The numbing news and reality that Tim Krekel has passed away brings back memories.
For a year or so in the early 70s, I made a foray, such as it was, into the world of band management. (During a period that was my first but not last retirement from practicing law.) For a short time, I booked gigs for Tim and his band at the time, Dusty. I also managed the Blues Kings featuring Barry Stevens on guitar, lovely and lanky Murphy O’Dell on vocals and the inimitable Legend of Time & Place, Texas Red Hart.
In ‘72, the bands played a double bill at the Double Calfe on Main Street. Each played a set, then they joined forces as the Ronnie & the Rockets Review, playing a dozen or so old faves. During rehearsals prior to the show, band members tossed about songs they might do.
I specifically recall “It Will Stand,” a true anthem, being mentioned. Tim immediately said, “Yeah, I’ve always wanted to do that song.” Krekel was nothing if not a spirit force of rock & roll. Wilson Pickett, after all, is really buried in his backyard. I’ve seen the crypt. (Ronnie & the Rockets did perform the tune, which unfortunately does not survive on the scratchy, murky but now valuable tape of the show.)
Here’s why Tim, and the others for that matter, wanted to do this amazing, unique song so badly:
Norman General Johnson’s voice is deliciously raspy and evocative. The timing and syntax of the ‘61 song are out of the ordinary. Unlike many songs of the time, the ones praising rock & roll, this statement went further. It underscored not only the longevity of the genre (”forever and ever”) but also that it was more than a passing fancy, that there was meaning and substance. Plus it met the baseline standard: It had a beat and you could dance to it.
Continue reading Singles I Love, Part IV: “It Will Stand” Showmen
So a bitchin’ Valley Gal is sunbathing in her backyard. (Hot young Geena Davis in a skimpy bikini.)
She gets like totally splashed. She thinks it’s a giant blow dryer. It’s only a spaceship that’s landed in her pool. It contains three furry and like you gotta see ‘em totally funny aliens. Jeff Goldblum. Damon Wayans. And Jim Carrey before he was, uh, Jim Carrey.
Astoundingly clever one-liners and bon mots ensue. Plus a great club scene with an awsome disco dancedown. A little romance. Song and dance. Lots of laughs. Michael McKean as Woody the stoner/ surfer pool boy. His credo: “Waste your brain; wax your board; pray for waves.” Rad.
And, as the veritable coup de grace, there’s the abundant comedic and musical talents of sardonic Julie Brown. (Who, by the by, co-wrote the movie with Charlie Coffey and Terrence McNally.) Not to mention her bodacious ta-tas. Her beach song/ dance scene, “I’m A Blonde” is worth the price of admission.
This is essentially a hundred minutes of smiles. The Film Babe and I can attest. We caught it in our hotel room the other morning as we were packing befire check out.
It’s here that I want to quote some of the one liners. I shan’t. It would be out of context. And all is lost in translation when not coming from the mouths of Geena Davis and the genius Julie Brown.
Hey, just rent it. It’s fluff. But, you know, it’s blonde fluff. Tasty but no calories.
I remember the first time I wrote what I thought was a perfect sentence.
It appeared well after I started getting paid to write. As soon as the sentence was on the screen, I stopped to cherish the moment. There were just enough words. In a symbiotic order. I meant what I said, said what I meant.
The creation made me smile. I felt fulfilled.
When the essay was published the next week, the sentence did not appear in ink on paper as it had been written. My editor edited it.
Continue reading Creativity & That One Perfect Sentence
Well, Harry Shearer plays G. Gordon Liddy. Will Ferrell plays Bob Woodward. Dan Hedaya plays Richard Nixon.
And the ones who get to the bottom of the chicanery going on at the Watergate complex, the biggest scandal in the history of American politics are, uh, well, uh, Kirsten Dunst and Michelle Williams. It’s a good thing. A very good thing.
Seems the teens had a crush on Bobby Sherman, so they snuck out of their condos at the Watergate to mail a letter to the singer when, ooooooooo myyyyyy Gooooooood, they end up in the middle of that whole burglary thing.
