Aretha Out, Neil Young In

I've never understood the fascination with Neil Young. He can turn a man into a love-struck boy. When they hear his clear high pitch, they're lured as though by the pied piper, by promises of immortality and eternal boyhood that instead end up in a coke-hole. He even kind of looks like a child-molester, now that I think of it. And there's his last name. Its not just eternal boyhood these boys desire, but sexy eternal boyhood, like that of Legalas the Elf. Neil Young is not even sexy to women, I don't think, but he is to men.

I don't want to argue about the eminence of Neil Young. I know I'm a blogger and all, but this doesn't mean I know everything (I'm sorry to break it to you this way); a lot of the time, all I have is my opinion and the means to spin it. But since I have the floor here, let me say, replacing Aretha with Neil Young is like ravaging the garden of delight to clear space for a scare-crow. You can't argue with Aretha. All one has to do is say her (first) name, and everybody gets quiet. She's the embodiment of strong, reaching womanhood to Young's frail, lonesome ingenuousness.

Aretha reneged on her plan to perform this Jazz Fest because she's tired. Sometimes a matriarch has to hold her place and call the children to gather round.