What A Fool Believes.And Michael McDonald
Without Prejudice
There are some songs that are just so apt with the lyrics, like
" What A Fool Believes "
Or the Singer has the most fantastic voice it doesn't matter how many times you hear it you will always turn it up. " just Play It Loud, Ok! "
What a fool believes by The Doobie Brothers is just one of those Songs. Their group name meaning a marijuana cigarette, a " Doobie ". The song about a deluded man who fancies a Woman and seems to have no idea that she doesn't fancy him in the slightest way and never has. It not only has great lyrics bit Michael McDonald's voice always raises the hairs on my arms.
I grew up with a Muso Father.
Jackie And Dad entertaining On The Ellenis, Dad with his Hawaiian Guitar
He would create awful puns based on Songs, just he so could sing them and sometimes deliberately off key. He did an excruciating baritone, based on some weird Opera Singer. The first song he taught all his seven kids was " Horsey, Horsey " as in " Horsey Horsey, don't you stop, just keep on going clippety clop,"
it was English, it was easy to learn for little kids and he would listen with one ear checking out who could sing on key and who couldn't. I was crap.
But in the old Humber Super Snipe or Vanguard we would all sing as we traversed the back blocks of N.S.W, Queensland, and Victoria, killing boredom and learning new songs. Dad always sang. We learned the songs of Australia, The Dog Sat On The Tucker Box, Kookaburra Sirs On The Old Gum Tree, sang in the round until we shouted each other down.
The Great American Railway, She'll Be Coming Round The Mountain, Clementine, Take Me Back To To The Black Hills. We learned language skills, we learned rhythm and timing and we learned to sing. It killed the boredom and fights that came with long car trips and stopped us from saying,
" Are we there yet ?"
Warm lemonade, Devon and tomato sauce sandwiches, flooded creeks, Mum clinging to the door handle and console, both of them chain smoking, with little regard to their kids tender lungs. We never had a say in packing up and leaving towns, sometimes in the middle of the night, sometimes at 4am in the morning, fleeing bills, debt collectors and boring country towns.
But to have a Muso as a Dad was just the most enormous thing. Music was the thing that washed the dust from our souls. We were our own little glee club. We sang hymns after Church on Sunday's. Jackie pitch perfect with a gutsy voice. We sang when we washed, dried and put away the dishes.
At first it was Perry Como, Patsy Cline, Tennessee Ernie Ford, we were catching falling stars. Every Sunday afternoon Dad rehearsed. He played a 24 string hawaiian guitar on a timber frame and silver legs. He was good. Music was his dream and coach building, panel beating, spray painting was his trade. He could make that guitar sing, soar to great heights. In The Mood, The Hawaian War Chant were standards.
My Mother preferred he keep his feet on the ground instead of his head in the clouds but Music was his grand passion.
An old fiancé said to me once my Dad had left me with a rare and special gift. My appreciation of Music. All my siblings are the same we may be older now but we still head bang to The Angels when together. And we still sing. Take These Chains, Someday, and beside us in memory and love is Dad, nudging us and saying,
" Listen To this bit "
Closing his eyes in ecstasy and forcing us to do the same.
I married, was engaged to and lived with Men who didn't sing or even swim. Another talent my Dad taught us. I married, was engaged to and lived with men that resembled my Mother. Well they do say you marry one of your parents. She was troubled, war damaged, violent at times, damaged and maybe with the men I was trying to " fix " them.
I should have married someone like my Dad. He was Harry Secombe, Spike Milligan, Peter Sellers rolled into one. He was patient, kind and understanding, had no bother telling us he loved us and was proud of us. He wore pith helmets to make us laugh. Told fractured fairy tales, like Little Red Hooding Ride, The Three Pittle Ligs so we would laugh and correct him.
