For some unfathomable reason, several folks have asked that I weigh in on this whole issue of whether a mosque should be built at Ground Zero in New York. I’m not sure why anybody would really care what some pundit in Kentucky thinks about what is essentially a zoning issue in Manhattan.
But . . . here’s what I think.
I think it’s a damn shame that with all the issues of a really serious nature facing our country, our world, we have chosen this to argue about.
Last week I was able to chat with some friends who, do to business misfortune, have been forced to move, seeking work and income in other places.
“People don’t seem to really understand,” said Simone. (Not her real name.) “There just aren’t many jobs out there.”
Part of what she said is true.
There aren’t a lot of jobs in the marketplace for people who were making healthy incomes of $50,000 or more before the recession hit. And my sense is there aren’t a lot of positions going begging in lower income ranges. There are only so many needed to sell burgers under the Golden Arches.
Part of what she said is false.
A lot of people understand all too well that there aren’t a lot of jobs out there. It was most unusual to see a Help Wanted sign the other day when entering an Office Depot.
This stasis is manifesting itself in various ways, some oddly interesting.
This past year, the University of Louisville Law School had 500 more applications than the year before. Which number was 400 more than the previous highest year, which was sometime in the early 90s.
So, all of a sudden, a lot of twentysomethings want to become barristers at the bar?
Nah.
It’s simply that the positions as waiters, baristas, nannies, maids aren’t cutting it for college grads. Mowing lawns is not what a Big Ten grad expected to be doing with a B.A.
So, what the hell. Let’s try law school. Maybe that will open a few doors.
What does this have to do with that Muslim community center and mosque that is causing such a ruckus among the talking heads?
Nothing. And that’s my point.
The economy is going to take a dip again very soon. People need work.
The BP oil disaster in the Gulf of Mexico is far from the only environmental concern we should be considering. Global warming, and eventual global environmental disaster, are very very real.
How to deal humanely with the immigration problem that exists in America is something that must be faced. I mean, really, who is going to do the roofing across the land if we imprison then deport all the aliens?
That’s just to touch the surface of legitimate concerns that should have our attention.
Instead we fall hook, line and sinker — Mr. President included — for Fox News’ bait. We are now mired in a debate with minimal relevance to real world problems.
What do I think should happen with the mosque at Ground Zero?
I am proud to say I’ve just finished the NYC Deli Triathalon.
Katz’s for lunch.
Sarge’s for brunch.
Stage for breakfast.
Different days, of course.
We were headed to the Carnegie this morning, but hit the Stage first. What a damn treat. When Barb, our waitress with enough eye liner to start her own salon at Macy’s, asked if I really wanted the belly lox platter. “You sure you don’t mean Nova,” she asked? “That’s awfully salty.”
“Barb, I’m not a virgin.”
By the time we left she’d explained how she loved to watch the horses run. “I was in Louisville once. I went to Churchill Downs at night, and tried to look through the gates. Couldn’t see nothin’.
“I sure want to make it to the Derby one time. I want one of those mint juleps.
“My uncle Maury Kaufman, he was the rich one in the family. Made a fortune in real estate. So he retired and bought a horse farm in Ocala. He loved cowboys when he was a kid. We all did. Tom Mix. Especially Johnny Mack Brown.
“So he changed his name for the horse business. Johnny Maury Kaufman. He rode around his farm on a pinto in a cowboy hat.”
Ah. Noo Yawk. Noo Yawk.
* * * * *
The flip side — and, of course, there’s always a flip side in the Big Apple — was the snarling gal at Lenscrafters on Fifth. I needed one little tweak to the nose thingamajiggy on my glasses.
“There’s nowhere and no way to twist this. It’s as far back as it goes already.”
Get that woman an egg cream.
* * * * *
Spent more time on Lexington Ave than any previous trips. It’s my new favorite NYC thoroughfare.
We had dinner last night at a great spot at 62d and Lex: Fishtails by David Burke. The maitre d’s family lives in Morehead.
The fish was boffo, but nothing like the night before at Oceana. Where I ate the finest seafood of my life.
* * * * *
The answer is No. We indeed do other things than eat.
Saw the photography exhibit at the Guggenheim. Frank Lloyd Wright’s masterpiece of a building remains iconic a half century after being built.