There is something intriguing about fictional films set in the middle of real life events. How often do we fantasize about being in a situation like, okay, like Watergate. These kind of movies are especially enticing when played for laughs.
Frankly, “Dick” is as good as it gets for this type of film. This is clever and cute and funny and, frankly, not a totally unreasonable scenario.
About the fiftieth severe storm blitzed through the Ohio Valley today. It’s gray for about the third week in a row.
It’s time to disengage.
So I got to thinking about one of my favorite old hippie odes. Yes, it’s a drug song. So, hey, sue me. I’m not holding, so if any of the authorities want to come check, just ring the bell.
Quicksilver Messenger Service was one of those San Francisco bands that always managed to stay away from breaking on through. Like the Airplane did. Like Janis did. Like the Dead did.
Personnel problems. Pharmaceutical problems. Who knows why? Pity.
They did manage to suck one great Bo Diddley song, “Who Do You Love?” into a whole elongated album. But they never really registered on the charts. As if that really matters. The group’s cult following remains strong. I heard a fellow extolling their virtues just the other day on the radio.
Okay, here’s the song. “Fresh Air” I’ll talk more about it on the flip side.
How about that anecdotal psychedelia, eh? Are those tracers I’m seeing?
Continue reading Singles I Love, Part III: “Fresh Air” Quicksilver Messenger Service
There’s not a lot to tell you about this doo wop classic from 1962. Except that it ranks at the top of my all-time favorites in that catagory.
Very little info has survived about The Volumes. They hailed from Detroit. They recorded for Chex Records. Ed Union sang lead. The song was written by Ed Newsome, who sang bass, and William Ewing, the group’s manager.
And, well, uh, that’s about it. Let’s take a listen:
I’m not sure the song got much play here in Louisville. I do remember it from back then.
I also recall a dance at one of the hotels, when The Sultans, still with Cosmo singing, were playing. During a break, four ninth graders asked if they could sing an acappella song. Charlie Shuck was the only one whose name I now know. They nailed this song by The Volumes. I seem to recall that a member or two of the Sultans was miffed because of the adulation Shuck and company received for their rendition. Shuck had an incredible doo wop voice.
I probably never heard to song again until some time in the 70s, when I heard it in a record shop. My spine turned to an icicle. The song can also be heard during a scene in the coming-of-age-in-the-Bronx classic, “The Wanderers,” released in 1979.
Okay, that’s what I know. No drums. No bass. Just great doo wop harmonies.
There are too many reasons and so many ways to talk about this seminal album.
Let’s start with Hugh Jarrett.
In the early sixties, the most important radio station in the land was 50,000 watt clear channel WLAC-AM in Nashville. It had morphed through the decades into an outlet which played blues and R & B to an audience that spanned the eastern half of the northern hemisphere.
In the winter and spring of ‘62-’63, Robbie Robertson listened. Johnny Winter listened. So did my buddies and I, eschewing homework to twist and turn the wireless knobs in our bedrooms to catch every funky beat. Spinning the platters were the legendary quartet of John R (Richbourg), Hoss Allen, Gene Nobles and Herman Grizzard.
Between shilling for White Rose petroleum jelly, Royal Crown pomade and mail order specials from Randy’s Record Shop in Gallatin, Tennessee (7 records, pure vinyl, either 45 rpm or 78, your choice), they exposed a generation to this whole world of black music that would, as John Lee Hooker sang, “rock the nation.†These deejays were white guys — much to many listeners’ surprise — who adopted black southern patois and rode the night train to notoriety.
At some point, Hoss Allen decided to become a rep for the station and gave up his DJ gig, replaced by Jarrett, known to acolytes as Big Hugh Baby. A former member of the Jordanaires, the gospel group that became Elvis Presley’s back up singers, Big Hugh was master of the double entendre. Such that he opened his phone lines during his nighttime double shift to college and high school kids like me in need of an airwaved 55 gallon drum of White Rose or a Big Hugh Baby bird. Which sounded disarmingly like one of Uncle Joe’s beer and sausage farts. (Several years ago, I tracked Jarrett down to a small station in Georgia or Alabama, where he had a weekly gig, playing gospel music. I wrote him an email. He never responded.)
