Gary Sunshine “Beer, Picks & Old Records”

(-record review by General Labor)

“It’s when the woman of my dreams…oh my god, that’s the woman on the floor…” (-Jim Carroll)

I’m a diehard CIRCUS OF POWER super-fan. When Show-biz Al put his brown leather strides from the Motor video up for auction, I was asking myself if we really needed a car. They made anthemic classic rock for the sleazepunk generation. Their first record was perfect, in my book. Song for song, it was better than The Cult‘s “Electric”, Zodiac Mindwarp‘s “Tattooed Beat Messiah”, or Warrior Soul‘s first album. I loved every song, they inspired my smalltown friends and I to put together our first slapdash band of low budgeted, theatrical shock-rock, pancake makeup and black lacey glam, and cemetery loitering guttersnipes. We had a very short run as the flyover state people’s favorite makeup and leather wearing ghoulish garbagemen, but were banned from the bars for refusing to play Bon Jovi covers, so we busied ourselves throwing extravagant house parties and gigging at redneck hog roasts for overwhelmingly Republican bikers who never knew what to think about us, because while three of us could maybe even pass for bikers themselves all garbed as they were in the Mindwarp leather, and all our bodyguard roadies were very menacing and potentially dangerous motorcyclists; two of us were Nik Fiend and Lux Interior impersonator death rock drag queen, gawky androgynes that the Midwestern wrestling teams and preppies and dumbfuck rednecks all wanted to kill. We took many stabs at covering Circus Of Power tunes that always went over way better with the rowdy farm boys and aging VIet Nam vets that made up our core audience, than the Gun Club and Cramps tunes we also raved through, our originals were pretty dodgy back then. I mainly wrote many protest-songs primarily about how we should all have the right to wear blue lipstick and Aqua-Net in uptight church towns. No one outside of Lower Manhattan had ever heard of Rupaul back then, and the rural community suburbanites were furious over Annie Lennox and Dee Snider and Boy George. Circus Of Power were one of the only groups who ever made us mohawked gothniks, AC/DC hicks, and ridiculously safety pinned and fish-netted glam brats always pile into our desperately unreliable vehicles, paid for with Little Ceasar‘s pizza delivery tips and record store quarters to travel cross-country to see them, whenever they were in striking distance. We’d drive 12-15 hours on a school night! When Circus Of Power opened for the Ramones, we had to leave before the Ramones, to speed-demon our way back to Ohio to be at work in the morning, to pay rent on our tiny shoebox apartment, where we drank heavily, listened to records, wooed heavily hairsprayed women who liked The Cure, and dreamed of someday opening at the Lismar Lounge for our supreme metal gurus, Circus Of Power! They were all great guys, who wrote these beautiful and extraordinary, timeless songs about little witches and white trash queens, that connected with us, in a deeply personal way. Their All-American brand of greasy muscle car rocknroll was always equal parts Lower Eastside sleazepunk, heavy for your head ferociousness and Bowery hardcore matinee guts, but with a totally F.M. friendly, traditional pop songcraft sensibility, like Chuck Berry, Hank Williams Senior, and Creedence Clearwater Revival. When some fans put together a tribute cd to them some years ago, my hoodlum-thundering main henchman and I were crestfallen that our drummer was in the hoozgow, prohibiting us from contributing a track. No one thought to do the song we had picked-out, and hell, we ain’t dead quite yet, so I guess there’s even some faint hope that we might still record our version as a loving tribute to our Circus Of Power idols in the future. If we live long enough.