The photos were interesting, but explanations on the little machine they give you were awfully pretentious.
* * * * *
We stayed at the Royalton. It’s on 44th between Fifth and Sixth Avenues, right across the street from the Algonquin.
Trés chic.
Did I already mention that in my blog yesterday. If so, sorry.
* * * * *
At the NBA store on Fifth Ave, there’s a table with t-shirts featuring just two players.
Rajon Rondo.
John Wall.
* * * * *
Okay, that’s enough insignificant musing. It’s of interest only to me, I know.
What’s a guy to do while waiting for his flight? Read The New York Post?
It’s a vision that would make even curmudgeonly Steve Jobs sport a smile three time zones wide.
I’ve spent the weekend with the Film Babe in NYC. I got up early this Sunday a.m. to jog. From our hotel on 44th, I headed up Fifth Avenue toward the park. Right there at Central Park South, across from the Plaza is the entrance to the Apple Store.
The glass cube sits in a plaza like the famous pyramid that is the entrance to the Louvre. Except, of course, this is a square and the edifice in Paris is, like I said, a pyramid.
What’s not different: The lines to get in. Except the one at the Louvre is somewhat smaller.
As I headed by it the first time headed uptown about 8:00, there were about 100 people in line. Fifteen minutes later when I passed heading downtown, the line had quadrupled.
The demographic wasn’t too awfully diverse. About 15% more or less were distinguishable geeks. The rest were Japanese.
Jogging down Fifth early morning when it’s mostly deserted makes me think I’m going to run into Holly Golightly, staring at jewelry, eating a Danish.
* * * * *
It’s been almost twenty years since I’ve been to New York.
I don’t mind glorying in the touristy stuff.
What’s a trip up here without passing through Times Square at night? On our way back to the hotel from a show, we hit it about 11:30 Friday night.
The descriptor that came to mind when negotiating through the humanity, passing on a genuine Rolex for $60 as well as a ride on the full size Ferris Wheel inside the Toys ‘r’ Us store, having Joanie agree that zipping her purse was a prudent move and craning our necks gomer-style at the Ginza light show: Clusterfuck.
* * * * *
Which is the same word I’d overuse to describe Katz’s Deli at a little after noon on Friday.
It’s pastrami is reputed to be the best in this pastrami town. Still. And it is.
But getting to the sandwich counter where a tip in the jar adds to the girth of the sandwich was like getting a bet down on the Derby ten minutes before post. Squared.
Why didn’t we grab one of the waiter service only tables, you might ask? Well, I’d never been to Katz’s (on Houston in the Lower East Side), so I didn’t know. That’s why.
But we did pass on the other gomer move. We didn’t ask anybody where the table is that You Know Who faked her You Know What in “When Harry Met Sally?”
We went for that deli brunch again this morning. Eschewing the ordinary at the Carnegie, we ventured to the Murray Hill neighborhood, chowing down where the locals do at Sarge’s on Lexington at 36th. Their latkes won a citywide smackdown with those from the Second Ave Deli.
Delicious and abundant. Plus our food was served by an honest to Betsy older Jewish gal with a mouth on her.
* * * * *
If you’re coming up here any time soon, and want to head to the theater district, you could do a lot worse than “Fela.”
The musical about the Nigerian musician who invented Afro-Beat and managed to piss off the government with his politics at the same time is mighty scintillating. Amazing and unique song and dance.
* * * * *
Saw two movies up here. That’s right, came to NYC and went to the movies. Times two.
Because, well, there are a bunch of films here that aren’t now nor ever will play Louisville. And, hey, I do review films for a major metropolitan public radio station. And Joanie is, after all, The Film Babe.
To find out about them, tune into 91.9 a little after 8:00 a.m. on Tuesday.
* * * * *
It started to rain this afternoon.
At which point, as if sprouting from the pavement, vendors selling umbrellas appeared on every corner.
I swear, I haven’t a clue where they materialized from?
Which leads to my last bit of advice when away from home. Pocket parkas. They’re a good thing.
For forty seconds you get the set up. What’s the deal? This sounds like something from the 60s. That’s right, the drum intro to The Ronettes “Be My Baby.” Well, sort of. Yet, the castanets give it away. Do they dare swim in these deep waters, try a take on such a seminal song?
