Remembering Jim Seals, born on this day in 1941. —Ed.
Seals & Crofts have moved into our house! It’s true! And here’s how it happened. Yesterday we got a knock on our door. I had no intention of opening it because most likely it was our crazy neighbor from across the street who’s been accusing our garden gnome of shitting on his lawn. Then I caught a whiff of jasmine and said to myself, “No way is it the legendary soft rock duo whose gossamer thin sound has enriched the lives of so many.”
But it was! Seals & Crofts in the flesh! And they were wondering if they could move in with us for a couple of days because times were tough and they were tired of living in a lean-to by the railroad tracks running past the lake of toxic sludge near the abandoned nuclear reactor.
And of course I said YES! Who wouldn’t? And they couldn’t express how grateful they were because everyone else had slammed their doors in their faces, including our neighbor from across the street who accused them of shitting on his lawn.
“How could anyone think that?” asked a perplexed Jim Seals. “In the bushes by the railroad tracks, sure. But that’s out of sheer necessity.”
“Where’s your stuff,” I asked. All they had with them were their acoustic guitars.
“We had to hock everything,” said Dash Crofts, “including our gold record for ‘Summer Breeze.’ I don’t know if you’ve heard, but the railroad hobo economy is in the tank.”
“Would you like to take a shower?” asked my wife. “You’re caked with coal dust and radioactive slime. And I’m catching the distinct aroma of urine.”
“That would be me,” said Seals. “And that shower would be much appreciated.”
“I’ll throw your clothes in a radioactive waste bag in the meantime,” said my wife. “You can wear my husband’s clothes. He’s about your size.”
Afterwards we sat them down on the sofa, offered them cool drinks, and told them we were their biggest fans.
“We’ve seen you exactly 137 times,” I told them.
“And we’re President and Vice-President of you fan club,” said my wife.
“We didn’t know we had a fan club,” said Crofts.
“You sure do,” I told them. “And it’s growing by leaps and bounds. Seventeen new members just this past year.”
They paused to reflect on their immense fan base.
“You’re the best of the seventies’ soft-rock acts by a mile,” I told them.
“Your body of work far outweighs that of your easy-listening contemporaries,” added my wife. “Take Loggins & Messina. Their songs are too loud and untamed for my tastes.”
“And don’t forget borderline obscene,” I added. “‘Your Mama’ Don’t Dance’ verges on sexual hysteria.”
“They’re actually nice guys,” said Seals. “They never made jokes about the cover of Get Closer the way the other guys do.”
“Dan Fogelberg said I looked like I was trying to catch flies with my mouth,” said Crofts.
“Just for the record, you were trying to catch flies with your mouth,” noted Seals.
“It’s a pastime,” said Crofts defensively. “Some people play Mahjongg, I catch flies with my mouth.”
“It’s such an honor to have you in our home,” said my wife. “Your soothing melodies, quasi-mystical lyrics and ethereal harmonies never fail to move me.”
“I wish more people felt that way,” said Seals. “We can’t find enough gigs to keep us in pork and beans. Last month we played a bowling alley.”
“Which was a big mistake,” said Crofts. “Have you ever had a bowling ball thrown at your head?”
“Fortunately most people don’t have much practice at throwing bowling balls,” said Seals.
“Well people are doggone foolish,” said my wife. “Your wonderful songs have helped us through some very tough times.”
“Like when our hamster John Boy broke his leg,” I said. “That eensy-weensy cast just about broke my heart.”
“And you’ll never guess what song we played as I was walking down the aisle. ‘Diamond Girl.’ It had everyone in that church in tears.”
“With the exception of your brother. He coughed out a ‘This music’s for pussies.”
“He was drunk,” said my wife, adding, “Our first dance was to ‘East of Ginger Trees.’ It was lovely.”
“Sure, until your drunken brother coughed out ‘vagina music.’”
“Leave my brother alone. He’s almost in AA.”
“That’s a very nice story,” said Crofts, “except for the drunken brother part of course. But no offense intended and I’m overjoyed you love our music, I’ve heard lots of songs played at weddings. I’ve heard ‘Muskrat Love’ played at weddings. I’ve heard ‘(You’re) Having My Baby’ played at weddings. I’ve even heard ‘D-I-V-O-R-C-E’ played at weddings. We were aiming higher. We wanted to touch souls. Elevate the human spirit. But we failed. We flat out blew it.”
“Let me tell you a story,” I said. “When the two of us were teenagers we belonged to our church’s Catholic Youth Organization. And occasionally they’d have these weekend retreats in the old parsonage next to the church. And what we kids would do basically is rap about Jesus and listen to albums by Carole King, Cat Stevens, James Taylor, your basic church-approved singer-songwriter stuff.
“But on this one retreat we fell in love. And one night when the other kids sacked out in their sleeping bags we snuck off to the room with the stereo and listened to ‘Summer Breeze’ the whole night. We must have listened to it 100 times. Do you remember what it feels like to be young and in love and too abashed to even hold hands? We just sat on the floor with this amazing June breeze coming through the window listening to your song.
“That was the most magical night of our lives. We’ve never had a feeling that good since and we never will. And your song did that. Maybe you didn’t change the world. But you did something far more important. You gave us the most precious moments of our lives.”
“He’s right,” said my wife. “Keep aiming for the heart. That’s where the real miracles happen.”
“Maybe they’re right,” said Seals. “We haven’t failed.”
“And we’re coming back. We’re going to… who’s that screaming?”
I took a peek through the curtain slats.
“It’s the guy from across the street. He’s beating our garden gnome to death with a ball peen hammer.”
GRADED ON A CURVE:
B
