“If you build it, they will come.” —The Voice, “Field of Dreams”
That’s how America got so big. We called it Manifest Destiny a century and a half ago. The country remains mired in that hubristic mindset today.
A nation much younger than now expanded relentlessly and inexorably toward the Pacific. It was our right, we believed. There was divine justification.
Manifest Destiny: “To overspread the continent allotted by Providence for the free development of our yearly multiplying millions.” Journalist John O’Sullivan so branded that vision in the mid-19th century.
So we stretched our borders, east to west, north to south.
And they did come — the adventurous, the set-upon, immigrants, illegals and indentured — developing a can-do mentality. Nothing was beyond our reach, no dream too grandiose. American swagger evolved.
So we built accommodations bigger and taller and wider, skyscraping the heavens, strafing the countryside.
And, because we are addicted to new and shiny, we tear down and build again.
It is our wont, an imperious ostentation that sets our nation apart.
If you build it, they will come.
That is how we remember the quote, of course, though it actually reads, “he will come” — not “they” — in the romanticized cinematic ode to a more pastoral, long-lost America. An homage to the halcyon days of hickory and horsehide, to “Say it ain’t so” Shoeless Joe, swinging his Louisville Slugger.
For the film, producers built a baseball diamond in cornfields outside Dyersville, Iowa. And the ghosts of Joe Jackson and his pals, the type of sporting gladiators nation-states have revered for centuries, came and played. So the fans also came, both in the film and real life, trying to recapture the bucolic.
If you build it, they will come.
That quiet ball diamond midst the cornfields is far from our default idea of destination. It is but a quaint counterpoint. We love our sports heroes, their games and the venues where they battle. As constant reaffirmation of O’Sullivan’s proposition, we build ever larger, more commodious stadia to watch them perform.
Jerry Jones, who built a billion-dollar temple to his Dallas Cowboys, is not aberration but paradigm. Hallowed, staid and utilitarian no longer satisfy. We desire — no, crave — neon and luxe palaces for our sports idols to compete, where we can savor their endeavors in splendid comfort.
Vegasize those American dreams.
Goodbye, Freedom Hall.
Hello, Yum! Center.
If you build it, they will come.
Thus this monument to a city’s pride was once conceived. Now it is done. Louisville’s Parthenon, its Colosseum, sits grand, glitzy and imposing hard by a bridge and interstate paralleling the Ohio, close to the spot where our burg was founded. A daring endeavor in insecure financial times, its future viability unknown, The Yum! stands as testament to dogged determination.
The city’s fathers, its dreamers, its schemers, its university wanted bigger, mo’ better.
The deal’s been done.
The question now: Will they come?
So far, yes, they have. Fueled by a fawning fervor, tickets — free tickets — have been gobbled up to tour this object of civic pride and fascination. First to come, for a christening, the luminaries who made it happen. Then, corporata, for whom this edifice stands as a confirmation it tops the pyramid of power. Then Cardinal fans, whose loyalty has been tested in extremis. Then John and Jane Q. Public to come and gawk at this palatial experiment in civic responsibility.
The Eagles broke in the place. How appropriate.
Their music is slick, pristine, pretty to a fault. And the band is in it for the Benjamins. It is said the members don’t even talk to each other offstage. Yet $180 tickets were sold with impunity.
Such exaction is all too familiar to Louisville Cardinal basketball fans, whose loyalty has been taxed to the limits to pay for the team’s abdication from Freedom Hall. A season’s seat in the corner, not between the baskets, 30 rows up, runs $101/ game, factoring in the mandatory donation.
When told this, Marc Winston, a New Orleanian married to a Louisvillian, in town for a family visit and to attend The Eagles concert, offered this perspective. “My seats to the NBA New Orleans Hornets are in the fourth row at mid-court. I pay $85 a seat.”
If you build it, they will come.
So far, at least. For The Eagles. For the Cardinals inaugural men’s and woman’s basketball seasons.
Other than that, The Courier-Journal, in its special Oct. 10 section on all things arena, reported only 11 other events scheduled through March. So it is certainly legitimate amid all the hoopla to ask how this place is going to meet its debt service. The newspaper reported that Standard & Poor “will consider downgrading the arena bonds to ‘junk’ status as early as next year because of concerns about the TIF (tax increment financing) revenues being available for paying off debt.” There are rumors bond rating agencies might make that move sooner.