I called in from Florida during spring break in ‘63, and still have some of the White Rose left almost a half century later. 55 gallons is heap o’ petroleum jelly. It helps me get better, but I never get totally well.
Continue reading Albums I Love, Part I: James Brown, “Live at the Apollo”
The Film Babe — her name, by the by, is Joanie Lerman — and I celebrated our first wedding anniversary yesterday.
According to whoever sets such rules, number one is designated the Paper Anniversary.
My idea for a gift was to take some of the never used invitations to the humongous wedding and reception we didn’t have last June and have an origami expert morph them into a bouquet of flowers.
(A little back story. Our original wedding plans included a major party in the big room at the Seelbach. We intended to invite friends in every direction from all our walks of life. Lots of shrimp. Chopped liver swan. Major finger food. Libations. And dance music, maybe even Ronnie Spector. Yes, that Ronnie Spector. At the time we started planning it all, Joanie’s dad’s final illness took hold. So we ratcheted back the plans. Very close personal friends and family only — including Joanie’s dad — in the back yard. Watch Big Brown lose the Belmont right after the service. Walk to Jarfi’s for dinner in the back room. Chopped liver swan. Some things are sacred.)
Anyway, we had all these invitations we never used. Sad to say, I couldn’t track down any origami experts in town who could work with the thick kind of paper they’re printed on. Sigh.
Continue reading Blended Romance with a Perfect Edge
Anybody who has ever listened to my film reviews on the radio knows I’m disinclined to give Kevin Costner credit for any worthwhile moments on the screen. Shtick I’ve used far too often credits his best performance as the one in “The Big Chill.” In which film, of course, all his scenes were cut. Yuk.
But the truth: His characterization of Crash Davis in Rod Shelton’s marvelous baseball romantic comedy “Bull Durham” is deserving of praise. If only for this one bit of monologue, one of the greatest in film lore. (My apologies for video quality, sound quality and synchronization. But it’s worth it despite the flaws.)
Of course he’s aided in his performance by a marvelous script and the always intoxicating presence of Susan Sarandon, beguiling as ever as Annie Savoy. Here’s her life code as narrated at the film’s beginning:
“I believe in the Church of Baseball. I’ve tried all the major religions, and most of the minor ones. I’ve worshipped Buddha, Allah, Brahma, Vishnu, Siva, trees, mushrooms, and Isadora Duncan. I know things. For instance, there are 108 beads in a Catholic rosary and there are 108 stitches in a baseball. When I heard that, I gave Jesus a chance. But it just didn’t work out between us. The Lord laid too much guilt on me. I prefer metaphysics to theology. You see, there’s no guilt in baseball, and it’s never boring… which makes it like sex. There’s never been a ballplayer slept with me who didn’t have the best year of his career. Making love is like hitting a baseball: you just gotta relax and concentrate. Besides, I’d never sleep with a player hitting under .250… not unless he had a lot of RBIs and was a great glove man up the middle. You see, there’s a certain amount of life wisdom I give these boys. I can expand their minds. Sometimes when I’ve got a ballplayer alone, I’ll just read Emily Dickinson or Walt Whitman to him, and the guys are so sweet, they always stay and listen. ‘Course, a guy’ll listen to anything if he thinks it’s foreplay. I make them feel confident, and they make me feel safe, and pretty. ‘Course, what I give them lasts a lifetime; what they give me lasts 142 games. Sometimes it seems like a bad trade. But bad trades are part of baseball – now who can forget Frank Robinson for Milt Pappas, for God’s sake? It’s a long season and you gotta trust. I’ve tried ‘em all, I really have, and the only church that truly feeds the soul, day in, day out, is the Church of Baseball.”
Each season Annie chooses one of the Bulls to, ahem, mentor.