You can’t help but wonder as the intro coninues. Are these white kids from Philly really going to tackle Phil Spector? Dare they emulate the greatest voice in rock & roll, Veronica Bennett?
Or will they extrapolate the song into something unrecognizable, something white? Like Vanilla Fudge turning “You Keep Me Hangin’ On” into garage band psychedelia.
Then, in a turn as exhilarating as it is unexpected, David Bielanko’s raspy, weary voice reaches out from the jungles of Nam. The memory so strong, even though he’s actually back stateside, the images are strong and true and resonant. You can feel the sweat and grit and fear.
(Note: I couldn’t find the album version anywhere on the www. It’s purer than any of the live versions. So here it is. No visuals. You’ll probably be directed to a page with just a player. After you listen, hit the return button on your browser to come back. There’s a raucous live take on the song at the end of this article.)
Last night I closed my eyes/ And watched the tracers fly/ Through the jungle trees / Like fireflies on a windy night/ Pulled up and onward by the breeze / I can still hear the far off tin-canny sounds / Of their machine guns come unwound / And I was shakin’ like Little Richard/ And I was sweatin’ like ol’ James Brown /
Viet Nam and soul music. It worked for Coppola. It works even better for the Bielanko brothers, who are the magnificent bar band Marah.
Over by my window sill / The moon was still/ On my cigarettes and wine/ Sometimes that’s where I pray to Jesus / Sometimes there’s where I pray to die/ But I could still sense the circling danger / Of those invisible bastards of a piss-hot day/ I was shakin’ with ol’ Proud Mary/ I was sittin’ on the dock of the bay/
The rhythm continues. Yes, it’s Phil Spector, but it’s hard to figure out the connection?
Take the hits boys take the hits/ Don’t smoke your bible and don’t lose your wits/ Because the sky is filled with shrapnel / And your eyes are filled with tears / Hold your breath boys hold your breath / Finger your trigger and welcome death/ Because the chopper’s filled with your gut-shot friends/ Your hearts are filled with fear/
There’s that coda again during a short instrumental break. No flourishes. No castanets this time, just he insistence that adds gravity to this cautionary tale that’s wrapped around an icon of a song.
Fables tell of men who fell / With swords dangling from their chest / The old guys down at the taproom swear / The Japs could kill you best / But late at night I could still hear the cries/ Of three black guys I seen take it in the face/ I think about them sweet Motown girls they left behind / And the assholes that took their place /
Then the chorus again, the lament of lost brothers, the helicopter imagery that is such a part of Viet Nam memories. For those who were there and those who weren’t.
The chorus again.
Your hearts are filled with fear.
Then a lonely horn, forlorn. And, yes, the signature castanets.
So won’t you please/ Be my little baby/ Be my baby now . . .
Now that the trial of you know who concerning her “relationship” with you know who is yesterday’s spam, let’s consider a few other things, shall we?
* * * * *
While we weren’t paying attention, and after much ado about political posturing, Elena Kagan was confirmed as Supreme Court justice.
Just as she should have been.
Just as we always knew she would be.
Of course, since ‘87, there’s the borking process that must play out.
Robert Bork was a GOP nominee for the Court. He had been the hatchet man that fired Watergate independent prosecutor Archibald Cox during the Nixon administration in what’s been dubbed the “Saturday Night Massacre.” So, if only for that, the donkeys hated Bork, a bright and qualified jurist, albeit very conservative.
Besides Bork had that scraggly beard that was off-putting and made him look like some Colonial era Puritan preacher. Then there was his imperious manner.
Anyway the Dems were able to foil his nomination. The process has been repugnantly political ever since.
You may not like the politics of Scalia or Roberts or Ginsburg or Kagan, but they’re all qualified. And the country would be a lot better off if the Senate stopped looking at nominee’s politics and just at their qualifications.
* * * * *
Is it my imagination, or are there cicadas every summer now? Not just every 17 years the way Mother Nature planned the cycle.
What happened?
Well, maybe it is nature’s way.
* * * * *
What’s up with this Kentucky dirt that’s been hauled to Indiana by the appropriately named Kentuckiana Trucking Company?
