Hollywood's a place where they'll pay you a thousand dollars for a kiss, and fifty cents for your soul. I know, because I turned down the first offer often enough and held out for the fifty cents. - Marilyn Monroe
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.
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.
It’s forty years gone this weekend since those nicknames were bestowed upon my pal Stephen and me at the Atlanta Pop Festival.
Many if not most of the memories of that magical interlude have long been lost in the daze of time. But this I can say for sure. We came upon those identities honestly.
As for the rest of that Fourth of July weekend outside Byron, Georgia, the tales told here may be true or not. Only the synapses of my cerebrum know for sure. And they’ve long since lost most if not all connection to that time and place.
Stephen was The Mailman; I, Captain Canada. The sordid details:
We knew there was going to be triple digit Fahrenheit at the festival. So the day before we left, we purchased pith helmets. If such a chapeau provided protection for long lost Stanley Livingston in deepest, darkest Africa, we presumed one would work for us.
I went with basic khaki.
Stephen opted for that light grayish blue with maroon straps that we’ve come to associate with the United States Postal Service.
So hot was it that the very first day down there, we, along with our traveling companions Don and Merrily, sought respite in the nearest body of water. Which lake or river or pond — frankly I can’t recall — we found by following the gaggle of hippies on hoods of cars all headed, they said, as if guided by a stoned Trip Tik in that direction.
When Stephen jumped in, pith helmet firmly in place, one bleary-eyed bather adroitly observed, “It’s the Mailman.”
Firmer monikers have been borne of lesser tales.
The origin of Captain Canada is somewhat more convoluted. The statute of limitations having lapsed, the story can be revealed. With haste and for the last time, so we can move on.
The day before we departed Louisville, our friend Becker needed help moving from one furn apt. to another. Among the items he intended to discard was a flag of Canada. Which artifact I commandeered, immediately tying about my neck like a cape.
That’s only the germination of the nickname.
Which flowered fully on the first night of music at the festival. (Caveat: The imagery that might manifest from the description of the following interlude is not for the faint of heart, grannie or youths under the age of majority.)
That weekend marked my first experimentation with psychedelics. When the mescaline kicked in, it started to rain. At which point it seemed eminently logical to my then “experienced” mind to fully disrobe. No matter that we were sitting in throng of several hundred thousand. It seemed the natural thing to do.
Besides, I didn’t want my clothes to get wet. I had hand fashioned with a magic marker a “Who is Ron Dante?” t-shirt which I thought too clever and pithy to not be able to wear again once the showers had abated.
From such reasoning, wackier tales have been told.
The inclemency didn’t however prevent me from wearing my Canadian flag cape. From which point on, and for several years thereafter, I was known to a few as Captain Canada.
Enough of that.
Admittedly I am finding it difficult to accurately describe how wonderful and fun that weekend was. The experience is proving sensible description.
When I’ve attempted to do so through the decades, I have reverted to this. That weekend is something outside the timeline of my life. It is as if it was all a dream, so fantastic, so unreal, so joyous was the moment.
The performers included the following whose music I do recall if only to a limited extent. Jimi Hendrix, who played with fireworks filling the sky behind him at midnight on the 4th of July. The Allman Brothers Band, including a jam with Johnny Winter. The Chambers Brothers. (For which set, I stood directly in front of the speakers, as a result of which stupidity, my hearing has never fully recovered.) BB King. Grand Funk Railroad. Hampton Grease Band. Ten Years After.
Among the groups that I have no or only vague recollection hearing: Procol Harum. Poco. Terry Reid. Ravi Shankar. John Sebastian. Mountain. Spirit. Ginger Baker. Chakra. Cactus. Gypsy. Bloodrock. Captain Beefheart.
I know a number of folks who attended. I have read remembrances of the festival online. What fascinates me is how few speak of the musical moments.
The sounds were more a nucleus around which this grand, garish carnival evolved, an excuse for the gathering of southern tribes.
Considering the entire experience, I do have an acute feeling of personal evolution. I had taken the bar exam the weekend before the festival, didn’t think I’d pass it since I hadn’t studied much. And hadn’t a clue what was in store for the rest of my life.
It was your classic pivotal moment at the onslaught of adulthood.
So, hey, let’s go get stoned and rock.
I’d lived at home with my parents until my senior year in law school. My growth had thus been stunted. So my socialization abilities were still in their early stages.
