Fly your willow branches
Wrap your body round my soul
Lay down your reeds and drums on my soft sheets
There are years behind us reaching
To the place where hearts are beating
And I know you’re the last true love I’ll ever meet
— Pappalardi/Collins
So, Merry Christmas, y’all. Strange holiday. Strange year. Strange brew – kill what’s inside of you.
And mad props to anyone who gets the reference attendant to the last of this Outlandish Trio. For the rest of you – the uninitiated, it’s a quote from a song by another triumvirate (a magnificent one at that): The Cream. But it was written by the husband/wife team of Felix Pappalardi and Gail Collins, who made beautiful music right up until the moment that the latter shot the former dead — for cheating on her ass.
For what it’s worth, writing songs (and producing records) for The Cream was actually a side gig for Felix, whose day job was bassist/vocalist for the splendid, under-appreciated ensemble: Mountain. My holiday edition goes out to them, because this past Tuesday, we lost their front man – fat Jew supershredder Leslie West (ne Weinstein). And, as a (formerly) fat, Jew (wannabe) super-shredder, it falls to my lot to remind everyone that his is at least the second demise of a fat, Jew super-shredder (the other one being Peter Green – ne Greenbaum) this godforsaken year.
Here’s hoping I’m not the third. Meantime, please join me in saying a brucha for my main man Leslie West, ne Weinstein – inarguably the greatest fat Jew super shredder of ‘em all.
There’s really not much more that needs to be said about him — other than what is captured in the hook line of his most famous song:
“While the rest of them dudes were getting their kicks, lord I beg your pardon I was getting mine”.
Indeed.
But our titular reference and quote derive from one of their lesser hits: the haunting, whimsically tragic Nantucket Sleighride. Written by Felix Pappalardi and Gail Collins. About a decade before the latter did the former, with a derringer which he had bought her as a gift, just a couple of miles from where I myself was at that very moment cooling my heels, in New York City.
Know, though, that the concept of a Nantucket sleighride dates back for centuries, as a “term of art” for the journey that occupants of a whaling ship typically take when under the conduction of a harpooned whale.
The most famous of these expeditions, of course, is that of the fictional Pequod, vessel of Melville’s “Moby Dick” — a trip that didn’t end too well.
Meantime, I stumbled upon the following old-timey picture of a Nantucket sleighride, which, in the spirit of the holiday season, I thought I’d share with y’all:
It looks pretty cool in this drawing, but I reckon it’s a different story on the quarterdeck. I mean, you got this enormous, wounded fish dragging you around the ocean for f%cks sake! And that is to say nothing of weather conditions, positioning of the masts, size of swells, and other factors.
Still and all, under certain circumstances, it might be an enjoyable ride. You just don’t know until it’s over. And I got to thinking about all this, in the wind-down of 2020, as an analogue to modern times.
Specifically, it strikes me that the world might be in the midst of an extended, unpleasant Nantucket sleighride. Carried forward through the tides by a harpooned whale, not knowing how, where, or when it ends. Work with me here on this one, OK? I’ve got a number of plausible angles.
The virus, for instance, is like the whale (only smaller), right? And maybe the vaccine is the harpoon.
Or, perhaps more precisely, it’s the global economic disruption catalyzed by the covid that is the whale, and the harpoon is the myriad, diverse Saint Vitus dances that we are doing to mitigate the damage. I ask you, if neither analogue floats your boat, to consider the following.
Covid didn’t kill the Rose Bowl this year. They’ll be playing it after all (Notre Dame vs. Clemson). But not in the Rose Bowl. Not even in the greater Pasadena area. Rather, the contest is to be held inside AT&T Stadium in Arlington, Texas.
So, from my vantage point, that we are currently being driven by forces seemingly beyond our control is not really up for dispute. Moreover, said forces appear to be both injured and angry. And the most we can do is hang on and hope for the best. Meanwhile, our good ship lurches forward into the seas of 2021, without much focus on direction, speed or ultimate destination. We do, however, enter these waters knowing a few things.
Market valuations are at or near all-time highs.
We’ve got some form of new government arriving from the visible horizon in approximately four weeks.
As everything shut down for Christmas, the United Kingdom managed to finally cut the cord from the leviathan corpus of Europe, and now can set its own course of affairs across the channel. Took 4.5 years to pull that off, though.
Biden was Vice President when the Brits first bounced into Brexit. Think about that.
But on these here shores, the images that come to mind are of multiple harpoon-stuck whales, pulling us in different directions across choppy waters — ones perhaps more appropriately illustrated by the following image than the one presented above:
Yup, that’s more like it. So, what to do? Well, I think that the biggest harpooned fish out there to guide us is economic stimulus – both fiscal and monetary. This force carries forward come what may. If you’re worried that it won’t materialize, set your mind at ease. The current impasse, after all, came about because Trump didn’t think it was a big enough handout. Once he’s gone, my belief is that we can anticipate a “see and raise”/Texas Hold ‘Em sequence of entitlements and giveaways sufficiently galactic to bring tears of joy to the heart of this fat Jew super-shredder himself.
I’m not sure it’s good economics (I’d rather see these resources applied to job creation and sustenance), but it’s good politics.
And, while I have my doubts as to how much succor it is to supply to the bandied about masses, it should propel further riches for the investment class.
Got a feeling 21 is gonna be a good year (especially if you and me, see it in together), but please bear in mind that even if it is, we will have gotten there by riding the whale.
Just like Ahab. Just like Ishmael: the only one to have survived the tale. The ride won’t last forever, and who emerges (and in what state) is unknowable at the moment. I advise you to stay cool (like Ishmael), keep your wits about you (unlike Ahab), and trust the rest in God.
And if you are jonesing for a Nantucket sleighride, I suggest you begin with the title track of the Mountain album bearing the same name. Think of Leslie. And Felix. And (if the spirit moves you) save a prayer for Gail. But if that doesn’t float your boat, I can only add the following.
The Pequod set sail from New Bedford, MA: a 3.5 hour ferry ride from Nantucket. One can always also, though, take a detour to Martha’s Vineyard. This, of course, is up to you.
My call would be to go with the flow, because you never know where it might take you, and what you might find when you get there. Who knows? Maybe I’ll even be there to greet you when you arrive.
Just please don’t ask me to go on a Nantucket sleighride, because, to that invite, I only have one answer.
I’m already on one.
And so are you.
TIMSHEL