It seems there are a few petroleumish contaminants in the soil from the new arena site. And the trucking company dumped it where it wasn’t supposed to. Frankly, I’m shocked, shocked I tell you that such illegalities occur.
Wonder if they considered hauling it down to the Gulf, to maybe soak up some of that sludge? Or, Mega Caverns, where’s there is plenty of room and they invite new fill?
* * * * *
Why is Charles Moore still on the Louisville police force?
* * * * *
Speaking of governmental shenanigans and police department inefficiency, the Film Babe and I are halfway through Season #3 of our annual marathon viewing of the entirety of “The Wire.” Two and a half seasons down, two and a half to go.
Which we’ll do in, oh, the next ten days or so. Those of you familiar with the old HBO series understand why it’s so compelling. A couple episodes a night are the minimum. One night last summer, we watched five. Not that we’re obsessed or anything.
Those of you who’ve never watched it, tsk, tsk.
One guy’s opinion: It’s the best dramatic series in the history of television. Period. It is Godfather quality. Yes, yes, it is.
Like a carny barker at the Shelby County Fair, the unique trombone riff lures you into the song.
Then you’re enveloped like a summer evening’s fog at a lookout over the city with pitch perfect, adenoidal four part harmony.
The scene is set.
Then with a teen whine for the ages, Johnny Hourigan’s voice — think Nick Cage’s Charlie Bodell in “Peggy Sue Got Married” — soars over the top of Bill Mathley, Joe Bergman and Jim Settle’s chorus.
Moments/ Moments like this/ With her, embracing/ Sharing a kiss/Make me realize/ The meaning of paradise.
Doo wop defined a simpler time in the 50s and early 60s. It was to the mid 20th century as Schubert’s romantic odes were to the early 19th.
Settle’s paen to young love is as good as any that came out of Louisville at the time. With all due respect to my buddy Cosmo, whose “It’l Be Easy” with The Sultans was the first #1 local doo wop charter in town, and The Monarchs “Look Homeward Angel,” which went national, “Moments Like This” is the one.
How much in depth rumination can an Observer of the Scene consider when, long after coming into the AC, he’s still shvitzing like a pig on a spit after a morning jog?
Let’s find out.
Toll Booths ‘R’ Us. Like most other reasoning humans, I was aghast at the first mention of possible tolls on the new bridges, which structures have been on the drawing board since, I dunno, Charlie Farnsley was mayor.
Three bucks to visit grannie in Cementville.
Three bucks to make it back home.
At first blush, and perhaps at second, it seems a heinous exaction. I know I was ready to pull out my dusty “No Taxation Without Representation” banner. Then I remembered I lent it to my Tea Party neighbor across the street.
The article in this morning’s C-J gave some perspective on the situation. I know when visiting the Bay Area last year, we stayed in Mill Valley and thought nothing of paying the toll when crossing into San Francisco. Much to our chagrin however, we got no discount for the flowers in our hair.
I have no idea how this is all going to play out. I do predict that there will be no new bridges in Louisville built in my lifetime. And I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing, though my instinct tells me we’ll survive without them.
Pols ‘R’ Us. Another interesting read in this morning’s C-J was Jim Carroll’s take on our major party candidates to fill Jim Bunning’s senate seat.
Not only are Rand Paul and Jack Conway seriously serious 24/7, they are, let’s face facts, B*O*R*I*N*G.
The desk holding the computer I’m writing on has more personality than both combined. And it’s standard utilitarian office equipment company issue.
Being a good Donkey, and being more than a little scared of Paul — actually, what he stands for — I’m sure I’ll vote for Conway. Understanding he’s never going to be confused with Henry Clay or John Sherman Cooper.
Trolls ‘R’ Us. It’s Day #3 of Hullabaloo. And for the third day in a row, I’m sad to say I’m taking a Pasadena.
I know, for years I’ve been ranting about the lack of a real summer music festival here in Louisville. Now that we have a legit foray toward one, I’m staying away.
Trust me, it’s not out of protest at the lineup which I find less than compelling. I intended to go out today with the Film Babe, plunk down our $150 and show our support. Terry Adams’ new band intrigues me. But he’s about to start playing as I write. Dwight Yoakam and Loretta Lynn are certainly worth hearing. Though I’ve seen the former. But, Sweet Loretta, it’s just too damn hot to stand in the sun and listen. Sorry.
