Number 213

Dogs

In 2008 the movie Marley & Me was released. It was based upon a similarly named memoir, written by John Grogan, that was published in 2005. At its start, our protagonist ("Me"),  adopts a mischievous puppy ("Marley"). The rest of the story is about dog-related hijinx, in which Marley endears himself to his human family despite the many exasperating moments that all dog owners - both fictional and real - completely understand. [Spoiler Alert] In the end, after a long doggy life, Marley is euthanized. I cried, and if you saw it, so did you. More about later.

A shockingly large number of people describe how betrayed they felt when the dog died at the end. "It was such a warm, fuzzy family movie, why did it have to end in such a depressing way?" is the gist of their complaints. Let me be frank: These people are idiots. Anyone who saw the movie with only a minimal understanding of its contents should have implicitly understood that the only honest way to end the movie was with Marley's death.

I love dogs. We have two of our own at home: Ginger and Max. I'm always down to pet any dog I encounter during my waking hours. I fancy myself a bit of a dog 'whisperer' actually - an empathic connection with humanity's best friends. They seem to get me, too, so a quick connection is usually established. If I ever won a huge sum of money in some sort of lottery, I would develop a dog sanctuary and spend my time with all the dogs. I don't hate cats, mind you - they're okay - but I love dogs.

So back to Marley for a second. Yes, it is incredibly sad when Marley dies at the end, but ultimately the entire movie is a beautiful encapsulation of what makes spending part of your life with a dog so wonderful. The expected life span of a dog is only a fraction of the expected life span of a human being. It is critical that anyone who contemplates incorporating a dog into their life understand this. At some point that dog is going to die and break your heart. That is how this equation almost always ends up balancing out, and you're a fool if you ignore it. But, Oh! the love and joy that dog will bring into your life while they're with you makes it all worthwhile. And their passing, as incredibly sad as it is - every single time - also informs us of how special life is. So yeah, the end of Marley and Me is sad, but it is also honest and life-affirming, too. My humble, yet resilient suggestion, is to refocus your attention on the parts of Marley's story that made you laugh, put a smile on your face, and made you fall in love with him in the first place.

Back to Ginger and Max.

Ginger is a mixed-breed dog. She looks like a cross between a golden retriever and a yellow lab. She is thirteen years old now, and the hair on her face and snout is mostly white nowadays. My two daughters and I brought her home one Saturday afternoon when she was about 4 months old. Emma picked her up when we came upon a pet adoption while running errands, and after about fifteen minutes of holding her it was all over. I warned my wife with a phone call that started "hypothetically speaking, what would you think if we brought home a puppy..." She was named "Ginger" by the folks at the animal shelter, and we all thought that was a pretty good name, so we kept it. She's an absolute love. Despite a need to bark incessantly at any doorbell or knock at the door, she has never behaved aggressively once in her life. After Rebecca died, despite her own sadness, she cared for Grace and me as we struggled to regain the equilibrium needed to move forward (Emma was away at college during this time). I remember how she used to rip through the off-leash portions of the dog park when she was young. A four-legged bottle of Jolt cola flying through the woods. She's slowed down a great deal since then, and her hips cause her discomfort, but she still tunnels herself between my legs whenever I greet her, inviting me to scratch her right above her tail - the place she loves best. The hair she leaves behind mid-leg on whatever I might be wearing a testament to her presence among us. A shot from the vet once a month keeps the pain in her hips under control. She has fewer days ahead of her than she does behind her, but what the heck, you can say the same thing about me. I have always held the strong belief that you don't keep your dog alive for your sake - you make end of life decisions based upon what is best for your dog. I already grieve for a moment I know is probably coming soon, but Ginger keeps telling me she's not yet ready every time we (still) play chase in the backyard.

Max is a mixed-breed question mark. Lab mixed with Pit mixed with Great Dane mixed with Dalmation, etc. I choose the name, based upon one of my favorite fictional characters - the Grinch's ever faithful and cheerful companion from the original animated special based upon the book by Dr. Suess. He will be seven on Halloween. He is, and I say this with no sense of insult or disparagement, very dumb. But he is utterly dedicated to his human family. He has a need to be constantly in our presence, snuggled up as close as he can be. He loves his pets and scratches. He is, by nature, not an aggressive dog, however, if he were a person he would probably be considered 'neuro-divergent.' He loves to play with other dogs, but he quickly becomes over-excited. The resulting behavior is, how shall we put it: "not acceptable dog park behavior." Poor Sweetie. As it is he loves to run and jump. Especially jump. That, and he tends to hop a lot.

