“Heroes” by David Bowie is one of my fave tunes of all time.

It is a song about two lovers who meet at the Berlin Wall beneath an exchange of Cold War bullets.

They know their relationship is doomed because they are from opposite sides of the wall, yet they find a way to seize the moment and extract the joy.

The lyrics are ambiguous (some say improvised) but for me “Heroes” is a song about passion and optimism. But it’s not a misguided optimism.

It’s practical – heroes, yes, but just for one day. Perhaps this message of practical optimism is the reason a 1977 song has stood up so well over the years.

If you can find passion and optimism in the ho-hum reality of the everyday, the song seems to say, if you can find a way to block out forces over which you have no control and take the moment like the two lovers, then you are truly inspired, a hero.

The other reason “Heroes” makes my top-song list is, of course, musical brilliance.

The song is based on a simple chord progression that builds with intensity, gradually reaching a driving thrum that spools and spools, tighter and tighter until Bowie’s voice cracks, and in that moment the raw human passion spills out creating a sensation that exceeds the sum of the music and the lyrics.

Without fail, that sensation makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Very fews songs can produce such a response.

“Heroes” is a pop masterpiece.

Last year, the band Sons of Maxwell sat on a United Airways plane and watched as baggage handlers destroyed their $3500 guitar.

When they sought compensation through customer service, they were stonewalled. Over and over again.

How many of us know that feeling.

So the band got even.

They wrote and produced a brilliant little tune called United Break Guitars. In it, they explain the common frustration of dealing with customer service people who stonewall the customer.

They posted it to YouTube and their song and story went viral.

United Airways ended up with mud on its face. Big time.

And Sons of Maxwell performed a customer service for all of those who have ever been treated like dirt by the “customer service” industry.

GT salutes you Sons of Maxwell.

Now that he’s dead, we’ll be seeing a lot more of Michael Jackson.

Just like Marilyn and Elvis who are bigger in death that life.

These mega-celebrities are like the undead, ghosts of tortured souls who walk amongst the living for years and years after they’ve gone.

We’ll see Michael’s ghost in supermarket tabloids. There will be people claiming that he appeared at their back door. Neverland will become a shrine to his memory, like Elvis’ Graceland.

And a new character will enter the stage of impersonator industry.

This will be Michael’s greatest comeback.

There are similarities: both were staging a come-back, both were global celebrities and both died too soon.

And everyone was shocked.

Of course, Jacko was deeply troubled and far more *out there* than Diana ever was.

But our generation grew up with him, from his early child-star days in The Jackson 5 to his blockbuster Thriller days.  That music still crackles with energy whenever I hear it.

Not sure I’m one of those *mourning* his loss. I wasn’t that attached.

But I am sad for him and I do wonder what might have been if he’d managed this come-back tour.

RIP Michael Jackson.

I’m debating whether I can be bothered to get the $125 tickets.

I love the Beatles and like Macca well enough. His Wings stuff was sort of fun back in the ’70s.

I’m not one of those Canadians who got all up in arms about his anti-sealing protest a couple of years back. You know, free speech and all that. And besides, Canada could have handled the whole seal protest with more sophistication and cleverness.

And now Europe’s done what they said they would do: banned seal products. So I guess Macca won that one.

You gotta hand it to him though: he’s a brave man to make Eastern Canada a stop on his tour. Let’s hope he doesn’t pull a Celine Dion and get in a snit and pull out if someone says something he doesn’t like.

I suppose I’m thinking I should see him for same reasons I should see, say, the Elgin Marbles.  He’s part of history and I may never get the chance again.

But, ho-hum. I’m just not feeling the excitement.

Would you go an see Macca if he were performing just down the street from you?

I’m open to all arguments.

Convince me.

Il Divo is the male quartet envisaged and assembled by American Idol judge Simon Cowell. They tour the world thrilling audiences – mostly female and” of a certain age.”

I went in with an open mind. I was expecting a “three tenors” experience. It would be a “best of” set featuring operatic hits performed by four suave, lantren-jawed twenty-somethings doing a sort of sexed-up set.

That’s no what Il Divo is about.

They are a sort of New Kids on the Block package. They apply “classical treatment” to pop songs and classics so you end up with Sinatra’s I Did it My Way in a four-voice harmonized falsetto. There’s lots of video, lights, a live orchestra, swagger and a big stage that juts out into the audience.

If this is what you like – and there were legions who did – they did a good job. The largely “octo-audience” gave standing ovations and cheered for more.

Personally, I found their music banal and the performances schmaltzy almost to the point of lounge lizardy. I’m pretty sure one of them was winking at the audience. And the shiny suits did little to win me over.