It’s not gonna happen.
I hope the event is a financial success. I hope Churchill Downs figures out a way to have it when it’s less hot and steamy. I also hope they find it in their hearts to present a future lineup of acts with a bit more zest. Like, oh, say, they do at Forecastle. And New Orleans. And Nashville. And Milwaukee.
All of which is to say I’m a troglodyte for the day.
There was a time when a fellow could adopt a nickname of some sort, and it would be just that.
A nickname. Puff Daddy. (Or, if you prefer P. Diddy.)
A moniker. The Splendid Splinter.
An affectation. Lady Gaga.
Or, say, the Culture Maven, to use one very handy example.
No more.
Turns out I’m now a brand. Just like Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta.
Who knew?
And no different than Kleenex®.
Or Coke®.
Or Chevy.
Oh, wait a sec. Didn’t GM announce recently that it was eschewing the use of the shortened Chevy, pushing instead the more formal and official Chevrolet®. So customers won’t be confused about the brand. Or, so they believe.
It seems to me that Chevy is pretty ubiquitous. There are songs about this most famous of American cars.
Treat me like ya Chevy/ You can show me off.
Or,
26’s on my chevy (my chevy)/ Chrome on my chevy (my chevy)/ Candy on my chevy (my chevy)/ Flakes on my chevy (oooh)/ Dudes on my chevy (my chevy)/ Girls in my chevy (my chevy)/ Screens in my chevy (my chevy)/ Shove in my chevy/ I’m so hiiiiiiigh/ I’m so hiiiiiiigh
Okay, maybe lyrics like those are why some doofus in the Iron Belt, sitting legs up behind a desk, with too much time on his hands and way too much say so in GM corporate affairs, wants to drive Chevy off the levee.
But I digress.
My point is to decry the commercialization of, well, just about everything.
U of L basketball used to be a program. Now it’s a brand. So proclaims CEO Rick Pitino.
Kinda like Yum!®. Which, in case you haven’t heard, bought the naming (Read: branding) rights to the new arena where the Cardinals® will play starting next season.
We’ve sure come a long way since some wary rancher burned a symbol on the hindquarters of his whole herd, to psychologically ward off rustlers. (Quick aside having very little to do with this rant: The slyest rustler film ever made is “Rancho Deluxe” featuring Slim Pickens as Henry Beige, Cattle Detective.) The word itself comes from German, meaning “to burn.”
The term evolved to designate the identity of a certain product, business or service. So says Wikipedia. Which brand stands for the place we go to find an immediate answer for any question.
But now schools and teams and people are brands.
Most especially King LeBron®.
And, sigh, me too.
I sit here drinking my Heine Brothers brand coffee, typing away on my MacBook brand laptop, writing a piece to appear on my culturemaven.com brand blog.
(When I first registered the name, these things were still called websites. Now they’re branded blogs. But, hey, don’t get me started on the evolution of that appellation.)
So, you get my point. I find this whole branding thing a bunch of bunk, a trend most heinous.
That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
Truth in Advertising Caveat: My name is Chuck Kaplan, actually Charles David Kaplan. I only started calling myself c d kaplan when I began writing professionally. Am I being duplicitous? You decide.
My friend David Leibson, a well regarded professor at U of L Law School, tells this tale on Bob Heleringer, a former student of his.
Heleringer is a hail-fellow-well-met, a former Kentucky legislator and very funny fellow.
After the professor greeted his student who entered his office, Heleringer proceeded to rifle through the documents sitting on Leibson’s desk, picking up papers, looking underneath, then setting them back down.
“Mr. Heleringer, may I ask whatever you are doing?”
“Searching for a point or two. I really could use a better grade on my exam.”
I too am now a seeker in need.
At Heine Brothers on Frankfort Avenue on a blistering Monday afternoon, searching for my muse.
If only Bob Heleringer were here to make me chuckle.
Lady Inspiration has been MIA for awhile. Where is it that she goes periodically? On vacation? To nestle across the river on Bob Hill’s desk? To the Upper Peninsula for vacation to avoid the humidity?