Just now Max isn't feeling all that great. He stopped eating about six weeks ago. It coincided with a change in his kibble. When he stopped eating the new food, I figured he was just being stubborn, and that I could wait him out - eventually he'll get hungry and eat his new food when he realizes that's all there is. Nope. He stopped eating because something was wrong inside. I wish I could tell what it is, but I can't. The vet has eliminated many possibilities - including cancer, thank God, but we're still not sure. He's eaten just enough to keep going, but he has lost about 20% of his body weight since this all started. How this resolves I don't know. What I do know is that I was not planning on worrying about saying goodbye to Max so soon.

As I write this, I don't know how either dog will live out the rest of their days. That's the way life works. But I often see FB posts from people who eulogize their recently passed pets, and it always makes me think that I would prefer to tell the world how special my dogs are before they've left for the doggy afterlife where they get to chase slow squirrels all day long - and just to be clear, I have no interest in any human afterlife that doesn't include dogs. So that's what I've tried to do here. I love all dogs. I especially love Ginger and Max.

Number 212

 (no title)

Here is the perverse contradiction of my existence. As an introvert, I get my energy from being alone. I can be a part of a group, and enjoy the time spent thusly. But at some point, I'll need to isolate to recharge. So far, no problems, right? 

Let me continue.

My father left home in my early adolescence. Again, big whoop, that happens to a lot of kids. However, I was beginning to realize that I had some identity issues that were, shall we say, "out of the norm," that left me feeling shameful and guilty. My father's departure, which coincided with the development of these feelings, only served to reinforce the toxic feelings of worthlessness.

I stuffed these feelings down - as well as their source - as best I could. In many ways I did that successfully for almost 40 years. On the other hand, bollocks.

For almost the whole of my life I have felt myself to be a worthless. shameful, guilt-ridden sack of shit - all because I refused to examine and/or acknowledge the truth inside of me. I did fight the good fight. I fell in love and married a wonderful woman, and we were blessed with two beautiful children.

Finally, it was all too much, and at age 50, I faced the truth, and told the world I was a woman wrapped in the wrong packaging. In the years since then, I realized the things that I just wrote. However, realization does not necessarily solve the problem. I have lived with the hateful voices in my head constantly bombarding me with their negativity for so long I don't know how to turn them off.

Hence the perversion of the first paragraph.  These ugly feelings are relentless when I am by myself, but virtually disappear as soon as I begin interacting with others. But I prefer to be by myself than with a group of folks. Pretty fucked up, huh?

Right now the voices preaching self loathing are winning, slowly chipping away at my ability to project an image of normalcy to the rest of the world. I feel like I am collapsing in on myself. I feel lost and lonely.

 help.

Number 211

 Ranking Bruce Albums

So, no surprise, I have a couple of websites specializing in rock 'n' roll that I often visit. One of them put out their list ranking Bruce Springsteen albums. I don't want to suggest that their evaluator did a bad job, but, Lord! they didn't do a good job either. Hence the impetus to compile my own ranking. Once again, you can disagree with me, but you'd be wrong. I know my stuff when it comes to these things. Especially when they're Springsteen related.

A couple of things before getting started. While lyrics are always an important consideration when doing rankings like this, they are not my primary focus, especially with Bruce. Ever since I first fell in love with his music, the primary attraction has been one of 'feel.' His music connects with me on an emotional level, and when that connection is deep, as it often is, my reaction can be profound. His music touches my soul more often and harder than any other musician, with the possible exception of Van Morrison. But Bruce wins because he was there first, and Van has, despite his transcendent brilliance, released some really crappy albums (besides being problematic during the Covid-19 lockdown -  another story - back to Bruce).

To the rankings. I am only ranking Bruce's studio albums. Talking about recordings of Bruce and the E Street Band playing live is an entirely different beast that is beyond the parameters of this post. Suffice it to say that a discussion of Bruce Springsteen playing live is beyond the scope of my thesaurus's ability to describe "brilliant." I'm not including any compendiums of older music that was not released at its time of recording, nor am I considering his two career retrospectives, despite their inclusion of previously unreleased music. That leaves me with 21 albums released between 1972 and 2022. Onward.

21. Human Touch (1992): After the Tunnel of Love tour finished in 1989, Bruce felt both hemmed in and at loose ends. His solution was to dissolve the E Street Band and move to California, where he worked hard to come up with the songs on this album. On a personal front this was the beginning of his relationship with Patty Scialfa. A tortured artist in love is a dangerous thing. So too the production aesthetics of the late '80s and early '90s. This album contains Bruce's least consequential set of songs.  The biggest misstep of his entire career.

