In October 2025, Angelenos marked the 50th anniversary of Elton John’s two-night stand at Dodger Stadium. Elton’s inspired performances mesmerized his fans, while newspapers splashed photos of his dazzling Dodger-blue-and-white sequined costume worldwide. As we head over the crest of another twenty-first century decade, it’s easy for us aging boomers to bemoan the swift passage of days, the lack of affordable entertainment, and the loss of radio stations and record stores, as well as long for the simplicity of earlier times. But we must also appreciate the present age. We live in an era where we can summon instant concert videos on demand, download thousands of songs on hand-held devices at a cheap price, and enjoy plush venues headlined by artists of every stripe.
For example, as I’m chomping on a banana at breakfast, I can view one of Paul McCartney’s shows as he wends his way across the USA on his Got Back tour. Who would’ve ever thought we could watch a concert from hundreds or thousands of miles away on our screens within hours, basically for free? I never dreamed I could sit comfortably at my kitchen table, rub the sleep out of my eyes, and watch 8,000 people singing “Hey Jude” from the night before, in high fidelity and HD. Honestly, it might be better than driving in traffic, fighting the crowds in and out, and paying a thousand bucks for a decent seat.
A couple of hours later, when I go out for a run, I can bring along 19,318 songs in 216.33 GB, which is what the Settings app says I’ve got loaded on my phone. It’s like having Tower Records in your back pocket, for ten dollars a month, without being forced to interact with the long-haired clerk with the bad attitude who always knew more than you. Yes, I miss the exciting excursions down lively aisles packed with albums. I lament that there’s no liner notes, that we can’t tell who’s playing on tracks, and that lyrics aren’t printed on sleeves. But those facts are a mere Google search away. Overall, it’s not a bad trade.
Likewise, I could write a book about the concerts at the Fabulous Forum back in what we older folks call “The Day.” Actually, I did. It’s called Welcome to Fabulous Angeles: The Rock ’n’ Roll Adventures of a Wayward Westside Teen and was released on October 21, 2025.
Reality Check: The user experience at the Forum was far less than fabulous. The sound was crackly, harsh, and distant, and if you sat too close to the stage your ears got blown to smithereens. Worse, tobacco smoke permeated the air, firecrackers threatened your safety, and there were no video screens. Concession lines were lengthy, and in the few bathrooms you found, the floors were always—at every show—flooded. From the time Staples Center opened in 1999 to the present day, we’ve been the beneficiary of major architectural upgrades. The prices may shoot through the hundred-million-dollar roof, but at least you can hear, see, and sit comfortably.
We now live in the luxury box age, where premium seating comes with in-house TV, food, and drinks. SoFi Stadium’s YouTube Theater may appear gray and plain, but this summer’s Counting Crows concert boasted clear sight lines and sparkling sonics. The best acoustics, however, belong to the Sphere in Las Vegas. The classic Eagles melodies felt tangible, close, and personal, like a warm embrace, and didn’t leak arena-type reverb or latency. It felt like I was wearing a large set of headphones with cushy padding.
I can’t deny that the decades fell fast and find it hard to believe we’re blazing through the ’20s. But in these strange days, instead of listening to DJs on staticky airwaves, I can dial in a hundred SiriusXM stations. I remember when I bought the mountable hardware for my car in 2005 and discovered the smorgasbord of tunes on satellite radio. I was excited beyond belief. All this content for ten bucks a month? You must be kidding. I found excuses to take long drives to listen to a service I couldn’t imagine would ever exist. Over the years they’ve added every live MLB, NFL, and NBA game played, as well as numerous national new channels. Is that such a terrible change? I’d call it a vast improvement in variety, range, and auditory quality.
So instead of glamorizing antediluvian rites, why not be grateful for the rapid development of technology that we’ve been lucky enough to witness in our lifetimes?
Thankfully, the man who sang “I’m Still Standing” stayed true to his word. Elton John may have concluded his goodbye tour in 2023, but in May 2025 he headlined another SoCal baseball stadium, Petco Park in San Diego. How do I know?
