ARTIST: GRASS ROOTS
FORMAT: 7" 45 RPM
TITLE: "LET’S LIVE FOR TODAY"
YEAR: 1967
LABEL: DUNHILL
The Grass Roots’ story is a fascinating one. For starters, Grass Roots wasn’t a band. It was more of a name in search of a band. The name came from the songwriting team P.F. Sloan and Steve Barri (best known for penning Johnny Rivers’ “Secret Agent Man”). They convinced a band called the 13th Floor to adopt the Grass Roots name and perform some songs Sloan and Barri wrote. The songs were also recorded with only marginal involvement of the band. This created a bit of a problem when it came time to tour. Creed Bratton, one 13th Floor/Grass Roots’ founding members (and a cast member of The Office!), recounted that they didn’t “sound like the records” live, because the recordings were mostly the work of talented session players like The Wrecking Crew. 13th Floor traded artistic ownership for near instant success, getting major radio play with a slew of hits like “Temptation Eyes,” “Midnight Confessions,” and “Let’s Live for Today.” The latter, to add yet another layer of abstraction to the Grass Roots’ story, was borrowed from a British-turned-Italian band The Rokes, who originally released “Let’s Live for Today” in Italian as “Piangi con Me.”
I like the structure of “Live for Today.” The verses are rhythmically simple and business-like, almost like a nursery rhyme. The vocals are paired with a slow build of guitar and drums. It’s as if the verses model the kind of rote, frustrating, measured-out lives that could explode, like the chorus does, at any time. That explosive chorus has to be one of the most unforgettable melodies of the sixties: “Sha-la-la-la-la-la live for today.” It’s so indelibly of the era that it gives me a nostalgia for a time I didn’t even experience. I also like how the chorus pulls back slightly with the line “and don’t worry about tomorrow,” allowing us to hang suspended for just a second in a kind of simulated present before giving way to the force of the signature melody’s command.
Like every other self-obsessed, privileged person I’ve been thinking a lot about being “present” and “mindful” — things I can’t imagine my mom ever concerned herself with. Part of this reflection has forced me to catalog moments when I was or wasn’t present and it mattered. Which I’m pretty sure is not what I should be doing.
I often return to the last time I saw my mom before I recognized her mind had gone. This was before I even thought it was a possibility. Given how little I visited home when living in California, and how rapidly her mind went, there was only a year gap between this moment — when she seemed herself — and the next visit when it was too late. It’s typical of grieving people to do this, to hold on to the last moment and trace over it until it’s well worn, remembered, and mythic. It’s just so strange because she lived for seven more years.
It’s typical of grieving people to do this, to hold on to the last moment and trace over it until it’s well worn, remembered, and mythic.
The moment was mundane. I was visiting from California, mainly to see my one-year-old nephew. My mom lived alone in the house I grew up in. I stayed at my dad’s when I visited, so I drove out special to see her in my rental car.
It’s hard to recall much more than a sketch. She was sitting in her spot on her faux-leather brown couch, a well-worn spot (even though it was a fairly new couch) that only she could sit in. It was also the only place she ever sat. As long as I knew her there was always a couch and a spot that was only hers. As ever, there was also a side table full of things: magazines, notes, Diet Coke. She asked brief questions, her eyes locked on the always-on TV.
She was warm, distant, and awkward as usual. Two people couldn’t be more comfortable together, yet we struggled to find things to say. Watching TV — a movie I think — was enough for the both of us. It mediated our relationship. I wish I could remember what we watched, but I think it slipped away.
I was the sickest I’d ever been in my life, on the losing end of a two year takeover by ulcerative colitis. I’d told her a few times before what was up, but she kept forgetting. At the time, I chalked it up to her detached personality, and not the barely used inhalers and pills that sat on her side table next to the Diet Coke; her last line of defense against failing lungs starving her brain of oxygen.
“Are you taking your medication?”
“Yeah, yeah,’ she’d say, in between wheezes, as annoyed with me as she was at the doctor.
My 40-pound weight loss triggered yet another conversation about my health. She had the same pained reaction as before, and asked me what it was like. I downplayed it like I always had with her and just about everyone else, escaping quietly when I could to the bathroom, my ulcerated gut twisting and bleeding. Later that year I had my first surgery. I called her afterward. She feigned recollection of the illness but the surgery was a total surprise. My dad, who’d flown out to L.A. to be there and help me recover for two weeks, was angry. “It’s just mom,” I said.
What I remember most about that last night was leaving. She walked me up to the front door. I noticed a dried up piece of dog shit on the welcome mat. I was a bit taken aback — she was pretty messy, but that kind of thing grossed her out. I pointed it out to her, and she was flustered and dismissive: “Oh, that’s from Courtney’s dog. I’ll clean that up.” We hugged. I remember her slightly hunched back and the feeling of her thin, cheap shirt, probably a QVC purchase. She was choked up like usual, her face puffy and her nose and eyes watery. There was a bird feeder outside, overflowing with seed. I think she said “I love you.” I playfully squirmed away. I backed away from the driveway and she stood in the front door, orange light behind her. I smiled to myself about her dramatic, red-faced goodbye, as if it was the last time we’d ever see each other.
Photo Credit: Thomas Jordan