On Halftime
According to Stereogum, the number two google search in the aftermath of the Superbowl halftime show was Tom Petty's age. The answer is 57. But if you are like me, the question that immediately emerged was: "Holy shit! Who was the 5th Traveling Wilburry?" Now, for Pat Hall and I, a quick rattling-off of the Wilburys is a traditional late night sobriety test. Since it was nothing like late night, and I was reasonably sober, this sudden gap in my recollection was obviously troubling. So I called Patty , who must have sensed the panic in my voice when I blurted out, in lieu of a hello, "Holy shit! I can't remember the 5th Traveling Wilburry!"
Quoth Mr. Hall: "Jeff Lynne."
Here is what I love about Patty: Technically, either Bob Dylan or Tom Petty himself should be considered the 5th WIlbury, but he knew instinctively that I would be considering them in terms of their general fame, and since, unlike me, he avoids the pedantic, he skipped right to the marrow.
So then I was just left with the distressing notion that of all the Traveling Ws to forget I had spaced on Mr. ELO. Its always a shock to be faced with the immensity of ones own lameness laid bare. I mean, couldn't it have been Bob Dylan of George Harrison? They always struck me as the more unlikely of the bunch.
So, as penance, and in an attempt to begin the long slow process of rebuilding my shattered self-image, the 4th floor of the Washington Post, at least the portion of it defined by my headphones, will be rocking out to the sounds of the Orchestra of Electric Light for the rest of the day.
Quoth Mr. Hall: "Jeff Lynne."
Here is what I love about Patty: Technically, either Bob Dylan or Tom Petty himself should be considered the 5th WIlbury, but he knew instinctively that I would be considering them in terms of their general fame, and since, unlike me, he avoids the pedantic, he skipped right to the marrow.
So then I was just left with the distressing notion that of all the Traveling Ws to forget I had spaced on Mr. ELO. Its always a shock to be faced with the immensity of ones own lameness laid bare. I mean, couldn't it have been Bob Dylan of George Harrison? They always struck me as the more unlikely of the bunch.
So, as penance, and in an attempt to begin the long slow process of rebuilding my shattered self-image, the 4th floor of the Washington Post, at least the portion of it defined by my headphones, will be rocking out to the sounds of the Orchestra of Electric Light for the rest of the day.