymous EP. Later that year, Nona Marie & The Choir, stopped at a barn in Iowa for a show, recording Menocino, among many others during this Barnstormer Session, with such success that they stopped by DayTrotter studios a few months later and shared once again. Their subtle, true-to-form styling of the song has given “Mendocino” yet another life into and through the neo-folk-old-furniture-barn-yard-thick-rimmed-glasses-hipster scene and it pleases me.

The Wolverines: What A Bloody Great Day To Go Sailing.

In the past 10,000 years what has Australia given us?

Well, my childhood best friend had an Australian father and we always put on his funny military uniforms. And did they manufacture those shoes I had that made me hate sitting ‘indian style’ at school presentations because they made my feet stick to the carpet? They gave us Men At Work and a few Mel Gibson films I enjoyed. About a year ago I was introduced to The Beards, hit “If Your Dad Doesn’t Have A Beard” (post-pending). I suppose they also help us identify where the Pacific Islands stop, otherwise I might think the big white one at the bottom was apart of The Archipelago. But other than that? What have they provided the universe?

Until recently, that answer was pretty concise, however as the world of sailing lands on our shores here in the US, I’m astonished to find they’ve been doing it too, and with a fervor that lambasts our trite dottaling about. Their appetite for the sea, while perhaps a bit stingy, has created a sizeable Bay Area economy this next year, but more importantly, especially here at PaisleyTunes, is Australia’s gift to the musical world of sailing.

Up until the last few decades, sea shanties were the musical outcast of society. Booted off the farm in search of true adventure, sailors had only the fair ears of mermaids and sirens to please, and as we Now Know, neither are as critical as they should be.  Alas, tall tall tales told through accordions, jugs and steins left much wanting.  A quick PaisleyTunes evaluation of competing sea-worthy styles showed that the Hawaiians choose a classically un-American pitch range while the Parrot-Heads sang lyrics with the complexity of a land-lubber, the reels and jigs from the North Islands required far too much talent, and everything else.. we just didn’t look at them. Until Today (err… yesterday).

During a routine SOS (Search on Sea-Shanties), using a conch-shell while aboard a small keel boat at an undisclosed location of the coast of California, PaisleyTunes intern #11 documented perpetual singing of what we’ve now identified as Australia’s first gift to man-kind; an appropriate sailing anthem, worthy of shanty-status, yet robust enough to be played among shore-folk. Today we present, The Wolverines, and their gift, “What A Bloody Great Day To Go Sailin’.”

The Wolverines are not as one may envision, with beards instead of claws, and do-rags plus aviators over their sun-baked skulls, they’re somewhat of an anomaly of rock that emerged some seven-thousand plus miles away from the Musical Center of the Universe, clamored to the top of the proverbial leaf of grass of the internet and floated on the wind to #11’s virgin shanty-sea-shell.  A singing man-band-trio, The Wolverines are Darcy Leyear on guitar, John Clinton on drums, and Chris Doyle on keyboards, this group has succeeded in crossing the ‘pacific-pond’ without changing their trousers.  Since releasing their first singe in 1994, they’ve manufactured eight albums, including a best of and remarkably, their sea-ditty was only recently released with the album, “Occasional Course Language” on January 3rd, 2011.

While much of America looks to Radio Gaga and many in this office monitor the Eastern AirwavesThe Wolverines are the answer to those left behind, alone with the fog, the wind, and the waves, master of no-one. What a great day, a bloody great day to go sailing.