But that’s a worry for another day.
For now, the denizens of our city, as well as the community’s movers and shakers who made this happen, are glorying in this stunning achievement. Sitting in absurdly expensive seats, munching on $11 turkey sandwiches, quaffing $6 beers and $4.25 soft drinks, citizens savored “Life In The Fast Lane,” and will root on an undermanned Cardinal team. Or, if so inclined, simply ignore the games and gather in any of several large areas set aside to eat, drink and schmooze.
The hope is that the place will reignite an appreciation for downtown, foster the belief that center city is a safe, fun place to socialize, dine and be entertained. The hope is that the magnitude of the project will fuel interest and investment from an expanding corporate America.
I’ve still got power, my internet connection, and neither Abbey, our new Beagle rescue dog, nor Sam’s cat got lost in the basement during our 278 seconds of tornado prevention residence down there.
I’ve practice my piano today for tomorrow’s lesson. (A fitful rendition of “In Memory of Elizabeth Reed” if you must ask.)
I tried to take Abbey out for a walk but she turned to me with a look that said, “Uh, let’s wait until the drizzle stops.”
So, here I am, contemplating my favorite record album covers. Which you should not compute as my favorite albums, though there is some crossover.
In no particular order, with some notes which may be of interest to only me, here they be:
Here’s Little Richard (Little Richard).
My grandparents, Max and Tillie Kaplan, bought this for me at the then new and innovative Northland Shopping Center in Detroit, in the mid 50s. They were plenty damn cool. Max was a master furniture craftsman who escaped with his family to England from Russia, so he didn’t have to serve in the Czar’s army. Tillie was a seamstress who escaped Russia also, ending up in England, a block away from grandpa’s family.
Max and Tillie met . . . years later in Cleveland, where both their families emigrated. Grandpa had a bemused smile which he passed down to my father, and my father to me. Grandpa called his beloved, “Tillie the Toiler.” They were old line Socialists, members of the Workman’s Circle.
And cool enough that when they took me shopping and I said this was the album I wanted, they didn’t bat an eye.
I love this album cover because it was my first. Because it captures the outrageousness of Little Richard, sweatin’ and shoutin’, and that new thing called rock & roll. Because his image is black and white and the background is that orange/ yellow which says simultaneously there is dynamite inside, and be cautious.
My copy of the album and album cover are long gone. I’m sure the vinyl was darn near indecipherable when I lost it, or it was stolen or whatever. I played it a lot, on record players with needles (not styluses) unkind.
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It’s A Beautiful Day (It’s A Beautiful Day).
It was the era of the Counter Culture, the age of psychedelia.
The rules were being broken, even if the new ones didn’t last, or were assimilated into the mainstream until they were weren’t groundbreaking anymore.
Music became arguably a more important element of youth culture than it had been in the late 50s and earlier in the 60s. It was absolutely the social centerpiece.
So, too, the accouterments. Album covers became ever more innovative, evocative, creative, an art form unto themselves.
This is the first one that totally grabbed me, that made me stop and look and go, “Wow, that’s fuckin’ cool as shit.”
Not to mention that David LaFlamme and spouse and cohorts flew on the wings of “White Bird” a lot farther than such a pleasant but mundane tune should have carried them.
The group was a bright spot at Celebration of Life, an overwhelmingly desultory rock festival I attended in the bayou country of Louisiana in’71.
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Sticky Fingers (Rolling Stones).
This choice might just as easily have been “Some Girls” or “Exile on Main Street,” both of which Stones’ efforts had boffo covers. Mick and Keith had/ have artistic sensibilities beyond music.
Like, uh, to, you know, art and stuff like that.
But “Sticky Fingers” is The One.
The cover, featuring a guy’s crotch and a zipper that actually worked was the idea of — all together now — Andy Warhol.
Oh, Andy, you devil you. This was as naughty, naughty as those Brits.
It was perfectly conceived. Perfectly executed.
This ’71 album is also the first to use what has become the iconic image that says “Rolling Stones”: that red tongue and those Jaggerian lips.
Which is not to mention that this was one hot album, containing a rocking but diverse and creative group of Stones tunes.
What I love so much about this cover is that it is so very very mundane. A dark, not especially snazzy picture of the great soul singer. It is old school, with no fancy schmantzy art or anything, just a personality photo of the artist.
