“Rednecks, crackers, hillbillies, hausfraus, shut-ins, pea-pickers – everybody that’s got to jump when somebody else blows the whistle. They don’t know it yet, but they’re all gonna be ‘Fighters for Fuller’. They’re mine! I own ‘em! They think like I do. Only they’re even more stupid than I am, so I gotta think for ‘em. Marcia, you just wait and see. I’m gonna be the power behind the president – and you’ll be the power behind me!”
The words belong to a character, Lonesome Rhodes, in a film that was way more a harbinger of things to come than we could have ever imagined when it was released in 1957. He was played by Andy Griffith in his film debut, several years before he became a beloved icon as Sheriff Andy Taylor of Mayberry.
He was heralded as the next Brando or James Dean.
Check out the trailer.
The Elia Kazan film features some amazing performances from Patricia O’Neal and Walter Matthau and Anthony Franciosa. It’s the cinematic debut of Lee Remick. She’s the comely teenager that becomes Rhodes lust object.
More important, the film accurately portrays the future of politics and culture. More sound bites. Less substance. Charismatic Pied Pipers leading flocks of followers wherever he or she wishes. The increased use of electronic media to convey political polemics.
It is an eerie look into the future. But abundantly accurate.
Of course, Griffith didn’t morph into Brando or Dean. Thank heavens.
But, in a calmer Eisenhower America, he did a mighty prescient imitation of Glenn Beck more than a half century before that poseur came on the scene.
More exactly, Steve Kragthorpe’s situation and the downward momentum of his career at Louisville: how he replaced Bobby Petrino, how the team was immediately less good, how the fans became disgruntled, how that disenchantment has escalated to cacophony, and how those fans want him gone — yesterday, if not sooner.
But first to Susan Boyle.
You remember her, right? She was all the rage as a singing sensation on one of those British who-is-going-to-be-the-next-superstar shows. One day, nobody had ever heard of the frumpy housefrau with the amazing voice. The next day, millions were viewing a video of her stunning debut on the Web.
How long ago was that? Weeks? Months? Last year?
Then she showed up soon enough with a makeover and a record contract, at which point all those instant fans abandoned their adulation and moved on.
Within a time frame most accurately measured in hours or days, they went veni, vidi, relici. With apologies to Plutarch, they came, they saw, they moved on.
Which is when I coined the term, “Boyle point.” It’s the instant in this accelerated cybergalactic age when our latest fascination becomes what was once called “yesterday’s papers,” the moment when we’ve mouse-clicked to the next diversion, the moment when the rage’s upward arc heads south.
So, as U of L’s football season trudges inexorably to ignominy, the fascination has moved from the field to the three-ring circus that is the discussion of Kragthorpe’s future in Louisville, and who his successor might be.
It may very well be that the phenomenon I’m going to talk about happens only to pubescent boys. But, since that’s a category in which I was once included, it happened to me.
So, I’ll start with this premise.
For people with a serious inclination toward rock music, there will come a time when their first big guitar song blasts though some radio speakers. And, if you’re alone, or even if your mom is driving you to Bar Mitvah class, you crank up the car radio — with impunity. The song hits you in the loins. The bass drum is always a major kerthink. You turn into the bad boy you see all the cute girls ogling. Then you scream “Yeahhhhhhhh!!!” at the top of your lungs.
Making sure you don’t miss the DJ announcing the name of the song and the group.
Which is to say that all music lovers — at least those who once were pubescent boys — have a big guitar song. And it never loses its luster. No matter how sophisticated one’s musical taste might become with the onslaught of maturity. Which is to say you might evolve to Ellington and Strayhorn, but your soul is always gonna save a place for “Mississippi Queen.”
If you know what I mean?
More on Mountain, the group formed by the “fourth member” of Cream, Felix Papilardi, in a moment. First this:
Papilardi, a Bronx native, was quite the rage in the late 60s and early 70s. He produced Cream. Like I said. Not to mention softer groups like Lovin’ Spoonful and the Youngbloods. Plus sweet Joanie Baez. But he obviously loved the thunder, falling for the guitar thrump of Long Islander, Leslie Weinstein (Leslie West to the public) whom he first heard in a group called the Vagrants.