Because I watched it on YouTube the next day.
For free!
In the early ’70s, when smog saturated the new skyscrapers in LA, hope and faith hung in the haze. The filthy air expelled by autos and factories created spectacular sunsets at the beach, paradoxically. Longhairs wore Nehru jackets, tie-dyed shirts, and hippie beads, while a sense of adventure wafted in the Venice boardwalk’s breeze. Our generation wouldn’t submit to the slaughter like our parents and capitulate to that static reality. We’d make sure our grasp wouldn’t restrain our reach.
The rebellion manifested in more than wardrobe. Cultural movements and mold-breaking music propelled many to burn their bras, three-piece suits, and draft cards. Young adults found a fondness for Eastern mysticism and philosophy. Meditation, incense, and candles served as amulets for an updated worldview. We could fly like NASA into outer space or contemplate our navels and travel inward. Our mission? To “be here now,” as articulated in the book by that name written by the bearded LSD advocate Richard Alpert, known internationally as Ram Dass. The prevailing sentiment among those under thirty? We occupy this body only for a short time, let’s evolve on the soul level and expand our minds to the benefit of all humankind.
I blinked a couple of times and 2025 arrived. Which made me wonder: in the decades that followed the revolution of the spirit that defined the ’60s and ’70s, how did our society succumb to unadulterated narcissistic greed? Why did heartfelt promises of peace and love turn into a vast income disparity, where gluttonous businessmen pocket gazillions of dollars while hundreds of thousands of disenfranchised citizens starve on the streets? How did civil rights become the enemy and wicked white supremacy turn friendly and mainstream? When did our longing for awakening and healing shatter into broken dreams?
I’m not a social scientist, nor am I qualified to opine, but I’ve got some simplistic ruminations on a complicated concept. Talk is cheap. It’s easy to say you want change. Doing the work is another story. The owners of this country killed the education system and medicated us via TV so we’d lose our capacity to critically think. Trillions of dollars of advertising promoted diseases with fancy acronyms, cured only by the prescription drugs that we were instructed to “ask your doctor” to procure for our anguished needs. Fake images aroused our pleasure centers until we surrendered to superficial images of success. It’s not a surprise that we now sink in a cesspool of social media in a dystopian post-truth age.
Somewhere in the mid-’70s, our country took a wrong turn. In the ’80s, the government withdrew social programs and passed legislation that ensured the masses stayed underpaid. It’s hard to serve the community when you’ve got a family to feed on a minimum wage. We got too beaten down to care about anyone else or better ourselves with a good read. People didn’t develop spiritually. We succumbed to materialism because our priorities became misplaced. We didn’t follow the road map of the righteous: obey the golden rule, do good deeds, give to the less fortunate, meditate, pray, and strengthen your muscles of faith. We forgot we’re divine beings on a magical journey to higher consciousness. We worshipped hedonism, the golden calf of our day. All told, we sold our souls—on the cheap. We got lost in a house of mirrors built by those who laughed all the way to their safety deposit boxes and CDs.
I don’t pretend to offer rare insight. I’m as guilty as the next person. I spent those decades chasing fun and games. I justified my spiritual truancy by believing that beer and pot were sacred tools of artistry. I wrote songs but also manufactured misery through dry heaves, headaches, anxiety, bad romance, and an arrest for drunk driving. I blamed it on William Blake: “The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.” That proverb contains a pebble of truth, but it’s not a reliable strategy. No one gave me a handbook or a step-by-step guide on maturity, and I would’ve used it as an ashtray if they had.
Alas, my marriage at age thirty-four and subsequent birth of my children delivered a higher calling that transcended my zeal for charades on this revolving mortal stage. Kids learn by what you do more than what you say. Thus I chose to stay honest, reveal my real feelings, and be present in the here-now for early mornings and late nights, for their highs and lows, and for when they shared their special truths. I also tried to emphasize peace and love like in the ’60s and ’70s. We’re all marooned on earth’s surface, so it makes sense to lend a helping hand, work hard, and then go sing and play. Be yourself, build boundaries, but try to make the world a better place. Sometimes it’s as simple as taking out the trash before someone asks, showing up on time for your family, putting that damn shopping cart back where it belongs, or letting a stranger go in front of you in line at the store.