Hey. let’s mingle en masse and talk jabberwok.
So, without getting too awfully philosophical, I’ll just offer that this eminently eye-opening weekend fostered a sense of freedom and wonder and creative possibility which I hadn’t previously conceptualized. Mostly it was just a load of fun.
As for specifics, there are but a few I remember.
An interlude where I handed a merchant enough Uniform Commercial Code razzmatazz in the middle of the night that he cashed a personal check for some biker dude. Which black leathered hulk expressed his appreciation by telling me he had my back in case I needed something taken care of during the festival.
Not wanting one blistering afternoon to walk all the way to the water spigot a mile away, I, much to the chagrin of Don and Merrily, filled our thermos with $3 worth of Pepsi.
Through my own personal haze, trundling back to our campsite on the final morning, while Richie Havens sang “Here Comes The Sun” at sunrise.
Camped next to us was a group, which included a gal who wore a wig the whole weekend in that awful heat, because she didn’t like the color of her hair after dyeing it. How antithetical to the whole counter culture ethos, I thought at the time.
A couple having sex the next blanket over, with the girl shouting in ecstasy “Ooooooooh, the stars!” While her head was resting on my lap. Trust me, it felt as odd at the time as it sounds now.
The pathway from our camping spot to the stage, lined with hundreds and hundreds of people selling drugs.
Laughter. Early. Often.
Juicy peaches bigger than my fist for a nickel.
The Heat. And I’m talking Fahrenheit not cops, which were essentially nowhere to be seen.
The Chambers Brothers doing “People Get Ready.”
Hendrix playing the “Star Spangled Banner” at midnight on the Fourth.
The Allman Brothers Band, whom I’d never heard before. Specifically, “Every Hungry Woman,” during which I was drawn closer to the stage as if it were a siren call.
The Hampton Grease Band.
Frankly, sadly, that’s about it for the music.
It’s not like I/ we weren’t paying attention to the sounds. It’s just that the entire experience was so overwhelming, that there was so much sensory input, so many diffused interactions that the music was but one element. An important one, but just one of many nonetheless.
I guess it’s fair to ask, beyond the fact that it was a super time, if there were any cultural imperatives to be learned from Atlanta Pop?
Well, yes. One, there is power in numbers.
Law enforcement was basically non existent. Byron had a couple of part time cops. A number of state troopers were sent to the scene. I’ve read that nobody was arrested, despite the drugs and nudity. There were just way more of us than them that weekend. Besides it was a ferociously peaceful gathering. (Apparently there was a brouhaha about opening the gates and freeing up the festival. It passed me by. We actually bought tickets in advance. $14 for the weekend.)
Pepsi doesn’t quench thirst like H2O.
Nobody had a clue who Ron Dante was? Nor much cared. (FYI, he was the studio guy responsible for The Archies. That’s right, “Sugar, Sugar.”)
Pith helmets are an effective way of protection from the sun.
Jimi Hendrix and Duane Allman — both of whom died within months of the festival — were the best. I’m grateful that I heard them live when they were still around. That I remember at least some of their playing there.
And that I can now, forty years after the fact, lord it over today’s guitar fawning youngsters.
The other weekend I was on a road trip with friends. We were playing oldies on the box.
One of the most maudlin tales of tragedy played — Ray Peterson’s “Tell Laura I Love Her.” Those of you who grew up with rock & roll, know the details all too well. Laura and Tommy were lovers. He wanted to buy her gifts, most of all a wedding ring.
Oh, why should you hear it second hand? Here’s Ray himself, still sharing the sadness after oh so many years (Wearing a tux out of respect for the departed.):
Listening in the car with more mature ears, I couldn’t help but wonder: 1) If Tommy and Laura were so close, why didn’t she know he was racing that night? 2) If Tommy couldn’t get Laura on the phone, why didn’t he text her? And, most of all, 3) Where was Laura that night, with Tommy’s best buddy, who apparently wasn’t at the race either?
I’m not sure exactly why, but there were any number of these teen weepers back in the Days of Top 40, News, Weather & Sports. The reason why is a cultural contemplation too serious for examination at this time.
But I do have some queries, since more than a few of these songs raised salient questions, which, frankly, we never asked back in the day. I guess it’s never too late to investigate.