20. The Ghost of Tom Joad (1995): First things first: The live, 'electric' version of "Tom Joad" with 
Tom Morello is an effin' monster, but we'll get to that when we discuss High Hopes. I find this album an absolute slog. Lyrically, Bruce has written some powerful words about a variety of different disenfranchised people, so kudos to Bruce for shining a spotlight on these folks and their real life struggles. Too bad he chose to pair the words with the most boring musical arrangements of his career. I feel kinda bad ranking this album so low because of the palpable earnestness in his efforts, but this album could put even the most extreme insomniacs to sleep.

19. Only the Strong Survive (2022): A modestly compelling genre exercise. Bruce covering some less obvious soul and R&B songs from his past.

18. Devils & Dust (2005): Much of what I said about Tom Joad applies here. However the overall tone is less overwrought, and the tunes a little more hummable. The song "Devils & Dust," is one of his later career triumphs.

17. Western Stars (2019): Another modestly compelling genre exercise. Late 60's orchestral pop in the style of songwriter Jimmy Webb. This time the songs are his own.

16. Working on a Dream (2009): Welcome to Bruce's most schizophrenic album to date. There are a few really good songs here, but... Let's put it this way, on my Springsteen playlist, I have all the songs from all his albums - even the bad ones - and yes, Bruce has some stinkers out there - except for this one. I mean, what the hell is "Queen of the Supermarket" even doing here?

15. High Hopes (2014): This is an interesting album, with a recording history completely at odds with his normal operating procedures. Bruce had a small group of songs that had only ever been presented in a 'live' setting,  and he wanted to record definitive studio versions of them. So, on off days during a tour of Australia, he and the band, along with Tom Morello, went into the studio. I'm guessing the vibe was loose because they ended up with an album's worth of songs. Some of them are inconsequential, a few are really good, but two of them, "American Skin (41 Shots)," and "The Ghost of Tom Joad," are fucking brilliant. 

14. The Seeger Sessions (2006): Bruce having a blast singing traditional folk songs. It would be ranked higher except that from here on out we're dealing with albums full of honor roll material.

13. Greetings from Asbury Park, NJ (1972): It all started here. In 1972 Bruce signed a recording contract with Columbia Records as a solo artist - the E Street Band was still in the future. He looked scruffy and played an acoustic guitar. Surely he was the new Dylan. But wait, he was a seasoned barroom band leader who knew how to rock your socks off every Friday night. Greetings didn't really answer the question as it leaned in both directions - sometimes within the same song. There are a couple of dogs here, but in others, there are strong hints of the greatness that was just beyond his reach at this point. But as entry number 3 makes evidently clear, he was almost there.

12. Tunnel of Love (1987): The original list I mentioned above had Tunnel listed as their #1 album. I don't mean to be disrespectful, but I have no idea what they were thinking. This IS a very good album and "Brilliant Disguise," and "Tougher Than the Rest," are two of my all time favorites, but it's clear from the other songs that he was struggling with what to write or say after the insanity of the Born in the USA era, as well as the implosion of his first marriage.

11. Letter to You (2020): I dare you to create a soulful album that rocks this hard when you are 71 years old. The song "Ghosts," is an all-timer. Put that sucker on, and blow out your speakers.

10. Lucky Town (1992): Up above, I lambasted Human Touch at #21. Here's the rest of the story. He finally had that album in the can, ready for release, when inspiration set in and he quickly wrote a whole new batch of songs. As torturous as the recording process had been for Human Touch, this time the songs were recorded quickly, and with little fuss. Whadaya know? He had an entire album's worth of new songs. What to do? Well, the year before Guns 'n' Roses had released two albums on the same day, so why not give that a whirl? No, no, no, no, no. Human Touch was such a shit sandwich that it tainted everything in its vicinity. Which is a shame. If he had shelved that album like he should have, and only released Lucky Town, his reputation wouldn't have taken such a hit. The songs here are much more sincere and honest, and sound a hell of a lot more authentic than anything on Human Touch. If he'd had the E Street Band behind him (once again, as he should have), this might be regarded as one of his all time best.

9. The Rising (2002): Many of the songs here are are directly related to the 9/11 terrorist attacks. It's a very good album, with potential to be ranked higher, except that it suffers from a common disease of the CD era - too many songs. Still, the songs that work - "The Rising," "My City of Ruins," or "Into the Fire," for example - are amaze-balls.