What do you think? Where exactly did we go wrong, collectively and individually? Why did the ’60s and ’70s descend into decades of broken dreams?
Please post your thoughts.
Our city has accommodated many cultures over a long period of time. Eight thousand years ago, indigenous tribes populated the basin. In 1542, Portuguese explorer Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo became the first European to discover the benefits of life in LA. In 1769, a Spanish expedition led by Gaspar de Portolá unearthed a hospitable place to plant their stake. One of the members of the Portolá group, Father Juan Crespi, kept a diary, preserved for posterity. On August 1, 1769, Father Crespi wrote:
This day was one of rest, for the purpose of exploring, and especially to celebrate the jubilee of Our Lady of Los Angeles de Porciúncula.
The next day, Father Crespi added:
We halted not very far from the river, which we named Porciúncula. . . . This plain where the river runs . . . has good land for planting all kinds of grain and seeds, and is the most suitable site of all that we have seen for a mission.
Little did any of them know that, in a mere century or two, millions of folks would follow in their footsteps by relocating to what Father Crespi called a most “delightful place.”
Twelve years later, forty-four settlers known as Los Pobladores built a village on the banks of the Porciúncula. Shortly thereafter, Governor Felipe de Neve named the town after the stream: El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de Los Angeles del Rio de Porciúncula. That’s how we got the official date of LA’s founding: September 4, 1781. But we should remember that the restless water body for which the city got named claimed its own nombre from the “jubilee of Our Lady of Los Angeles de Porciúncula”—which sounds like a party to me.
So I must ask: why don’t we celebrate our birthday every year on September 4? Break out the bands, cake, hats, and dancing. After all, we’re the freaking Entertainment Capital of the World. We don’t need a good excuse to indulge in a feast.
Disclaimer: I’m willing to set aside my rage at the systematic torture of our ancestors that was committed by many of these barbaric religious zealots but only for the purpose of honoring September 4. That’s because I don’t know another way to ascertain our birthday. To be clear, in no uncertain terms do I condone the cruelty that was inflicted on the innocent citizens whose only sin was lacking the means to resist a sophisticated European war machine.
In fact, I’ve found a way to turn this sordid history on its ugly face: the General Assembly of the United Nations recently designated September 5, 2025, the anniversary of the death of Mother Teresa (1997), as its International Day of Charity. Next year, on the day after LA’s birthday, it intends to recognize “the role of charity in alleviating humanitarian crises and human suffering . . . as well as of the efforts of charitable organizations and individuals.”
That provides a perfect opportunity to spread joy and peace. Every penny of profit for our party should go toward reparations for past despicable deeds. The entire exercise can serve as a way to make amends. Let trendsetting LA lead the way to global healing.
Who’s with me? I hereby give fair warning: September 4, 2025, is LA’s 244th birthday. Let the games begin—we’ll work our way up to number 250 in 2031 and see if the idea grows legs. Maybe we can promote our cause during the Summer Olympics when they arrive in July 2028.
Any party planners out there? Where should we hold the 2025 event? Who should entertain? What food should we serve? How about style, decorations, themes?
We’ve got plenty of time to make this celebration a positive step forward for past, present, and future dwellers of this fertile city of festivities.
Please post your ideas.
My wife likes to listen to sleep stories on the Calm app, which serve only to keep me awake. They’re circuitous nonsensical blatherings, but she drops right off the cliff into dreamland. They work for her, as she reminds me every time I complain, precisely because they’re nonsensical. I prefer the Coast to Coast app, where I can listen to the old Art Bell radio show taken over by George Noory more than twenty years ago. Yes, it’s an excursion into an antiscience reality, but I ignore the alien talk and concentrate on anything resembling spirituality. It’s also nonsense most of the time, but I feel like I might learn something. All of which proves that one person’s lullaby is another person’s cacophony.