Mark Dinning’s “Teen Angel” died in a car that was stalled on the railroad tracks. But, 1) If she went running back after safely out of harm’s way to get the high school ring, why wasn’t she wearing it around her neck, as was the style in the day? Didn’t she want her friends to know? 2) Why did the car stall? Didn’t her boyfriend have it serviced before their big date?
Did her family sue?
Speaking of stalled and smashed cars and dashed relationships, J. Frank Wilson’s “Last Kiss” was most sad:
I mean what happens if the kid 1) heeded his daddy’s warning to get some new tires and a brake check up at Ken Towery’s, or 2) kept two hands on the wheel instead of trying to cop a feel while driving?
Speaking of what on earth was he thinking — why was Jan Berry of Jan & Dean speeding in a Corvette at Dead Man’s Curve just two years after he sang these ominous lyrics, “Won’t come back from Dead Man’s Curve.?”
That, my fellow rock & rollers, is life imitating art.
It’s been said that his girlfriend’s dad put a voodoo hex on Jimmy, the Leader of the Pack. We’ll just never know.
But life back then was fraught with more than car crashes or motorcycle wrecks.
A walk on the beach could mean an end to a relationship that maybe just maybe wasn’t meant to be. Listen to Johnny Cymbal’s all too sad tale.
I mean if the kid was strong and courageous enough to kill the shark — with his bare hands — why on earth didn’t he do it before the beast chewed his significant other to death?
Speaking of being chewed to death, how about poor Timothy?
Well, we could go on and on, wallowing in the angst, decrying cars that stalled at the wrong place and wrong time. So let’s call it a day. But only after allowing eminent cultural observer Julie Brown to put it all in perspective.
Which means that all the questions I’ve got boil down to one.
Who’s Johnny?
Okay there’s more. Read on, s’il vous plait.
After being publicly humiliated by my host James Bickers during my weekly film review this morning, I feel compelled to add one more song to the mix: Dickey Lee’s “Laurie (Strange Things Happen)”. Laurie was an angel. Perhaps literally. Though she’s not to be confused with Teen Angel, who didn’t even live in the same town.
Anyway, the kid hooked up with Laurie — or so he thought — and she asked for his sweater to stay warm. Oh, the tale is too weird. I can’t go on. So, here’s Dickey:
Even though this was 1965, I must ask: Was this kid on LSD or what? Or was Laurie’s dad just being a schmuck?
Let me get the hyperbole out of the way at the start.
Here me now and believe me later. Little Feat is the most unappreciated band of rock’s halcyon days.
Period.
Bill Payne’s piano. Richard Hayward’s and Sam Clayton’s syncopated percussion. A southern sensibility that is both traditional and innovative. And, of course, Lowell George’s intelligent, nuanced, evocative and clever lyrics. Oh yes, there’s his signature slide guitar stylings, which legend says was taught to him by Bonnie Raitt.
When this album was released in ‘73, the band, with a few personnel adjustments, had put out two albums to considerable acclaim, “Little Feat” and “Sailin’ Shoes.” Both are worthy of your attention.
But “Dixie Chicken” put it all together. The sultry funk. The aroma of magnolia and marijuana. The slinky sensuality. Plus it rocks and you can dance to it.
How about a taste of the title tune, with some superstar help:
In case you miss the rock & roll elegance of that cautionary tale, here are the lyrics:
I’ve seen the bright lights of Memphis/ And the Commodore Hotel/ And underneath a street lamp, I met a southern belle/ Oh she took me to the river, where she cast her spell/ And in that southern moonlight, she sang this song so well
If you’ll be my Dixie chicken I’ll be your Tenessee lamb/ And we can walk together down in Dixieland/ Down in Dixieland
We made all the hotspots, my money flowed like wine/ Then the low-down southern whiskey, yea, began to fog my mind/ And I don’t remember church bells, or the money I put down/ On the white picket fence and boardwalk/ On the house at the end of town/ Oh but boy do I remember the strain of her refrain/ And the nights we spent together/ And the way she called my name
If you’ll be my Dixie chicken I’ll be your Tenessee lamb/ And we can walk together down in Dixieland/ Down in Dixieland
Many years since she ran away/ Yes that guitar player sure could play/ She always liked to sing along/ She always handy with a song/ But then one night at the lobby of the Commodore Hotel/ I chanced to meet a bartender who said he knew her well/ And as he handed me a drink he began to hum a song/ And all the boys there, at the bar, began to sing along
If you’ll be my Dixie chicken ill be your Tenessee lamb/ And we can walk together down in Dixieland/ Down in Dixieland, Down in Dixieland
Now, that’s a song, kiddies.