Former CIRCUS OF POWER guitarist, GARY SUNSHINE is a talented, thoughtful, observant storyteller with a very lovable and self-deprecating, bruised romantic, curmudgeonly personality. I can always relate to his hardluck stories and wry humor, we kind of have a similar worldview as weary, tired old fathers, who suck at lawn work. If you are a hardcore, signed on for life rocknroller-someone who’s been in bands, worked for years in dead-end record stores, had their heart broken by the business part of rocknrolll, or watched in horror these past thirty years as the billionaires bought up all the media to bamboozle us into okey-dokeying a police state and endless war, that constantly, abusively, bombards us with no-heart, push-button, advertisement-pop, and mindless consumerist lifestyle programming, his very humane and soulful songs will be of particular interest to you. He’s very eclectic and original, sixties soul, the blues, eighties college rock, heartland Americana, Wilco meets Tom Waits. A sensitive, smartass Dylan for aging gutterpunks. Bukowski as a pop star. He has so much genuine article heart, and an effortless ability to lyrically show you these sonic vignettes that are like little indie-films, the kind that don’t get made too often, anymore. He’s kinda like a novelist who plays really badass guitar. The modern lineup of Circus Of Power continues to churn out tremendously powerful, high-quality, socially conscious rocknroll motherfuckery, but there was something undeniably magical about that initial Alex, Gary, Ricky, Ryan, and Zowie lineup. Crooner Alex Mitchell‘s outstanding writing prowess, humor, charisma, nerve, and remarkable stage presence allows him to attract some of the best players in the rocknroll underground-people like cosmic space wizard, Billy Tsounis, but Gary Sunshine has surprised everyone with his own unique and distinctive solo songwriting, that has a really endearingly charming and down to Earth quality about it, much like Guy Clarke or John Prine, he has chosen the path of humility rather than the path of glory, and the fans have been clamoring for a new CD, so he has generously obliged us. Not everybody who watched Headbanger’s Ball or hungout at the Cat Club or Cathouse will probably like the worndown and torndown, astute voice of experience, it’s the lament of the everyday people, the working class nobodies-all us coffeehouse and truck stop loitering, haunted souls. A true confessions collection of wistful, heartfelt tunes about hangups and hangovers, endless and unstoppable grief, disappointment and regrets, lingering remnants and sad reminders of long gone dreams come true and the inevitably accompanying crash, out of proportion expectations, middle-aged uncertainty, screwtop convenience store wino poems, and a jumbled up clusterfuck, broken hearted, mental jigsaw puzzle of good times gone, scratched out year book pictures, souvenirs, half torn out stacks of stinky old rock magazines, empty cans, coffee cups, front porch rocking chairs, broken lawn mowers, and lost loves walking out the door, but I sure do. This disc is jammed with thoughtful prose and vivid emotions, sweetness and coolness and autumn time lamentations. I can strongly identify with Mister Sunshine-neither one of us are really the same skull ringed, all night rocker, highway storming, hedonistic hell raisers we once were, but people got used to that one dimensional cartoon idea they had of us from thirty years ago, so they seldom imagine the actual reality of either one of us wearing our kid’s construction paper and aluminum foil pirate hats while we vacuum the living room and do more laundry-the early wakeup calls and medications, feeding the cats and making more coffee, packing school lunches and muttering obscenities to ourselves while we step barefooted on little dinosaurs and Legos every morning. He always makes me feel better about my own confused and somewhat still pained and tortured awkward attempts at something like managing all these very demanding and stressful, taxing obligations and adult-hood responsibilities. I’m not very good at any of it. I got arthritis, bad eyesight, bad knees, and a mountain of persistently nagging memories and unresolved desires and torment and abandonment issues, while Gary always manages to find the comic divinity in all that stuff . The title track, “BEER, PICKS, AND OLD RECORDS” reminds me of America’s Greatest Unknown Songwriter: PAUL K. & THE PRAYERS, and if you know me at all, you know, how that is basically, my highest praise. “I should have gone to college, made something of myself…”, sings the guy who toured with Black Sabbath, starred for years on Headbanger’s Ball, played on Guns N Roses “Chinese Democracy” and taught Axl Rose how to play guitar. This is heart wrenching, feelings-charged stuff of intimate pain and pathos, that me and all my mortality-confronting, fifty-something, dishwasher amigos have all come to know too well. “Banging On My Head” talks about the accrued weight of one’s history, hijacked aspirations, unexpected forks in the road, when all your most cherished and beloved dreams are all casually shattered on the kitchen floor, betrayal, let-downs, failures, anxieties, coulda-beens, fuckups, and sadness. “But I Got My Feelings Hurt” is very sweet and countryish, Bob Stinson or Spencer P. Jones style, basement blues-imagine ole Izzy Stradlin jammin’ with Paul Westerberg and Dave Minehan on Mojo Nixon‘s Pabst patio. “Love Turns” is really deep and lovely, like all the best stuff by vintage Replacements. You can feel the acute agony and aching sincerity on this one, if you heard it drunk, it’d probably make you cry. “We Had Gold” is the kind of Tom Petty, Expensive Winos, Juju Hounds or early Soul Asylum type of rocker that all you leather jacket dudes from the heartland, showed up at the VFW Hall, hoping to hear. He’s so good, this one showcases his Stonesy, Georgia Sattelite style guitar heroics, it is both Cheap N Nasty. “Hell” is pained divorcee tears and longing, tenderness, debris, and helpless fixations, beautiful lyrics, beautiful music, he drinks a great big whiskey to us, anyways. “Some Days I Wanna Be Jimmy Page” is the Replacements for convalescent, elderly goths and fops and depressed old gutter dwellers and Motorcycle Boy fans, like cool you and me . “Your Beautiful Life” is a lot like the 500 songs I obsessively wrote when my ex wife ditched for a guy who wears khaki shorts, and my last of the last, lost-cause garage band broke up, again. It has a very down-home, Bob Seger, fireworks, donut shop, and bowling alley relatability to it. “She Hates The Blues”: I remember giving an unbelievably gorgeous woman a Sam Cooke record for Valentine’s Day, way back in my thirties, and her not being into it, at all. At all. Red flag! “All Hearts Break”…if you love PAUL K. & THE WEATHERMEN, even half as much as I do, Gary Sunshine writes songs in that same brittle, broken hearted, humble, ain’t got it all figured out yet, painfully honest, and sometimes irritable state of unrest and yearning and dawn’s early light introspection and hopeless melancholy, he has that very same kindred, tarnished, sad clown, survivor spirit. I’ll be playing this song many more times. I can feel it. “Three Good Tires” …Semi-reformed ex metal-heads, dropouts, castoffs, lost souls, over caffeinated, duty-bound ghosts procrastinating, and wrestling with neurotic outsider worry and dreading the two sink fulls of dirty dishes, afraid the school might call about Junior’s grades again, thinking about The Jesus & Mary Chain, struggling to get through another day. Beautiful losers, capitalist women who turned off all their feelings, smudged up sunglasses while driving at night with pilled-out companions, Leonard Cohen, Towns Van Zandt, Beat Angels, and the Gin Blossoms. He’s sort of like John Cougar with brains. “Young (Ain’t You A Rock & Roller)”. You know the vibe…more hangovers, hurts, Hollywood promises and blue valentines, empty cartons of Carling’s Black Label, ashtray butts, broken guitar strings, unopened stacks of bills, falling in love with the waitress again, all the girls who disappeared, all the innocent years of lighthearted debauchery and carefree tomfoolery and fun in the sun that ain’t never, never coming back, when every little bit hurts. Me, too, brother-me, too. Thanks for making this album.