Which, when juxtaposed to the groundbreaking, transcendent music inside on the vinyl, is irony of the highest order.
Buying this album when it was released wouldn’t have given the purchaser a clue about what’s inside. Which was and remains, simply stated, the best album of all time.
I’m not going to go into the whole story. About Gaye’s personal troubles. About his vision for this album, which was contrary to what Mahatma Berry Gordy thought it should be. About how Gaye took the original mix, and in one sitting pretty much shaped this magnificently soulful, political, loving and pertinent masterpiece.
* * * * *
Blind Faith (Blind Faith).
Eric Clapton. Ginger Baker. Steve Winwood. Rick Grech.
With the demise of Cream, came about Blind Faith, one of the first super groups of the rock era. As any rocker with a sense of history knows, it frankly didn’t work out very well.
Album-wise, they were one and done. And the music is okay, but nothing that’s near the top of any all-time lists or anything.
But, oh my, didn’t the cover cause quite a stir.
No writing, just a color image of a naked, innocent looking pubescent girl, holding a very phallic silver thingamajig.
Oh, there were all sorts of rumors. She was a slave to the band. She was Ginger Baker’s lover and/or love child. The truth, I think as it finally came out, is that she was an underaged innocent, who posed for the album with the permission of her parents.
Anyhow, there was quite a controversy about the cover, with many mainstream outlets refusing to sell the album. So, it was re-released with a more mundane photo of the band or something.
Even the Stones never went this lascivious.
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Those are my five favorites. Others which would have made the list, were I not tired of writing, ready for dinner, and unwilling to forge ahead include:
Ogden’s Small Nut Gone Flake (Small Faces)
Catch A Fire (The Wailers). The original that opened like a lighter.
Eat A Peach (Allman Brothers Band). That great image of a pickup truck with a big ol’ Georgia Peach in the bed. I had a t-shirt with the image, but lost it. So, I bought another one. Which has also disappeared. Need to get another before the weather breaks.
I have no desire to yet again take the time to explain the importance and genius of Bob Dylan to those who don’t understand and don’t want to understand.
I know that, in way too many ways, he’s merely a shell of the poetic wunderkind who blasted us clean right out of our spleen in the early 60s.
Frankly, I too have given up on him. Hearing the troubadour at one of the over hundred concerts a year he plays is always a crap shoot these days. His voice, always an acquired taste, is now mostly rasp and smoky whisper. Lyrics are swallowed, often totally undecipherable. He’s changed arrangements, not always for the good.
But Dylan is the Deal. My opinion, he’s the second greatest poet of the English language. Maybe tops.
When he was young and on the make and full of fresh energy, he’d machine gun torrents of imagery onto vinyl, one aural visual more evocative than the rest.
The other day I slipped in to ear X-tacy and bought the latest in the Dylan bootleg series, “The Witmark Demos 1962-1964.”
These are the acetates Dylan made for his record publisher, so that sheet music could be fashioned from the songs. Some tunes are fragments. Some subject to change or unfinished. But all are fresh and exuberant. These are simply Bob Dylan, guitar, harmonica or piano and those (mostly) marvelous songs. The two CD set includes all those classics we loved because they made it onto the albums, and some we’ve never heard before.
Listening for the first time is like the moment I was pulling my foot locker down the hall of my freshman dorm at W & L in the fall of ’63, and there was that voice, lurching from the room next door of my dorm counselor, Jody Brown. To say it was a new dawn is to be overly saccharine and dead on point.
I love the new CD. I constantly forget how much I love Dylan’s songs and how important he was to culture and to me.
“When The Ship Comes In” is as loaded with flowing images as any. So it’s presented here as a representative of all those songs.
The best video of the bard online doing this song is this one from the 1963 civil rights march on Washington. (That’s his GF at the time, harmonizing with him.)
Here’s a truly fine cover of the tune by the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem, singing at a Dylan testimonial concert held at Madison Square Garden.