When they broke up, Papilardi and West formed Mountain. The group’s fourth gig: Woodstock. One of the group’s sweeter sings is “For Yasgur’s Farm.”
I could prattle on about the group, how West ended up playing with Jack Bruce, etc, etc. But we’re not about rock & roll trivia here. Just the visceral thunder of the song. For the academicians among you, I share the lyrics. Not that they matter.
Mississippi Queen, If you know what I mean/ Mississippi Queen, She taught me everything/ Way down around Vicksburg /Around Louisiana way/ Lived a cajun lady, Aboard the Mississippi Queen/ You know she was a dancer/ She moved better on wine
While the rest of them dudes were’a gettin’ their kicks/ Boy I beg your pardon, I was getting mine
Mississippi Queen, If you know what I mean/ Mississippi Queen, She taught me everything/ This lady she asked me, If I would be her man/ You know that I told her, I’d do what I can/ To keep her looking pretty/ Buy her dresses that shine
While the rest of them dudes were making their bread/ Boy I beg your pardon, I was losing mine
Of course I have a personal anecdote. The group played Louisville Gardens. A friend was a part time DJ at LRS. We ended up back at the hotel room of Corky Laing, the group’s drummer. I was hoping for West or Papilardi to talk some rock & roll. No dice. So I watched as Laing did a lot of drugs, not offering to share a bit with my pal, myself or this other couple that was there. The girl was cute. Laing kept hustling her while apologizing for not sharing the drugs, and for hustling this guy’s girl in front of him.
I don’t know if Laing was successful with the gal or not. I split.
Actually, rereading that, I realize it’s a pretty lame, not very illuminating tale. But I left it in anyway. Some rock & roll stories never fire. Just like some songs.
Let me start with a personal anecdote (as if that’s something unusual that I haven’t done before . . . too many times.)
I attended the New Orleans JazzFest for the first time in 1976, and made it down there once again before that decade ended. Then I had some personal life changes that made it unwise for a number of years to tempt myself with the treasures of the Crescent City. But, in 1988, I was lured back by the prospect of experiencing the Little Feat reunion. With Bonnie Raitt, sitting in on slide guitar, be still my beating heart. On the marvelous Steamship President no less, always a boffo experience on the Mighty Mississippi.
Having been away from the festival for years, I couldn’t get enough. Even with music playing simultaneously on 10 stages in the Fairground’s infield from noon til dark on three consecutive days. It was as if I needed to hear every group. From Al Green to Hank Ballard & Midnighters to Los Lobos to Earl King to Hackberry Ramblers to Fairfield Four to John Mooney to Salif Keita to Exuma to Henry Butler to Famous Rocks of Harmony to Leo Nocentelli to . . . okay, you get the picture.
As has become tradition, the Neville Brothers closed the festival on the Fess stage Sunday afternoon.
Early in the set, Brother Aaron broke into a song I’d never heard him sing before, “Arianne,” with just Brother Art playing simple keyboard chording in the background.
What came out was this:
The song isn’t especially complicated or unique. The lyrics are more than a bit mundane, even silly. But when Aaron’s voice started swooping and soaring about halfway through, I was stunned beyond comprehension, my spinal cord turned to jelly.
When the song was over, even though the Nevilles hadn’t really kicked in gear yet, even though I had hoped to slip over to a couple of other stages for a taste of Dr. John and Willie Tee, I had had enough. For the first time in my life, I was sated. Totally. I did not need nor did I want at that moment to hear another note.
I walked to the car, and sat in quietude, savoring the glory of what I’d just heard. When my pals arrived an hour or so later, I was still smiling, knowing I’d been transported somewhere beyond anyplace I’d been before.
The following is not a quote from Rush Limbaugh.
The purpose here is to discuss Steve Kragthorpe.
It may very well be that the phenomenon I’m going to talk about happens only to pubescent boys. But, since that’s a category in which I was once included, it happened to me.
Let me start with a personal anecdote (as if that’s something unusual that I haven’t done before . . . too many times.)