Perhaps she’s lurking over here by the railroad tracks. Or so it seems reasonable.
Which is why I’m nursing a cup of decaf and pecking away at my MacBook in the company of nine others, also taking advantage of free wireless and fair trade joe.
Anyway, I’ve written this far already. That’s a good thing.
Whether it’s of any consequence is yet to be determined?
That determination, I’ve long since learned, has little to do with how many, if any, of you eventually read this onanistic little essay? There are so very many of us fighting for your attention on the internet that any blogger of minimal emotional health realizes — or should realize — that page views do not self esteem make.
Short interlude to check email.
I’ve just received my weekly printout from Facebook. It advises that the monthly active users for my Page (Culture Maven c d kaplan) increased by 51.2% last week. That the total number of fans increased by 3.1%. Page views are up 14.3%.
Cut to clip of Sally Field accepting her Oscar, “You like me, you really really like me.”
Now, back to reality. Actually, the proof of value here will come when I stop typing and start reading. Will my sentences make sense? Will they be full with logic and perception? Will I have at least somewhat artfully considered and described some realization that has value in its statement.
Lord, I hope so. Don’t want this to turn into the type of dialog you might hear amid the cacophony in “Inception.”
It’s not that there isn’t a lot going on. Politically, there’s the whole Tea Party movement. Environmentally, there’s the BP negligence in the Gulf and the devastation resulting in the Gulf. In the world of entertainment, there’s the contemplation whether Lady Gaga is a worthy successor to Cher and Madonna or not?
Then there’s that novel I’ve been giving lip service to for several years now. And the opus that would be an enumeration of all the musical acts and anecdotes I’ve seen and heard.
We’ll see.
What I do know is this. The coffee worked. That the wireless connection here is a bit slow has been beneficial. (Can’t surf, must write.)
Maybe this will be read. Maybe it won’t.
What’s important, frankly, is that it’s been written.
My fingers haven’t cramped. My mind has thawed somewhat. The sentence make some sense.
And I swear I just saw Lady Inspiration slip in the backdoor for a latte. She’s already gone like a wisp.
Harvey Pekar wasn’t the only icon from the cultural unterbelly to pass away this week.
A moment of silence — followed by ironic cacophony, in order to display the proper respect — for Tuli Kupferberg.
The guy has been described as an anarchist, a beat, the guy made famous in Allen Ginsburg’s “Howl” for having jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge. (That it was actually a different bridge, and that it was a point of some embarrassment for the rest of his life to a fellow not easily embarrassed must be noted.)
He was an ironist of the highest order, if that’s what you can call somebody prone to irony in their art. He could deliver deadpan with but the faintest hint of a knowing smirk.
More important to those of us who are musically-addled, he, along with fellow Commie pinko Ed Sanders, founded New York’s first truly punk band.
Hearing this first Village Fugs album in ‘65 was more than a might startling. (For those of you not familiar with the origin of the word “fug,” it was the euphemism used by Norman Mailer in “The Naked and the Dead.”)
Sure, there were Dylan and the Beatles and Stones. But the record charts at the time were littered with “Mrs. Brown You’ve Got A Lovely Daughter,” “I Got You Babe,” “Hang On Sloopy,” and “Eve of Destruction.”
So, when a buddy showed up with this LP with lyrics like — “Do you like Boobs a lot?/ Yeah, I like Boobs a lot/ Why d’ you like boobs a lot?/ You gotta like boobs a lot/ Do you wear your jock a lot? . . .” — it was bound to grab my attention.
It did. “Slum Goddess from the lower east side” became part of my vernacular.
The satirical nihilism of Kupferberg’s “Nothing” still brings a smile to my face.
Ed Sanders, like Tuli, was a poet, political polemicist and a member of the bluejean literati. The Fugs were founded at his Peace Eye Bookstore in late ‘64, where they played their first gig. It was there that he edited his periodical Fuck You/ A Magazine of the Arts.
Some of the band’s songs included the words of William Blake. Others dealt defiantly with sex and drugs. With irony, of course, they were at the forefront of a movement toward the expression of outrage led to the masses by Lenny Bruce. A classic example is Ken Weaver’s “I Couldn’t Get High.”