http://garysunshinemusic.com/index.html

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Gary Sunshine (is one of Anguish Young’s favorite American artists…)

“It’s a disease. Nobody thinks or feels or cares any more; nobody gets excited or believes in anything except their own comfortable little God damn mediocrity.”

(-Richard Yates, Revolutionary Road)
“It is only the outcasts and the rebels who keep truth and intellectual inquiry alive. They alone name the crimes of the state. They alone give a voice to the victims of oppression. They alone ask the difficult questions. Most important, they expose the powerful, along with their liberal apologists, for what they are.”
(-Chris Hedges)
“We have picked a fight with the most powerful economic and political forces on the planet. That’s frightening. And as this movement grows from strength to strength, it will get more frightening. Always be aware that there will be a temptation to shift to smaller targets – like, say, the person sitting next to you at this meeting. After all, that is a battle that’s easier to win.Don’t give in to the temptation. I’m not saying don’t call each other on shit. But this time, let’s treat each other as if we plan to work side by side in struggle for many, many years to come. Because the task before will demand nothing less.Let’s treat this beautiful movement as if it is most important thing in the world. Because it is. It really is.”
 (-Naomi Klein)

“If you want to be a recognized, credible, card-carrying member of the national security community what you have to do is buy into the received truths of the establishment and continue to perpetuate that stuff, This is what I call civilian subjugation to the military. We face it in this administration, we faced it in the Clinton administration…we faced it in the Bush administration.”
(-Gregory D. Foster, a former Army officer and West Point graduate who now teaches national security studies at the National Defense University in Washington)
“The easiest way to gain control of the population is to carry out acts of terror. The public will clamor for such laws if the personal security is threatened.”
 ( – Joseph Stalin)
” ‘The lawyer for the American plaintiffs thinks Homeland Security is gearing up to make lots of arrests of U.S. citizens, in anticipation that Middle East protests will spread to American soil.’