And, the lyrics:
Oh the time will come up / When the winds will stop/ And the breeze will cease to be breathin’/ Like the stillness in the wind ’/ Fore the hurricane begins / The hour when the ship comes in
Oh the seas will split / And the ship will hit / And the sands on the shoreline will be shaking/ Then the tide will sound/ And the wind will pound / And the morning will be breaking
Oh the fishes will laugh / As they swim out of the path / And the seagulls they’ll be smiling / And the rocks on the sand / Will proudly stand/ The hour that the ship comes in
And the words that are used / For to get the ship confused / Will not be understood as they’re spoken / For the chains of the sea / Will have busted in the night / And will be buried at the bottom of the ocean
A song will lift / As the mainsail shifts/ And the boat drifts on to the shoreline / And the sun will respect/ Every face on the deck / The hour that the ship comes in
Then the sands will roll / Out a carpet of gold/ For your weary toes to be a-touchin’/ And the ship’s wise men / Will remind you once again/ That the whole wide world is watchin’
Oh the foes will rise / With the sleep still in their eyes / And they’ll jerk from their beds and think they’re dreamin’/ But they’ll pinch themselves and squeal / And know that it’s for real / The hour when the ship comes in
Then they’ll raise their hands / Sayin’ we’ll meet all your demands/ But we’ll shout from the bow your days are numbered / And like Pharoah’s tribe / They’ll be drownded in the tide/ And like Goliath, they’ll be conquered
Disclaimer. I was once an attorney, but no longer. When I retired, I gave up my membership in the bar. And I’ve never met or practiced law against D.C. attorney David Nolan, who now represents Karen Sypher.
That aside, let me say this.
David Nolan is an idiot. And he may be incompetent. For sure he certainly isn’t providing legitimate counsel to his client.
Why? Gee, I dunno. He’s got a client who has been found guilty in federal district court of some pretty serious crimes, for which she is to be sentenced next week. Barrister Nolan, having admitted he has not read the entire transcript of the trial, and having said “I don’t pretend to know what transpired over seven years, but I smell a rat,” stated at a called press conference that his client was the victim of a “runaway federal justice system.”
Really, counselor, and what might be your basis for that statement?
Setting aside for a moment that the attorney is blowing steam without all the facts, how about his boffo strategy? A week before his client is to be sentenced, he calls in the media for the sole purpose of lambasting the very institution before which she is to appear.
There is a word that come to mind here. It’s on the tip of my tongue. Oh yeah, here it is: malpractice.
* * * * *
It’s nice to see that the University of Kentucky has made a bold stand in favor of education and the First Amendment.
After refusing to do so at UK’s last home football game, it will now allow the school student newspaper, Kentucky Kernel, to be distributed once again outside the stadium before games.
How darned magnanimous of the school. Which might have to renegotiate some multi-million dollar contract with a marketing firm, which apparently claimed some exclusivity.
How about a big Rah Rah Sis Boom Bah for the university?
* * * * *
Rand Paul continues to hammer his senatorial opponent Jack Conway, over the latter’s ridiculous strategy of giving Paul shit about some college prank.
Meanwhile Conway actually criticized his foe about a legit issue yesterday — Paul’s support of a national sales tax. And announced that he’s bringing in the heavy artillery on election eve. That would be Bill Clinton.
Conway is never going to be confused with John Sherman Cooper, but he’s sure better than Dr. Paul. But I’d be very surprised if the GOP doesn’t hold onto Jim Bunning’s seat.
* * * * *
And did you read about the Oldham County physician, who diddled his client in the guise of a “PAP smear examination” then performed oral sex on her while treating her for an abdominal abscess?
The M.D. claims the last incident happened because he was “distracted.”
Hmmmmmm.
Anyway, the good doctor can still practice his profession in his own inimitable style, having been cleared by the Kentucky Board of Medical Licensure.
So, if any of you ladies out there are looking for that extra special attention from your physician, give a call to the South Oldham Medical Clinic, and press #4 for the “Intimate Treatment Unit.”
It is indeed one of life’s great pleasures. Walking my new rescue dog — saved from the killing floor — on a gorgeous fall day like today. And, hey, every once in awhile, Ms. Abbey does what I ask.
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I’ve got to wonder who is the doofus consultant for Jack Conway, who has advised the Senate candidate to keep harping on one of his opponent’s college pranks?
Gimme a break.
Who, fortunate enough to attend university, didn’t participate in some ridiculous endeavors?
With all the truly legitimate flaws in candidate Paul’s agenda, Jack, give up this Aqua Baby or Aqua Buddha or whatever it’s called thing. It’s absurd. A non-issue signifying absolutely nothing whatsoever.
Election day can’t come soon enough.
* * * * *
So it appears that the new power broker in town is flexing its muscles.
