With all and everything that's going on in this world...and on the inside and outside of even the most normal of us, I have decided to do an article on my new hat.  Yes, a new summer, Irish style hat.  Hats are important.  Hats are almost as important as music.  We remember what we were doing when we wore certain hats in much the same way we recall the good and bad in our lives through songs. 

This new hat of mine is extremely light and it slouches a little to the right.  It's perfect for spring and summer, and I'll bet it's going to make it through most of fall too...if I don't lose it.  That's why hats are not quite as important as songs.  You lose hats.  They fall out of your back pocket.  You leave them somewhere by accident and someone else takes a liking to it. 

You keep songs in your head not on it, so songs never fall out of your back pocket.  Other folks may take a liking to some of the same songs you have stored in your cranium, but no, no, they can't take them away from you. 
 

I'm wondering what life will be like under my new hat.  I'm also wondering what other people's lives will be like under my new hat.  You see, this new hat of mine is already making me think more.  Maybe that's because it's new.  Maybe, as it begins to break in a little, my thought process will slow down to it's normal pace.  I've always said..."There is absolutely no reason to think any more than you would normally -- unless provoked."  

I've said that many times before I began wearing this new hat of mine.  My hats began with a brown cowboy hat I wore during the early seventies, when I was a country flavored rock singer.  All the guys in my band wore cowboy hats.  None of us looked like a cowboy.  Not one of us thought like a cowboy.  None of us wanted to be cowboys, but we dug the hats. 

Hair down over my shoulders, a full beard, tattered clothes and a cowboy hat on my head.  It wasn't a cool picture, but I thought so at the time.  That hat almost lasted a year.  Looked stupid; was stupid.  We (the band and myself) were what you'd consider 'freaks' back then.  Drugs, booze, women, music, anything that came our way, yup, that's the life I led under the cowboy hat.  So, we signed with Mercury Records for a four album, four year deal.  We stayed in a commune in Brooklyn (you remember communes?) while we recorded our first album. 

The first day in the Mercury studios came, so we (still freaks) decide to have a little fun.  As many of you recall, it was easy to make your own fun in those days.  Knowing full well that quite a few people from Mercury would be waiting in the studio for us on that first day of recording, we found a bunch of Coolie hats, painted our faces all kinds of splendid colors and tied the Chinese hats onto our heads. 

Perfect!  We jumped on the subway and rode it up to fifty-seventh street, took the elevator up to the studio and walked in acting as normal as possible.  There were publicity folks there, the engineer, producer, and several other Mercury employees.  No one seemed shocked or annoyed, uneasy, or freaked out by us.  It was a little disheartening, but we overcame our 'failure to freak' and went on to record.  The Coolie hats didn't last longer than that first recording day, but they were great fun for one day. 

A few months later, after I'd gotten to know the people at Mercury, who were in the studio that first day we arrived, I asked them what they thought when they first saw us.  My heart was revived -- my spirit lifted, when they all told me that they thought Mercury had to be crazy to sign us.  As it turned out, their first impression was correct.  We were nothing but trouble.  So, the cowboy hats vanished, and while we were playing the Troubadour in L.A, we shaved our beards. 

When separating from Mercury, after our first album, we signed with Polydor.  I got my hair cut short, stop wearing a hat and dressed all fancy-like.  I must say, even I looked good to me, though it never turned into love.  After all the Polydor Records and shows, I went back to being a folksinger.  Playing across Ireland, with my harmony singer A.J, I found an old Irish tweed hat.  I loved it.  I loved Ireland.  With a mustache, scruffy, longer hair, I had a wonderful time under that hat.  Back home again, I was visiting my parents and borrowed their car to go into New Haven and drink with friends. 

For some reason, I put that hat on top of the car, got in and drove away.  I realized it was missing about four miles down the road.  Night had fallen -- and that old Irish hat was history.  Good history.  A wonderful, great history.  I was saddened.  So, I got another Irish, tweed hat.  While singing out on Block Island, which I did for many a good year, I traded it for a while, floppy looking Irish hat.  It was summer, and Big Ed McGovern told me he'd give me his hat for mine.  I agreed, and a few weeks later I was sorry again.  White hat -- impossible to keep clean.  I'd have to wash it every two days to keep wearing it and that just wasn't me.  A lot of things were not me -- that was just one of them.  So, hatless once again, I finished singing out another season on The Block.