Murphy's Irish Stout

It frees the memories from their locked-away spaces.

Yep - it be frozen at the moment and I had to squeeze it outta the can, but it worked out in a wonderful, semi-frozen way.  It's all good.

When I was around 12, my older brother was around 17.  He had barely tolerated me for most of our lives at that point.  He was meant to be an only child, and I was meant to be, well, I don't have a clue about that aspect of life.

Anyway, we lived in a 3-story house in NE Kansas City, when the area was still heavily mafia-controlled.  My brother's room was the only room on the third floor except for part of the attic.  That attic later proved to be a prime location in which to ferment wine using the recipe from my high school's fund-raiser cookbook.  It was literally the first recipe in the book.  It produced a wine which was absolutely aweful tasting, but had an alcohol content somewhere around 25%, I'd guess.  We used to drink it out of pickle jars while we walked to school and we'd be shitfaced drunk by the time we got there. 

OK - off topic.  It's the Murphy's.

So - my brother had a small collection of record albums and a tiny little mono record player.  I had a yellow AM transistor radio.  I would listen to the top 40 countdown on Friday nights on WHB and write down all the songs in order on my Suzie Smart chalkboard.   

My brother made a major concession in his life and allowed me to listen to his record collection when he wasn't home.  He had Dylan's Bringing It All Back Home, the Stone's For Our Satanic Magesty's Request and an album by Tim Harden that had a song called Simple Sing Of Freedom.  He had a couple of older Dylan albums, and the Beatle's Yesterday and Today with the original butcher block cover.  Everything else was Elvis, but he was old fogey music by then.  

Excuse me - I need to grab another semi-frozen Murphy's.

OK - all is well.

As the years have passed, I'd have to say that Blood On The Tracks is my favorite, but Bringing It All Back Home is a masterwork and I'd fist-fight anyone who wanted to disagree with me on that point.  I listened to it for hours on end.  I took it's little snippets of references, such as the one regarding Machiavelli's The Prince, and went to the library and read it.  The hand-made blade, the child's balloon, eclipses both the sun and moon, him not busy being born is busy dying.  It's allright ma - it's life and life only.  

As a child, I was a mere brain, trapped inside a hideous facade that needed frequent exorcisms by evangelical tent revival faith healers.  But Dylan - he laid my facade aside and spoke directly into my cerebral cortex.  I later expounded his relevations to my brother, who came home drunk with a small handgun tucked into a shoulder holster.  I'm serious that the neighborhood was rugged back then.   

He allowed me to continue listening to his record collection while he was gone, but he started asking for my opinion about the meaning of various semi-cryptic turns of phrase.  Cryptic and me were good buds by then.  My brain, being the totality of my existence.  I could most certainly figure that s**t out.  What else was I to do with my time?  Kids on the block would cross the street to avoid me.  Others would beat the s**t out of me regularly because I was an easy target and submissive.  I preferred to stay inside, preferably on the third floor listening to my brother's records.

My brother's opinion of me changed.  Yeah, I was still an ugly sumbitch that he didn't want to be seen with in public, but in the privacy of his third floor bedroom, I was perhaps an autistic savant in the musical arena.  I had been playing the piano for half my life by then, all classical.  How could Chopin compete with Dylan?  And many years later, how could he complete with the Moody Blues?  Well, Chopin competed admirably - still does.  There's more than plenty of room for all and always will be.  It's a never-ending procession of ecstasy, and if I can roll around in it, it's hog heaven. 

I blew my chance at classical music fame because the brain and the physical sphere never did mix too well.  I always expected to disappoint, and I lived up to my expectations.  My former music teacher was disgusted with me when I blew a performance at the Little Theatre in Kansas City, and I met her disappointment with a couple of slit wrists.  I decided to go back to Dylan. 

My brother, though.  He never again thought of me as that pain in the a*s little sister who was forced upon him as an afterthought.  He came to terms with the fact that some folks are tremendously beautiful to behold, and others, who possess none of that beauty, have a different gift that can turn out to be worthwhile. 

I still discuss music with my brother, who is a closeted master poet.  He works for the railroad and owns a comic book store.  He shares his poetic gift with me from time to time - it's our secret as adults.