I kept expecting them to appear in man-thongs, each decorated with their flag of their country. (The Divos are American, French, Swiss and Spanish – a Simon-Cowell-targeted-demographic tactic for best audience numbers, no doubt.)

The boys could sing, no question, but there was nothing resembling those Pavarottian “High Cs” that knocked people’s heads off at the Met in NYC in the 72-3 season.

A low point of the evening – IMHO – occurred when someone threw underpants on stage. Oh, the the cliche of it all.But in some ways, this was relief too because some people – including the Divos themselves – laughed.

I’m convinced that no one is more surprised by their global success than the Divos. They said so much. I’m also convinced that they are doing their act with tongue firmly placed in sculpted cheeks.

The audience may take them seriously, but they don’t.

And for that, I like them.

I watched her three times singing I Dreamed a Dream on YouTube.

The first time I was moved close to tears. She sang like an angel.

The second time my toes curled under with embarrassment. The scorn heaped upon her was sickening.

The third time I felt sad for how nasty people have become. They weren’t even embarassed about jeering and sneeering her.

It was a talent contest, not a beauty contest.

But this is celebrity culture so people think it’s open season on anyone who isn’t young, glamourous and thin.

Whatever happens with Susan Boyle, I’m glad she had the courage to challenge us. She held up a mirror to us and made us look very bad.

Just before the show, I decided to ring the little typists at home to check on them.

I walked into a back room and started dialing my mobile. There were a few people in there but I didn’t take notice. A man said: “Are you looking for some privacy?”

I looked up, a little surprised by the intrusion into my phone call. I told him I was just making a phone call. I was polite.

“This is Ron Sexsmith’s changing room,” the man said.

“Oh,” I said, realizing that it was I who was the intruder.

I turned around and saw the man with the boyish face and the floppy hair sitting in the corner with his guitar. He was smiling.

“Oh! Ron!” I said, using a first-name familiarity that probably wasn’t warranted, but Mr. Sexsmith didn’t seem right either, given the fact I was in his changing room.

“I’m sorry to barge on you in like that.”

He smiled and said “S’ok, no problem.” He was very sweet about it considering it was moments before his show.

I skulked out with a smile on my face.

So there. Ron and me – we’re new BFFs.

BTW, the show was divine. He sings sweetly and is very charming. I was swept away by his lyrics and narratives. It was just him and a guitar but with a voice like that, he doesn’t need anything more.

On the way out, I saw him at the bar and thanked him for letting me using his changing room before the show.

If he’s ever in your ‘hood, drop into his changing room beforehand and tell him I said hi.

This was one of those concerts where you hardly knew where to direct your awe.

Was it the fact that this 63-year old was bent over an electric guitar, face pinched in concentration, ripping out chords and tunes that went straight into your bones?

Or was it that Youngesque cat-whine pitch he can still achieve after all these years? And those Young Rrrrrrs. Ya gotta love the Young Rrrrrs.

Was it the fact that here was a rock icon in flesh?

Or that this rock icon was still relevant, in-the-now (as we say in yoga) and performing at the top of his game?

I don’t know, but Neil Young sent shock waves through my body and shivers up and down my spine last night in a two-and-a-half hour set that went by way too fast.

He is a guitar player’s guitar player, ripping off those slightly off-the-beat and sometimes discordant riffs that hook you and take you along with him.

He played much of the Young canon, giving us a raunchier-than-ever rendition of my fave Young tune Hey Hey My My. This evoked the rogue thought that Johnny Rotten = Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper. (Go here for explanation.)

We had excellent versions of Rockin’ in the Free World, Cinnamon Girl, Powderfinger, Heart of Gold and Old Man, (with the thrilling banjo riffs – and yes, the banjo can be thrilling.) My other personal fave of the evening (OK, it was hard deciding) was Needle and the Damage Done. Something about that cat-whine pitch…

And only Neil Young could come back with a Beatles tune for an encore. A Day in the Life. Here it is on YouTube, though not as good as last night.

He made it his own and at the end of the encore he put his guitar down and with with a touching nod to those crazy dayz of rock n roll, he tore the strings off as if to say, “That’s all folks.” Only Neil Young could do that. I laughed out loud.

I missed the first opening act, Everest but caught indie rockers Wilco, which would have been worth the price of admission on its own. I joined the Wilco bandwagon two summers ago at an outdoor concert. I defy anyone to listen to these guys live and not become a fan.

The show ended at 11:30. I couldn’t even think of heading to bed until 2:30. And when I woke up this morning, I was still buzzing, head to toe.

That’s some kinda grandad rocker.