It is not true that Barack Obama single-handedly destroyed the rule of law in the United States. The savaging of the Bill of Rights was, in effect, a tag team effort between Obama and his predecessor, George Bush, two presidents united in a single-minded quest to remove all barriers to the imprisonment, without trial or charge, of persons anywhere in the world, including U.S. citizens. George Bush did the initial groundwork, interpreting the 2001 congressional mandate to strike militarily against al-Qaida as giving the president the power to hold foreign prisoners without charge in Guantanamo, and, in theory, to treat American citizens the same way. But that was a stretch, and only a presidential opinion.

George Bush knew that it would be very difficult to get a preventive detention bill through Congress; Democrats would raise holy hell, and protesters would call for his head. But Barack Obama accomplished what Bush could not: On New Year’s Eve, Obama signed a preventive detention law as part of the National Defense Authorization Act. Under a Black Democrat, the rule of law ceased to exist within U.S. borders. Obama had already declared the rest of the planet a killing ground.

Then, back in August, a federal district judge in New York, Katherine Forrest, slapped a temporary restraining order on preventive detention, ruling on behalf of a group of activists and journalists who said the they could be thrown in prison permanently simply for speaking or writing about groups targeted by the United States. What, precisely and under the law, constituted providing “support” for al-Qaida or related groups? Obama’s Justice Department lawyers refused to say, claiming they had not thought the question through. Clearly, President Obama, like President Bush, wanted leeway to interpret the law any way he sees fit, so he can lock up whoever he wants, whenever he wants, for whatever reason, or for no stated reason at all. But Judge Forrest wasn’t having it. On September 12, she made her injunction permanent, ruling that Obama’s preventive detention law was unconstitutional.

Under a Black Democrat, the rule of law ceased to exist within U.S. borders.’

For less than a week, the Bill of Rights returned to U.S. soil. But, this past Monday, a federal appeals court judge put the Constitution back on hold, removing Judge Forrest’s injunction [9] on preventive detention. The entire three-judge appeals court will begin hearing the case on September 28. Obama’s lawyers say the government needs to be allowed to detain certain prisoners without charge or trial in Afghanistan [10]. But Bruce Afran, the lawyer for the American plaintiffs in the case, thinks Homeland Security is gearing up to make lots of arrests of U.S. citizens, in anticipation that Middle East protests will spread to American soil.

That’s the evil beauty of these Bush-Obama laws: they cut across international borders and render all the people’s of the world equal in one important respect: President Obama claims the right to kill each and every one of them, or lock them up forever, on his own say so. In that sense, Obama recognizes no legal difference between U.S. anti-war protestors and anonymous targets in Afghanistan, Pakistan, Yemen, or Somalia. All of our lives and freedom are subject to the whims of an American president.
(-Glen Ford; www.BlackAgendaReport.com)

“If you’re going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don’t even start. This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives and maybe even your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail. It could mean derision. It could mean mockery–isolation. Isolation is the gift. All the others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it. And, you’ll do it, despite rejection and the worst odds. And it will be better than anything else you can imagine. If you’re going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It’s the only good fight there is.”
(-Charles Bukowski)

“ME AND THE MOONLIT GHOST”…GARY SUNSHINE (is one of Anguish Young’s favorite American artists…)

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Well it ain’t gonna be easy to write that much about Mister Gary Sunshine, he ain’t what you call a real go getter when it comes to publicity and audacious self-promotion. He writes these songs, records ’em, throws ’em up on-line, and then it’s up to those of you who know how to burn C.D.s, or purchase downloads, or who have decent speakers on your computers, to figure out how to listen to ’em. Seldom have I seen a guitarist of Gary Sunshine’s stature become such a strong lyricist and singer/storyteller. His newer originals are reminiscent of Bruce Springsteen, Tom Waits, Neil Young, and Shane MacGowan. I saw Circus Of Power less than a dozen times, but they always blew our young minds with their swampy, blue collar motor rock, a greasy hybrid of MC5 dueling guitars, sixties blues, punk and hardcore, and Stonesy honky-tonk. They had one of the top ten singers of the hair-metal era, a Morrisonesque cosmic crooner by the name of Alex Mitchell, who was a soulful, baritoned poet-warrior, and two utterly badass guitar heroes, Gary Sunshine and Ricky Beck Mahler. My favorite line-up also included Ryan on drums and Zowie on bass. Their first album is better than the Cult’s “Sonic Temple” approximately as good as “Electric”, not quite as good as “Love”.