He was a Music Agent on The Gold Coast and we met the Brothers Gibb before they were the Bee Gees, he was famous for knocking back the Beatles, not his decision and took us to see Louis Armstrong, Roy Orbison. When he died he wanted Elvis as his last song. " you were always on my mind "
So when I hear Michael McDonald singing, " What A Fool Believes " I am in ecstasy, hearing that voice, applauding that talent, appreciating the guts and verve it takes to get up in front of an audience and sing your heart out. I heard the best voices start young, singing Gospel. Trained voice boxes. Didn't work for me but did for my Sister. She does Little Miss Dynamite, Brenda Lee like nobody else.
What A Fool Believes reminds me of every situation I have been in when a man believes that if he adores you, you will adore him right back. The dinners I have choked down ready to flee. The sloppy wet kiss on your cheek as you make a hasty exit. The arrogance and folly. I have slapped many a face of a man that makes a drunken pass.
I once worked with a Man who was elderly, aristocratic, bigoted, and sexist, married. When we went on the Xmas Party on a boat in the Yarda, he grabbed me, told me he had always fancied me and begged me to meet up with him behind his wife's back. I was on a boat ! If I could have jumped off right then and there I would have. I could have swum to shore easily.
As I gazed up at his yellowing mustache and similar coloured teeth braying with food stuck in them I was appalled. His wife stood ten feet from us. The last time I had an encounter with him it was over aborigines and he was yelling at me. Called me Little Girl. I told him he was a racist. Not exactly pleasant and he was an old family friend of the Big Boss. A retired accountant, he was, who came in once a week to do the books.
He always acted like he hated me. Now he was leering at me like a shark about to have lunch. I told him off, said your wife is over there. He said,
" I don't care, I could set you up in a little place and I could come and visit "
I hummed in anxiety and managed to escape his sweaty clutching at my hand, pretended I was not feeling well. I escaped to the lower deck by way of a winding staircase and felt my leg being caressed as I took the last big step. My immediate Boss, Joey, also married, was stroking my leg as he was listening in on a conversation with the CEO.
I escaped to the roof, sat with some youngsters looking up at the stars and contemplated jumping off, the water would be cold but would be better than the overheated atmosphere of the bar downstairs. I stayed there until the party was over. Ran the gangplank and dock at the end, High heels in hand and heart thumping and reached the sanctuary of my little Laser and drove home as if the Devil himself was on my heels.
One thing my Dad had not taught me was the wickedness of some Men.
Nette x
There are some songs that are just so apt with the lyrics, like
" What A Fool Believes "
Or the Singer has the most fantastic voice it doesn't matter how many times you hear it you will always turn it up. " just Play It Loud, Ok! "
What a fool believes by The Doobie Brothers is just one of those Songs. Their group name meaning a marijuana cigarette, a " Doobie ". The song about a deluded man who fancies a Woman and seems to have no idea that she doesn't fancy him in the slightest way and never has. It not only has great lyrics bit Michael McDonald's voice always raises the hairs on my arms.
I grew up with a Muso Father.
Dad and my siblings, Ian, Jackie, James ( Dec) and George in his arms. In Edinburgh, I had just been born
it was English, it was easy to learn for little kids and he would listen with one ear checking out who could sing on key and who couldn't. I was crap.
But in the old Humber Super Snipe or Vanguard we would all sing as we traversed the back blocks of N.S.W, Queensland, and Victoria, killing boredom and learning new songs. Dad always sang. We learned the songs of Australia, The Dog Sat On The Tucker Box, Kookaburra Sirs On The Old Gum Tree, sang in the round until we shouted each other down.
The Great American Railway, She'll Be Coming Round The Mountain, Clementine, Take Me Back To To The Black Hills. We learned language skills, we learned rhythm and timing and we learned to sing. It killed the boredom and fights that came with long car trips and stopped us from saying,
" Are we there yet ?"
Warm lemonade, Devon and tomato sauce sandwiches, flooded creeks, Mum clinging to the door handle and console, both of them chain smoking, with little regard to their kids tender lungs. We never had a say in packing up and leaving towns, sometimes in the middle of the night, sometimes at 4am in the morning, fleeing bills, debt collectors and boring country towns.
But to have a Muso as a Dad was just the most enormous thing. Music was the thing that washed the dust from our souls. We were our own little glee club. We sang hymns after Church on Sunday's. Jackie pitch perfect with a gutsy voice. We sang when we washed, dried and put away the dishes.