8. Magic (2007): I like this album a lot. My two favorite tracks are "Girls in Their Summer Clothes," and "Your Own Worst Enemy" which have Bruce channeling Brian Wilson to great effect.

7. Wrecking Ball (2012): For the most part, my list doesn't differentiate from most critics' lists. Welcome to the big outlier (well, this and my opinion of Tunnel of Love). The challenge for most of his newer recordings is that they are compared against his earlier output that contain some of rock 'n' roll's most esteemed recordings. In other words, they have trouble elbowing their way to the front. Wrecking Ball is the exception to that rule. It contains songs of great depth paired with some of his most banging arrangements. Critics complain that his faux Irish accent on "Death to My Hometown" is hokey. So what - it flat out rocks. The anthemic "We Take Care of Our Own" will have you on your feet, fist in the air. The quieter songs are just as compelling. This is a late career triumph that almost equals the relentless impact of Darkness.

6. Born in the USA (1984): Bruce's biggest selling album by far, and I played the shit out of it when it first came out. Now days it's hard to evaluate it apart from the incredible hype that it generated. In retrospect there are two main issues with USA. One: the productions reeks of the worst of the 1980s - the sound is often too thin and trebly. And for God's sake, Roy (Bittan, one of Bruce's keyboardists), step away from the synthesizer. Please. Two: As evidenced by the high quality b-sides to the seven(!) top ten singles released from this album, he didn't choose the 12 best songs he had in the tank to be on the album.

5. Nebraska (1982): There is one reason Nebraska works where Tom Joad and Devils & Dust don't: intent. When Bruce recorded the songs for Nebraska, they were supposed to be rough demos of songs that he was going to take to the whole band to record. It was just him, an acoustic guitar and harmonica, and a four-track home recorder. Try as they might, the E Streeters couldn't match the sound Bruce heard in his head. Finally, he handed in the cassette tape to Columbia and said "release this." Nebraska works precisely because he was intending to make an E Street Band album out of these songs, but they ended up working best in their lo-fi, cheap aesthetic. The other two acoustic, solo recordings that didn't work were recorded professionally with a lot of care. The contrast between these two approaches makes all the difference in the world.

4. The River (1980): A perfect example of the 'sum of the whole being greater than its parts.' An eclectic masterpiece. The few slight songs sound good, the good songs sound great, and the great songs became all-timers.

3. The Wild, the Innocent, and the E Street Shuffle (1973): This is Bruce's second album, and it is probably the least 'Bruce' sounding album of all his releases. I discovered it after Born to Run and Darkness, so I was caught a little bit off guard. In fact, I'm still at a loss in describing it. From a production stand point, it's still a little rough around the edges, but all seven songs are wonderful in their own right. Side two is the best side of his entire career. "Incident on 57th Street," is a majestic masterpiece that flows seamlessly into "Rosalita" (yes, the perennial encore favorite). It all ends with the sublime glory of "New York City Serenade," his longest studio song at 10 minutes. Brilliant.

2. Darkness on the Edge of Town (1978): My introduction to Bruce. "Badlands" is the first song on side one. I've been hooked ever since. Bruce is correctly revered for his skill as a live performer and band leader. Among Bruce aficionados, the '78 tour in support of this album was Bruce and the band at their very best (and the source of my first Bruce bootleg!)

1. Born to Run (1975): Choosing between my top three albums is a little bit like choosing your favorite child. Born to Run comes out on top because every song works together as if telling one seamless story. It also includes my all time favorite Bruce song. No, it's not "She's the One," or "Backstreets." It's not "10th Avenue Freezeout," or "Jungleland," either. It must be the title track, right? Nope. Despite all those worthy contenders, Born to Run opens with "Thunder Road." Which is where, if you've been paying attention, I took the name for this blog.

                        "The screen door slams, as Mary's dress sways. Like a vision she dances across                                        the porch, as the radio plays..."

Number 210

Nora Is Sad In This One

Take one 

My father and I weren't particularly close, especially in my adult years. I don't mean to suggest that we were estranged - far from it. If either of us ever felt the need to get in touch with the other, that's what we'd do. All I mean to say is that we weren't particularly close, ya dig? There were a few different reasons for this. Probably a lot of you out there have similar relationships with a parent or two for exactly the same reasons, so there's no need to explore why. Besides, that's not what this post is about...

Perhaps I need a better start to this whole thing to correctly communicate what I'm trying to get at.