Only the Four Horsemen really rivaled Circus Of Power in their hell defying heyday. Yeah, Zodiac Mindwarp were fun, but they never had the humanity or soul of Circus Of Power. After a few solid major label albums and a live e.p., Circus broke up in L.A., and Gary went on to work with glam goddess, Brigitte West in NY Loose, he also did time with the Silos, managed an adult gift shop for Larry Flynt, and even worked with Axl Rose in Guns N Roses. I can’t tell you much about why they broke up, or what Gary’s been doing ever since then, because well. he’s just not a big chatty Cathy media whore, he’s a mystery man, a lone wolf, the enigma, but I can assure you he is not only one of the top guns of sleazy rocknroll, but he’s steadily evolved into a talented and prolific, cinematic songwriter at a breathtaking level. He’s an under-rated, detail oriented, yarn spinning artist like a John Fogerty, or Steve Earle, quietly crafting a wide body of songs, that leave corporate rock wankers and nostalgia circuit headbangers, in the dust. And he’s a Dad. You never hear his tunes and connect them to “Beavis & Butthead” or the Aqua Net era. His songs resonate with a world weary defeatism and sly charm like Charles Bukowski and Tom Waits.

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He’s definitely got a Mexican beer suppin’ beat-poet thing goin’ on. You ain’t the only one with the blues, kid. He’s cool like a Long Island ice tea. Circus Of Power have one of those extremely passionate, hardcore cult followings, with an unshakable devotion to that band, and I know many who were disappointed when Gary chose not to join the old gang for an anniversary reunion show some years back. You don’t have to abandon the dream of experiencing a genuine Circus Of Power reunion, to enjoy the contemporary works of wonder being constructed by the Circus alumni, for your listening pleasure, wolf brothers and moon sisters. If you’re familiar with Circus Of Power vocalist, Alex Mitchell’s sensational more recent works, with his various bands, Fat Nancy and Captain Zapped, and you hear Gary Sunshine’s solo music, you will inevitably be somewhat awed that these guys were so successful at merging their combined talents, for as long as they did. They’re both truly GREATS, in their own right. Yeah, Alex is my favorite hard rock vocalist besides oh, maybe Frank C. Starr (R.I.P.), Billy Idol, or Tex Perkins, as I have trouble fully connecting to whatever Ian Astbury sings about these days, but Captain Zapped provide all the crunchy kickass comicbook metal you’ve been missing since Iggy was screamin’ for “Power & Freedom”, and their freakolicious psychedelic biker punk is easily purchased online, and highly reccomended, but Mister Gary Sunshine’s moody music is equally as valid, it’s just coming from a less extroverted place. Gary’s like the quiet older cat you wanna be friends with at the bar, who rolls his eyes when you’re being loud in your pink shirt, cause he’s just not up for that much frat-boy buffoonery anymore; who is more serious and soft-spoken than you and your belligerent crew, and talks about old timey music and jazz and film and poetry and shit. Definitely a finger-poppin’ hepcat jazzbo bohemian dude but he ain’t no poseur beret, he’s one of those old-school NY downtown people. Only downtown ain’t downtown no more. So ya gotta go lookin’ for him on-line.

