songs for broken hearts, no. 27

Years before he became the desperado under the eaves, Warren Zevon had a patchy if also fascinating career that included being one half of the Sonny and Cher inspired outfit, Lyme and Cybelle, and a stint as the keyboard player for the Everly Brothers. My obsession with Zevon stems from his embodiment of the lurid glow of 70s Los Angeles. It's a persona that's right in my wheelhouse, as they say in baseball, so much so that I based one of the characters in my 'novel' on him. None of Zevon's records are perfect, but each has at least two or three must-have songs. He is an extremely gifted songwriter, as you'll hear in tonight's song, a tight little number he penned and gave to the Turtles in the glorious summer of '66, the very peak of human civilization. What I find particularly striking about the song, aside from the its proto-power pop punchiness, is the image it conveys of a man who carries his misanthropic dissociation like a badge of honor. Stone walls surround me, I'm surprised that you even found me. I wouldn't necessarily say these are good words to live by, but it's impossible for me to avoid identifying with them at the moment...