Take two

My dad died 7.5 years ago, and I miss the hell out of him. I can't tell you the number of times I've thought to myself how I'd love to talk with him only to remind myself that he's no longer here. Most of the time it's insignificant reasons that make me think about reaching out to him, but the reason doesn't really matter one way or the other, 'cause the ache I feel when I remember he's gone feels just the same.

I'm 58 years old, and I'm right on the cusp of being a person who begins attending funerals more often than weddings. It's put me into a contemplative mood, and caused me to reflect back on important folks in my life that are no longer with us. Is this overtly morbid? Perhaps. Am I intentionally trying to make myself miserable? Could be - I wouldn't put it past me. I mean, there's nothing about this that makes me feel good. But I think it's important to acknowledge sadness and/or its cause when it's at work on my psyche. In that spirit, it seemed appropriate to put these thoughts down into words.

Three-fourths of my grandparents were gone before I reached the age of 10. I've always lamented that my only memories of them are mere wisps with little substance. If there weren't a few photographs to jolt my memories, I wouldn't even have that much. So too, I never got to introduce my true self to my one grandparent who lived long into my adulthood. It was from her that I chose the name of Nora. I think she would have been pleased.

My Aunt Mary died much too young. You couldn't be with her and not have a smile on your face or a laugh on your lips. The irony was that her own life was a misery in which she felt trapped. A cancer diagnosis in her 40's provided an escape as the disease raced through her body in record time. I took my middle name from her. She deserved better.

I lost my Uncle Bill and Aunt Helen long before I understood their significance in my mother's life. 

You know when you meet someone, and you realize that they have a soul that shines out as if made of gold. That was my cousin Jan. A wasting dementia criminally claimed her way too fucking young.

After our parents divorced, my brother and I moved from Ohio to Connecticut with our mother. This move was not especially popular with either of us, but it was especially hard on my brother. He was going into his junior year of high school, he had good friends and was seriously crushing on the young woman he would one day marry, and he was shaping up to be one of the studs on the basketball team. Our mother had her reasons, but it was still a shitty deal for him. When the school year started, Scott and Michael befriended the new kid when no one else did. What I remember most was that they were the first friends of my brother to include me, too.

Huge games of RISK were a thing, and I was occasionally allowed to participate. There was only one directive. Scott, who was saddled with "Pugsley" as a nickname most of his life, was particularly skilled at the game, and wasn't shy about sharing that opinion with others - to the disgust of everyone at the table. "It doesn't matter if you win or lose, as long as you dick 'Pugsley,'" was the mantra on everyone's lips. Scott delighted in the abuse, and more often than not, still managed to win the game.

Michael became my brother's closest friend. As a result, he was around the rest of us quite a bit. It's no exaggeration when I tell you that he became a favorite of my mom, my sister, and me. He was a touch shy and very unassuming. It seemed he often came to pick up my brother as we were finishing dinner. "Michael! Come sit down and have a bite," we'd all say, genuinely glad to see him. He'd always say "no," and then after we pestered him a little more he'd agree to a glass of water. It became a running joke.

I'm not sure what exactly caused Scott's passing. He'd always been a bit heavy, but still, he died much too young. Michael, bless his soul, had a tremendous fear of hospitals and doctors all his life. He was only in his 40's when he began feeling poorly. Had he sought medical attention he'd probably still be with us. Alas, he did not. His phobic fear kept him from seeking treatment even though he knew he should. His passing hurt all of us hard, especially my brother.

My nephew Eric was 32 when he died of an overdose. Whether it was accidental or purposeful no one knows, but he was all alone when it happened. There are many of us who continue to second guess ourselves when it comes to Eric, but... You know what, the whole thing just fucking sucks.

There are many others. Of course there are. Part of living is learning how to live in a place where death exists. I've been told that death is the reason that life is so special. Still, there are many others I miss, with individual stories of what made them special. When I married Rebecca, I won the in-law 'lottery.' Mary and Joe were both one of a kind, wonderful people. The extravagant way they welcomed me into their family continues to be a joy in my life.

Then there are the loved ones who, though they are still alive, are no longer in my life. A busted engagement in my early 20s to a person I still think of with tremendous fondness. A pastor or two who moved on to new horizons. Friends from Connecticut I lost contact with when we moved to Maine. Friends from Maine I lost when we moved to Minnesota. A friendship of almost 40 years recently imploded in what feels like the blink of an eye, leaving me to wonder I'll ever be able to gather with other college friends again. There is a lot of pain when I think of all these people.