“Cause I couldn’t get high/ And I don’t know why?/ So I threw down my pipe/ As made as I could be/ And I gobbled up a cube/ Of LSD/ So I waited thirty minutes / For my body to sing/ Yeah I waited and I waited/ But I couldn’t feel a thing.”
Remember, kiddies, Louisville KY in the mid 60s was still a place where cruising the Big Boy after curfew was the apotheosis of rebellion, when the depth of our angst was having to implore Rhonda to help us get her out of our heart.
This isn’t the kind of album that will suffer repeated listenings. Truth be told, it’s probably been decades since I laid a needle on the vinyl. But it is one that every one considered a member of the rock & roll generation should know.
As we bid a sad adieu to Tuli Kupferberg, let’s hear the band’s paean to that “swingin’ little goddess from Avenue D”:
In parting, let me remind you to heed this admonition: Be sure to “wear your jock a lot” because “Down on the football, football field/ You never can tell what a heel may wield.”
For the first time in years I heard a band play a Chuck Berry tune as an encore.
Just the way the Good Lord meant for it to be.
So Bless Ya, M. Ward and Zooey Deschanel, you made my day.
Frankly, She and Him’s entire set was a wonder for me. I’m old school. Grew up with rock and roll. Have always had a sweet spot for 60s girl groups. (And there’s always been a space in my parking lot for crackly voiced Ms. Deschanel, truth be told.)
But I wasn’t all that familiar with the music of this conglomeration. My first impression after dragging the Film Babe down close was that Deschanel’s voice is a might brittle. After a song or two, she settled in, then starting morphing into Robin Ward (“Wonderful Summer”), Kathy Young (A Thousand Stars”), Leslie Gore . . . you know what I’m sayin?
Here’s a video of Zoeey and pal, paying their respects to Smokey Robinson:
When the backup singers joined the band on stage — the Paris Sisters incarnate? — they channeled the Murmaids (“Popsicles and Icicles”) , the Jaynettes (“Sally Go Round The Roses”) , the Angels (‘Til”), etc, etc.
I’m such a sap for those songs. (I’m listening to a great compilation as I write: “Girls, Girls, Girls.”). Okay, how about another little diversion. Thank you for making this the most wonderful summer of my life. (It really has nothing to do with Forecastle, but, hey, it’s my blog, and I’ll do what I want.)
Then She and Him came back for an encore, and I’ll be damned if the group didn’t rip into a rousing version of “Roll Over Beethoven.”
There was a time — and such a time it was — when any rock band worth its salt would at some time during its set would ask: “You wanna hear some Chuck Berry?”
So that’s one of the things — among many — I loved most about Forecastle. Sittin’ on the riverside, listening to summer rock and roll. A genial gathering. Food that was a cut above corn dogs and elephant ears, especially that from the folks at Basa.
I also enjoyed Minus the Bear, whose music was accomplished. And Spoon, with their spare but interesting arrangements. Neither of the bands’ music was familiar to me beforehand. I didn’t make it out on Saturday. Much to my chagrin. I did want to hear Devo.
None of the music on Friday really grabbed me. I’ve said it before, and I’ll repeat: Widespread Panic is B.O.R.I.N.G. And, while I understand the amazement at the extravaganza that is The Flaming Lips show, I find their music simply mundane. When I went to hear Heavyweight Du Champion at the Ocean Stage, he simply hadn’t caught a groove. Though I understand the techno deejay dance venue rocked most of the time. Margot and the Nuclear So and Sos, and Frontier Ruckus also caught my attention. When Dead Confederate played, I kept wondering where the song was amid the cacophony?
But I loved the festival. Great layout. Bucolic setting, especially the North Stage. Real activism.
Finally, after decades, Louisville has an annual event that’s a real honest to Betsy rock festival. Locally grown too.
J.K. McKnight, hats off to you, dude. You done good.
Read sports rants, rumors & innuendo from my alter ego Seedy K. Click to check out Score! at leoweekly.com.
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For some unfathomable reason, several folks have asked that I weigh in on this whole issue of whether a mosque should be built at Ground Zero in New York. I’m not sure why anybody would really care what some pundit in Kentucky thinks about what is essentially a zoning issue in Manhattan.