Continue reading Movies I Love, Part XXI: Bull Durham
It may have been Michael Jordan who started it all.
Or, perhaps, Madonna.
Paris Hilton has certainly made the most of it with the least cachet. Unless you consider the bluster of Rush — need I write his last name? — to be of social consequence.
It’s everywhere in the world of sports these days. Think Tiger. Think LeBron. Think Starbury. When John Calipari was named head coach of the Kentucky Wildcats, he spoke of it when promising to repair UK’s stature in the world of college hoops. Which sounded eerily similar to words uttered earlier at arch-rival Louisville by arch-rival coach Rick Pitino.
Of course, it exists in the entertainment world. Just read an article about Jessica Simpson and how she’s figuring out — with the help of her father/ manager — how to reinvent herself after falling off the charts, musically speaking, and up the charts, avoirdupois speaking.
Branding. It’s from Olde English, of Germanic origin, meaning “to burn.â€
It’s all the rage these days as people and companies and teams and organizations are all trying to find a visible niche, a sense of self, an identity, a spot to call their own in our increasingly oversaturated, overstimulated, harum scarum cybergalactic world.
How appropriate that culture turns to commercial terminology in an age when multinational corporations are the new nation states. Whodathunk we’d aspire to be Kleenex?
Continue reading Branding: The New Self Improvement
Okay, I have no desire to challenge Madonna or Rush or Barack or any of those stars on the number of folks who shall hang on my every tweet. Or is that twit? But my web guru has convinced me to link up to Twitter, so any of you all so inclined will know whenever I post something here or at my sports blog, score.leoweekly.com.
So, if you are inclined, click here, or if that doesn’t work for some odd reason, check it out here: http://twitter.com/cdkaplan.
How long ago was it that we first heard of TV/ singing phenom Susan Boyle?
Fifteen minutes? Twenty at most.
The video of her initial appearance on “Britain’s Got Talent” had over 200 million hits on the internet.
Her popularity was multifaceted. She could — and still can — really sing. Great Broadway voice. Big. Impressive. Affecting.
And she was Everywoman. Ordinary looks. Ordinary clothes. A shade zaftig. Hard scrabble upbringing. Those play big most everywhere, especially in the British Isles where proletarian has always been a popular character trait.
Even Simon Whatisname was smitten. (Unless, of course, that was show biz. He does own that TV franchise where she was a contestant.)
Then she went Madonna. Sort of. Did kind of a makeover without the calculation and acmen.
Star ascends. Star descends.
I remember thinking when she first blasted into our conciousness how she was the perfect metaphor for our instantaneous cybergalactic age. One day she’s nobody. Next day her name is on the lips of everybody in every Starbucks — even the one in Sevilla across the street from Europe’s oldest gothic cathedral.
Now I believe her career arc has become the new celebrity paradigm. She lost that talent show and her incredible popularity, because, well, because, hey, Susan Boyle was sooooooooooo an hour ago. And we tired of her fame, fleeting as it seems to have been. She lost to a group of dancers named, uh, what is their name, uh, Diversity, that’s right.
So Susan Boyle’s career arc lasted, okay more than twenty minutes, but not much more than a month.
Welcome to the age of what have you got new for me this very minute?
And, so, henceforth, I shall refer to that point when a new fad, phase, trend, celeb crests in celebrity and commences its rapid plummet as the Boyle Point.
Look for her next week on VH1’s latest “Where Are They Now?” special. That old footage should be really neat to see.
Read sports rants, rumors & innuendo from my alter ego Seedy K. Click to check out Score! at leoweekly.com.
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The numbing news and reality that Tim Krekel has passed away brings back memories.
So a bitchin’ Valley Gal is sunbathing in her backyard. (Hot young Geena Davis in a skimpy bikini.)
I remember the first time I wrote what I thought was a perfect sentence.
This is the untold story of Watergate.
About the fiftieth severe storm blitzed through the Ohio Valley today. It’s gray for about the third week in a row.