Rebecca died a little over eight years ago. "Time heals all wounds," the saying goes. If so, I'm still waiting. I could try to explain how much I miss her by using a lot of adverbs and adjectives, but no. I miss her. And it still hurts.

Epilogue

Am I wallowing in self-pity or completing a necessary catharsis exercise? I honestly don't know. I know my depression leaves me open to existing on a plane of perpetual sadness (which is, quite honestly, exhausting). I spend a lot of time by myself which often lets my mind wander into unhelpful areas like regret, shame, and guilt. Which is another way of saying that the subject of this essay is never far from my mind, so that writing about it is just an extension my usual thought process. 

I haven't yet decided if I'm going to click the 'publish' button yet, but I probably will. I'm usually too impressed with my own writing to not want to share it with y'all. But I'm still struggling with what purpose publishing it will serve other than some sort of literary mental masturbation.

I don't know. Maybe it serves as a cautionary tale. You know, "Don't be too sad about death or you'll end of like Nora." Maybe I'm trying to normalize grief. Let the world know that it's okay to be sad about the folks we've lost. Or maybe I just want you to know how much I hurt.

Number 209

 The 9 Best Southern Rock Bands: A List by Nora

Defining "Southern" rock was my first challenge. Of course I already had a general sense of both the 'sound' and the bands I would be encountering, but I felt the need to quantify what that meant. I decided (for reasons both lazy and aesthetic), to keep my definition simple: Rock 'n' roll music that incorporated both country and blues influences. There also needed to be a strong American pedigree to the band's music: a feeling that "Only bands from the U.S. sound like this." It didn't hurt if the band had a little swing in their music, too, as the ability 'jam' on longer songs is also a hallmark of this genre (for instance, songs marked with 'fb' indicate a particular band's attempt at a "Free Bird" type anthem). The next step was to choose and rank-order the bands. Some of the comments that follow may seem dismissive, but I enjoy the music of all these bands - take everything I say with a grain of salt. So here we go. 

9.     The Outlaws Probably the most generic band on this list. They recorded a kick ass version of "Ghost Riders in the Sky." "Green Grass & High Tides(fb)"is their best song.

8. Blackfoot: Their guitarist and main songwriter is Rickey Medlocke. He was in a very early version of Skynyrd before forming this band. Of all these bands, they are the least 'southern' with a sound more akin to 'hard' rock. "Fly Away," "Train, Train" (with a jamming harmonica prelude), and "Highway Song (fb)" are songs worth checking out.

7. Molly Hatchet: No offense intended but the best way to describe this band is Lynyrd Skynyrd, Jr. The biggest difference is the lack of keyboards which rendered their sound a little more one dimensional. Still, songs like "Gator Country," "Flirtin' with Disaster," "The Rambler (fb)," and "Dreams I'll Never See," are worth checking out.

6. Charlie Daniels Band: "Uneasy Rider," "Long Haired Country Band," "Legend of Wooley Swamp," and, of course, "The Devil Went Down to Georgia." Of all these bands, they probably had the most swing, with several songs bordering on jazz.

5. Gov't Mule: Southern rock's Phish. Check out "Soulshine" and a whole bunch of cover versions of songs you love.

4.    The Marshall Tucker Band They lose points because their music lacks a necessary aggression that the two higher ranked bands have. "Heard It In a Love Song," "Can't You See," and "Take the Highway (fb)" are all good examples of their sound.

3. .38 Special: "Hold on Loosely," "Caught Up in You," "Rockin' Into the Night," "Chain Lightnin'," and "If I'd Been the One," are all good songs to check out.

And now we arrive at the essential debate. Skynyrd or the Allmans? There's really no wrong answer (and for the record, I'm talking about pre-crash Skynyrd). For me, this is what it came down to. While Lynyrd Skynyrd has probably influenced more southern rock bands than the Allman Brothers., I believe that the Allman Brothers have probably been a bigger influence on rock 'n' roll as a whole. I'm not going to bother listing songs for either band because, what's the point. You probably know them all anyway, and if you don't, what are you waiting for?

2. Lynyrd Skynyrd

1. The Allman Brothers Band

Originally, I had twelve bands listed, but I ended up pulling three of them - The Black Crowes, ZZ Top and Creedence Clearwater Revival - off the list. All three have a strong 'southern' sound and/or identity, but I finally decided there was something about each band that precluded identifying them as southern rock bands. That said, if they were included, they all would have ranked pretty high. And finally, if you disagree with me, that's fine, make your own list. You'd be wrong, but that's your perogative.