This blog post acts as the first volley in an intractable battle of taste. I know it’s absurd to pigeonhole art into neat little boxes and force them to compete. It’s apples, oranges, pandas, and orangutans, but it can be a fun diversion, undertaken with the caveat that it’s doomed from the start. Any top ten list will be defective by virtue of its limits of perspective, comparison, and space. However, I believe there’s value in seeing how other members of this community perceive the works that reflect and expand our understanding of the world and ourselves.
I thought this disclaimer would set me free, but another hurdle arose: if I compiled a traditional top ten list of albums, I’d pick two by the Beatles, two by the Stones, two by the Who, two by Led Zeppelin, two by Pink Floyd, and then, sorry friends, we’re out of time. No room for any albums from the ’90s let alone the 2000s and after. Not to mention the unconscionable omission of Bob Dylan, David Bowie, Bruce Springsteen, and many others. The better idea? To exclude the usual suspects and post only discs that once moved—and still get to—me.
So with that piece of housekeeping out of the way, here’s the first edition of the Fabulous Angeles Not Quite Top Fifteen Albums List, because I couldn’t stop myself when I got to ten. In a complete cop-out, I’ve listed them alphabetically:
- Jeff Beck with the Jan Hammer Group, Live
Why: Innovative interplay of guitar and synch. Favorite Track: “Blue Wind.” - David Bowie, Diamond Dogs
Why: Powerful concept album with weighty themes. Favorite Track: “Sweet Thing.”
- Jackson Browne, Late for the Sky
Why: Dark and moody but also crisp and bright. Favorite Track: “The Road and the Sky.”
- Crosby, Stills & Nash, CSN
Why: Songwriting, harmonies, and musicianship. Favorite Track: Every single one.
- John Mellencamp, The Lonesome Jubilee
Why: Gritty sentiments with heartland warmth. Favorite Track: “We Are the People.”
- Graham Parker, Squeezing Out Sparks
Why: Excellent singing, lyrics, and pop melodies.Favorite Track: “Nobody Hurts You.” - Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, Long after Dark
Why: Brilliant writing, singing, and playing. Favorite Track: Every single one. - The Pretenders, Pretenders II
Why: One of the all-time hardest-rocking albums with sweetness on the side. Favorite Track: “The Adultress.” - R.E.M., Life’s Rich Pageant
Why: Authentic evolution of early jingly-jangly rock. Favorite Track: “Cuyahoga.”
- Linda Ronstadt, Hasten Down the Wind
Why: Masterful selection of songs belted with soul and taste. Favorite Track: “Someone to Lay Down beside Me.” - Bruce Springsteen, The Rising
Why: Thick layers of deep emotion that perfectly capture 9/11 NYC trauma and recovery. Favorite Track: “The Fuse.” - Steely Dan, Katy Lied
Why: Unparalleled ambiance, attitude, composition, performance, and production. Favorite Track: “Any World (That I’m Welcome To).” - Rod Stewart, Every Picture Tells a Story
Why: Simplicity, cushy acoustic guitars, and vocals extraordinaire. Favorite Track: “(Find a) Reason to Believe.” - Stephen Stills, Manassas
Why: Unmatched blend of rock, folk, blues, and country. Twenty-one songs, of which at least nineteen are sublime. Do yourself a favor and dig out this underrated classic. Favorite Track: “It Doesn’t Matter.” - Jethro Tull, Aqualung
Why: Wisdom, and humor, driven by vibrant vocals and superb songwriting, from strong acoustic ballads to straightforward rockers. Favorite Track: “Wond’ring Aloud”
What did I unjustifiably deify, or what’s missing? What would never make a regular top ten (or fifteen) list but, in the name of cultural significance, personal impact, or unadulterated beauty, should be cited anyway? Yes, in some ways it’s a silly parlor game. Maybe it’s nonsense—but with meaning.
Please post the reasons you agree or, if you don’t, feel free to enlighten me.