150971_10151313523122968_1336095605_nThe first song you’ll wanna dig into is about the Ramones and Sex Pistols. It’s called, “The Sex Pistols And The Ramones”. It’s so, so good. It’s subtitled “A Love Story”. It will remind you instantly of your punk rock past and the golden Converse wearin’ romance that never faded away. His music is real gutbucket, washboard, kitchen sink oriented and brimming over with beautiful losers and recidivists and drinkers and divorcees, Gary Sunshine’s tellin’ OUR stories, and the music is equal parts Lefty Frizell, Lightnin’ Hopkins, the Pogues, and Woody Guthrie. I mean you know how there’s that bigarsed Americana scene, supposedly? Rich guys who’s NPR listening ex girlfriend hipped them to Chris Isaak and Royal Crown Review And Wilco and now they think they’re countrified downhome cowpokes? How the “NO DEPRESSION” bunch has missed Gary Sunshine is startling to me. If you like shit like the Jayhawks and Creek Dippers and Lucinda Williams and all those Replacements and Uncle Tupelo influenced, “insurgent country” bands, Gary Sunshine eats most of those bands best stuff for breakfast, ya know I can imagine Sunshine up with the cockadoodle doo, on first watch, listening to Mingus and Monk on low, slicing home fries, brewing coffee, spreadin butter on stacks of salt risen toast. Stoppin’ now and then to write something down, or honk on a harmonica. Gary is one of the tens of thousands of artists and intellectuals sadly pushed out of Lower Manhattan by the ruthless forces of po-lice state, real-estate, and billionaire gentrification, but you can put him in the Delta, down on the farm, in some dumbfuck Monsanto cornfed Midwestern football town, and all his front porch narratives are still gonna flicker with that seventies Martin Scorsese vibe. Rain wet alleyways and steam from gutters, and shifty lookin’ fellas with ducktails and porkpies and and Donnie Brascoe jackets makin’ big plans in 70’s coffeeshops. There’s just something very NY about the guy. Even when he grows a Skid Roper beard, his dignified geezer music still throbs with a Shaft pulsebeat. He was there the day the Stones made their “Waitin’ On A Friend video”. He waited on Woody Allen, who was searchin’ for cool jazz at an old Manhattan record store. He thrilled rabid heavy metal audiences all through the late eighties and early nineties, with the best band around. He’s been around. He’s definitely kept his D.I.Y. sensibility, crankin’ out song after song, long after the music machine is gone, he’s doing it all himself, just for you and you and me. “Be Careful What You Are Whispering” could be a Guy Clarke or Steve Earle out-take.
554275_296219997118342_1051216709_n“Listening To Heavy Metal (Day After Day) reminds me of Paul K. & The Weathermen, or David Olney, or Chick Graning from Scarce, it’s effin’ genius, makes me wonder about my own mulleted, ole Gary Moore wannabe, stonewashed metal bro from way back, who joined the Marines and disappeared. It’s probably the best thing Sunshine could have done for his art-vanish into the flyover states and make Peter Laughner and Robert Johnson influenced punk rock in a squalid basement room with his two kids playin’ on the swingset in the backyard and a one eared bloodhound named Muddy, ’cause you know how every suck shit perm from the spandex era who was ever, ever on MTV in the middle of the night still gets to strut around like he’s Jimmy Page? Sunshine just cast off all that pretentious major label metal dude celebrity with a shrug, sure, he could be sittin’ on a barstool with Chris Holmes and Riki Rachtman right now, hittin’ on Bambi eyed strippers from Des Moines at the Rainbow Bar & Grill, but instead, he’s got a spiral notebook and he’s gonna use it, he’s puttin’ it down, like Dylan, and Townes Van Zandt. He’s writin’ about “Cheap Champagne & Angry Names” and “Gettin’ Used To The Finer Things”, and really stirrin’ up the beatnik ghosts. You remember that jazzy college radio band from the grunge era, Morphine? He’s got summa that in here, too. “You Made Me A Criminal”, “Did You Move To New Orleans Or Texas”, etc., etc., are the keenly observant musings of a deeply sensitive American songwriter who’s been payin’ attention, who’s gotten older with the scars to prove it, and who still likes the Clash. Here and there, summa that old risqué voodoo and brimstone from the Circus Of Power years, naturally, leaks into his acute folk songs. If you loved his old band, this is the sound of his bruised soul in middle age, and it’s not as energetic as the raging punkmetal of twenty-five years ago, but it’s full of insight and awareness, and still has all that emotional impact, it’s just the grownup side of life, like Kristofferson, Gary’s feelin’ mortal, and thinkin’ ’bout what’s most precious in his time. I love it. If ya see ‘im at the donut shop, tell him I said hi.

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LEAD ME AWAY FROM THIS BAR:

http://www.reverbnation.com/garysunshine

https://soundcloud.com/garysunshine/gettin-used-to-the-finer
http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/garysunshine

OH, BABY CAN’T YOU HEAR THE CALL OF THE WILD?

http://www.brasschecktv.com/videos/chris-hedges/the-people-in-power-are-not-our-friends.html

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