At first it was Perry Como, Patsy Cline, Tennessee Ernie Ford, we were catching falling stars. Every Sunday afternoon Dad rehearsed. He played a 24 string hawaiian guitar on a timber frame and silver legs. He was good. Music was his dream and coach building, panel beating, spray painting was his trade. He could make that guitar sing, soar to great heights. In The Mood, The Hawaian War Chant were standards.
My Mother preferred he keep his feet on the ground instead of his head in the clouds but Music was his grand passion.
An old fiancé said to me once my Dad had left me with a rare and special gift. My appreciation of Music. All my siblings are the same we may be older now but we still head bang to The Angels when together. And we still sing. Take These Chains, Someday, and beside us in memory and love is Dad, nudging us and saying,
" Listen To this bit "
Closing his eyes in ecstasy and forcing us to do the same.
I married, was engaged to and lived with Men who didn't sing or even swim. Another talent my Dad taught us. I married, was engaged to and lived with men that resembled my Mother. Well they do say you marry one of your parents. She was troubled, war damaged, violent at times, damaged and maybe with the men I was trying to " fix " them.
I should have married someone like my Dad. He was Harry Secombe, Spike Milligan, Peter Sellers rolled into one. He was patient, kind and understanding, had no bother telling us he loved us and was proud of us. He wore pith helmets to make us laugh. Told fractured fairy tales, like Little Red Hooding Ride, The Three Pittle Ligs so we would laugh and correct him.
He was a Music Agent on The Gold Coast and we met the Brothers Gibb before they were the Bee Gees, he was famous for knocking back the Beatles, not his decision and took us to see Louis Armstrong, Roy Orbison. When he died he wanted Elvis as his last song. " you were always on my mind "
So when I hear Michael McDonald singing, " What A Fool Believes " I am in ecstasy, hearing that voice, applauding that talent, appreciating the guts and verve it takes to get up in front of an audience and sing your heart out. I heard the best voices start young, singing Gospel. Trained voice boxes. Didn't work for me but did for my Sister. She does Little Miss Dynamite, Brenda Lee like nobody else.
What A Fool Believes reminds me of every situation I have been in when a man believes that if he adores you, you will adore him right back. The dinners I have choked down ready to flee. The sloppy wet kiss on your cheek as you make a hasty exit. The arrogance and folly. I have slapped many a face of a man that makes a drunken pass.
I once worked with a Man who was elderly, aristocratic, bigoted, and sexist, married. When we went on the Xmas Party on a boat in the Yarda, he grabbed me, told me he had always fancied me and begged me to meet up with him behind his wife's back. I was on a boat ! If I could have jumped off right then and there I would have. I could have swum to shore easily.
As I gazed up at his yellowing mustache and similar coloured teeth braying with food stuck in them I was appalled. His wife stood ten feet from us. The last time I had an encounter with him it was over aborigines and he was yelling at me. Called me Little Girl. I told him he was a racist. Not exactly pleasant and he was an old family friend of the Big Boss. A retired accountant, he was, who came in once a week to do the books.
He always acted like he hated me. Now he was leering at me like a shark about to have lunch. I told him off, said your wife is over there. He said,
" I don't care, I could set you up in a little place and I could come and visit "
I hummed in anxiety and managed to escape his sweaty clutching at my hand, pretended I was not feeling well. I escaped to the lower deck by way of a winding staircase and felt my leg being caressed as I took the last big step. My immediate Boss, Joey, also married, was stroking my leg as he was listening in on a conversation with the CEO.
I escaped to the roof, sat with some youngsters looking up at the stars and contemplated jumping off, the water would be cold but would be better than the overheated atmosphere of the bar downstairs. I stayed there until the party was over. Ran the gangplank and dock at the end, High heels in hand and heart thumping and reached the sanctuary of my little Laser and drove home as if the Devil himself was on my heels.
One thing my Dad had not taught me was the wickedness of some Men.
Nette x