I can’t definitively explain why the masses besmirch LA. Personally, I think it’s based on jealousy. I envision cold-climate easterners, huddled in heavy blankets in front of their TVs watching a Sofi Stadium football game, wishing they, too, could bask in the warmth of the winter sun’s rays. Let’s face it, not every city boasts a majestic mountain range, white sand beaches, world-class entertainment, and pretty people from all over the globe. We’re an easy target.
It’s common to bash LA and call it “La-La Land” as if people here carry as much substance as a superficial ditty, the “Do Wah Diddy Diddy” of metropolitan America. Need I remind the public that some of the world’s greatest scientific discoveries—from astronomy to computer technology—came out of LA? That the concept of suburbia was invented in LA? That Los Angeles has always been home to spiritual seekers of all faiths? If shallow people live here, they probably moved from another place.
In days ahead, I’m sure to continue this analysis on why LA gets short shrift from intellectual, academic, and athletic quarters, but for now I’d like to ask a question: Why did you stay in LA? Family, friends, employment? The climate, sports, concerts? Did you ever try to or actually leave, and are you happy you stayed?
Let’s see where this informal survey takes us. Please post your sentiments, answering some, all, or none of the above questions. I look forward to finding out the reasons you ended up in LA.
Together we can learn about our city, our culture, and ourselves.
Time, a complicated concept, defies explanation. We can define it, categorize it, and break it down into miniscule pieces. We can amuse and confuse ourselves with mental gymnastics, employ scientific analysis, and pretend our ability to measure it is synonymous with understanding it. But our limited minds can’t expand enough to fully grasp its meaning.
We pretend time is linear, though we know it bends. We treat it like a stream, but it often feels like a wide, deep lake. We could spend years studying quantum mechanics, philosophy, and spirituality and leave with more questions than when we came.
Since it’s impossible to process with our limited brains, let’s turn to the arts. Music, perhaps better than anything, possesses the power to point past the stars into the true nature of our beings. We can’t reduce it to a formula or ascribe it to reason or rationality, but we feel a sublime knowingness when we resonate with the sound of universal truth.
What do the lyrics of the rock canon from the last sixty years tell us about the illusion of time? What songs helped you make peace with this unfathomable construct? Consider this a jumping-off point. Maybe we can untangle the crossed wires of creation to grok what’s beyond the given.
Perhaps Pete Seeger’s or the Byrds’ rendition of “Turn! Turn! Turn!” made an impact. You can’t do better than quoting Ecclesiastes. This reflection on the swift passing of the seasons, in both literal and metaphorical senses, reminds me not to fight the tide. You can’t rush ripeness on a berry or prematurely peel the skin off a snake. Everything has its moment by divine design.
As a child of the seventies, I think of Led Zeppelin in “Kashmir” and “The Rover” and the way they address the transient state of our existence. And of course the Rolling Stones come to mind. “Time Waits for No One” delivers a dose of humility from the world’s biggest rock star.
Any comments on this topic would be remiss without a mention of Pink Floyd’s spacey ode to “Time.” There’s also Neil Young’s simple “Sugar Mountain,” which inspired Joni Mitchell’s sagacious “Circle Game.” David Bowie got it right with “Changes,” in which he noted our inability to track the elusive energy that shapes our fate. But lest I get accused of nostalgic overload, let’s close with a mention of the Foo Fighters’ “Times like These.”
On June 15, 2021, my wife and I got lucky enough to see the first Foo Fighters concert in the post-lockdown age. The show took place at the Canyon Club, probably the smallest venue they’ve ever played. To enter, we had to wade between megaphone-wielding morons screaming how we’d be killed by the vaccine. You could feel exhilaration, relief, and overwhelming joy when the Foos opened with “Times.” Cruel irony: less than a year later, sweet madman drummer Taylor Hawkins succumbed to a drug overdose.
The impossible task of finding definitive meaning in the dynamics of inexplicable forces can never be completed. But let’s work together to glean insight into the human condition.
Please post your own reflections on the tunes that helped you through.
In the meantime, let’s take Bill Haley’s suggestion and “Rock around the Clock.”