It’s being reported that Rick Pitino isn’t going to be doing the Rick Pitino Show anymore. Because, he or his bosses in the U of L athletic department or both he and his bosses didn’t like WHAS’ coverage of this summer’s Karen Sypher trial. Though, to be fair, Pitino denies that’s the reason.
Hmmm?
And Terry Meiners, former Big Blue Booster, who grabbed onto Rick Pitino’s lengthy U of L coattails when the latter joined the Cardinal Nation, becoming a red & black darling, is now persona non grata. Seems Meiners, who has never been reluctant to vent his spleen, upset the school’s powers that be by asking pointed questions about the university’s $$$ über alles policies. Which school policies, as Meiners pointed out, in essence totally discounted fan loyalty when parceling out basketball tickets in the new arena, in favor of corporate sponsors, those same school administrators and any other nouveau riche who could jump the line simply by writing a check.
For sure, Meiners is no angel, and, had he gotten the tickets he wanted, he might have not been so impudent. But, I’ll sure give the radio personality his props for calling out the school. U of L has turned its back on the fans who have been there for decades. It’s not a pretty sight. I’ve talked with scores of fellow fans about this money grab, many of whom say they’ll reevaluate the situation after the season. One wag’s prediction is there will be plenty of one and dones.
A common line: “Buying a new HDTV is a lot cheaper. And I won’t have to worry about parking.”
As for the Pitino Show, my suggestion is they hire The Insult Dog to replace the coach.
* * * * *
I simply don’t understand why so many are so disappointed with Barack Obama?
Sure, the Palin acolytes, the Tea Bag Bunch, the Newts, the Cheneymeisters, you know, the crowd that swears by the propaganda that is Fox News. But free thinkers, former supporters, Dems just short of yellow dog status, it doesn’t make sense.
The guy was dealt an awful hand. Mitch McConnell is the paradigm of an obstructionist anti-statesman. The blogoscenti don’t let you breathe without finding fault.
And that’s not to even enumerate all the truly heinous problems left over by the W gang, most of all of which require patience and cooperation from the loyal opposition to resolve.
Now that the Supreme Court has put its imprimatur on free campaign spending by any entity who wants to spend the dough, combined with the guys in the lobby with cash falling out their pockets, big money is going to control the destiny of government.
That doesn’t bode well for grass roots movements.
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Just bought the Witmark Demos album by Bob Dylan. All early stuff of him and guitar or piano. It’s a grand reminder why so many of us loved him so much. And why he’s been called by some — my hand is raised — the greatest poet in the English language since Shakespeare.
* * * * *
Martha Mitchell lives.
Clarence Thomas’ obviously addled wife Ginni called Anita Hill on the phone and said it’s not too late for Hill to apologize to her hubby and her.
Some songs just make you smile, give you a feeling — no matter the lyrics — of triumphant euphoria.
Such it is with Stan Love’s masterpiece, penned in the late 40s.
“Ghost Riders In The Sky.” Indeed.
So universal is this tune that everyone who cares about it has a favorite version. Frankie Laine. Vaughn Monroe. The Outlaws. Johnny Cash. Dick Dale. Spike Jones. Bing Crosby. Lawrence Welk. Dean Martin. Marty Robbins. Burl Ives, who, not surprisingly, recorded it first.
Even a local band I managed back in the day. Terraplane. I specifically recall one gig we played on Washington Street after the bars closed, then at 2:00 a.m. Several hundred hearty partiers were still ready to go on a great summer night. After the band did the tune, former Kentucky Colonel Goose Ligon sidled up to me.
“I love that song,” he advised, having heard then for the first time.
While the song is most known for its impossible to forget melody, the lyrics haunt. Literally.
A cowboy out on the range, resting. All of a sudden he conjures the image of a herd of recently branded cattle thundering across the sky. And the ghost riders, shirts soaked with sweat, chasing after, unable to catch up. One of the ghost riders calls the cowboy’s name, advises him to mend his evil ways if he doesn’t want to be chasing the herd to eternity in the afterlife.
Okay, two versions. First, Johnny Cash who, as usual, makes the song his own.
For some reason, a bunch of the versions at youtube.com have adopted the imagery from the Nick Cage flick about a motorcyle rider. Go figure.
Anyway, other than Terraplane’s version, which sadly is not available for posterity, my fave rave up is by The Outlaws.
“If you build it, they will come.” —The Voice, “Field of Dreams”
