False starts

cbI was going to write up a long-ish essay on the #TakeAKnee protests in the NFL and elsewhere this weekend, but my day is incredibly busy and I’ll have to find time on another day for a deep dive like that.

Needless to say, I fully support nonviolent resistance to our country’s racist and xenophobic leadership.

And then, of course, I wanted to write about that very leadership’s stance toward Puerto Rico, an unincorporated U.S. territory now facing a nearly boundless humanitarian crisis in the wake of Hurricane Maria. I’ll have a piece in Scene this week, co-written with my colleague, but there’s much more to say on all that, and I’ll get around to writing something more in-depth on the Puerto Rican plight (and some of my own goals intersecting with the same).

Needless to say, I fully support Americans of all stripes getting involved — even if that only means reading up on the history of the island and engaging your federal representation to get help to those millions of people.

And then, naturally, I had said that I’d write about Exile on Main Street today as a sort of “part one” to what might be an ongoing series about specific albums and how they shape my life.

Needless to say, I’ll get to that later, too, and for now mention only that Exile is an amazing album that I’ve enjoyed keeping front and center in my world for the past seven days. I’ve had “Sweet Black Angel” stuck in my head for most of that time.

I’ve got to get back to my day here, so I’ll leave you with this: Charles Bradley died on Saturday. He was an amazing and supremely talented musician, and I feel so lucky to have seen him perform at Beachland Ballroom a few years ago. Here is one of his finest songs, and I’m sure it couldn’t possibly be more timely.

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