My favorite song on the album — truth be told, my favorite Little Feat tune of all — is “Fat Man In The Bathtub.”
Check it out:
Okay, some more over the top praise. Little Feat is the most underrated band of all time. How’s that for devotion.
Anyway, as happens so much, it was too good to last. At least in the group’s best incarnation. George, founder, leader and most aggressive drug advocate, broke the band up in the late 70s, casting aspersions on his bandmates Payne and Paul Barrere. Lowell George died not long thereafter of a heart attack, probably drug induced.
In ‘88, the remaining members, with some additions, reconstituted. The group’s first gig was on the Riverboat President at the New Orleans JazzFest. (Did you have any doubt, we’d end up there?) Bonnie Raitt sat in on slide.
The band has evolved through the years, and still gigs. Various personnel changes on the periphery haven’t changed the essence of the group. They’ve put out any number of albums through the years, including some amazing live shows. Most all deserve a listen.
There’s just something about those Texas singer/ songwriters.
It is at once one of the most fascinating and improbable of musical traditions. Hard drinking, crusty Lone Star guys with dust covering their boot heels putting elegant poetry to song.
Waylon Jennings. Willie Nelson. Kris Kristofferson. Townes Van Zandt. Okay, there are way too many to name. But I must mention Jimmie Dale Gilmore, whose voice is the most haunting of the lot, perhaps in all of contemporary pop music.
And, of course, Guy Clark, a fellow who can fashion a phrase with the best of them, say Chuck Berry, the kind that cuts right to the moment.
I’m a sucker for melancholy. So my favorite has always been the magnificent, “Desperados Waiting For A Train.” It’s a young man’s homage to the old fellow who took him under his wing.
Enough drab gab. Here’s a version, led by Clark and Nancy Griffin, along with a phalanx of genre superstars, performed one night on the Letterman show:
There’s a part of me that wants to post some other versions. Like the one by The Highwaymen. Or Clark doing it solo.
But the one above should have already ripped your heart to shreds. More would be superfluous. So I’ll let that one wash over you and leave it at that.
The Film Babe and I live in an old house. A great old house, but one that always needs something fixed.
This morning wasn’t bad. Just a couple guys painting the outside.
And a couple plumbers to check on an unpleasant odor that my sweetie senses every once in awhile. We decided to forgo the tests necessary, since it would have required setting off a smoke/ stink bomb. But, of course, while giving the house a thorough once over, they did discover a leak in my shower that had permeated the sub floor.
Like I said, it’s always somethin’.
And now on to the point of the blog, which is peripherally related.
I’m here in my office tracking down rumors to pass along, when I hear my better half and the Blackburn & Davis dudes talking in the dinette. When I enter the room which includes my stereo set up and entire music collection, one of the guys, Mark, says you should hear Conway Twitty and Sam Bush’s version of “Rainy Night In Georgia.”
At which point, I say, “Bush just played Jazzfest, but . . . ”
“Not Sam Bush,” he says, “Same Cooke.” As he points to the autographed 8×10 glossy of Cooke that hangs on my wall. “Check it out on youtube.”
Which I obviously did. After we called our general contractor Jim Phillips and his ace tile removal specialist Eric Stoess, who immediately come over to help the plumbers remove tiles in the shower in hopes of discovering the origin of the leak.
If you’re keeping score at home, the number of Thursday a.m. workmen at the house then totaled 6.
The upshot is gratitude for several things. The professionalism of the plumbers. That Jim Phillips, who did the major renovation of our house, continues three years later to provide amazing service. That the leak might just be a caulking problem easily remedied. (My fingers remain crossed.)
And that I discovered this video.
But wouldn’t you know it, the Sam wasn’t Bush or Cooke, but Sam Moore. He, of Sam & Dave fame.
Great song. Which I now present for your enjoyment.
Of course, I’m reminded of a Conway Twitty story from my youth. (Tell the truth, you’d expect nothing less, right?)
In 1958, at the age of 13, I was a guest deejay for three nights on WKLO. One of the big hits at the time was Twitty’s “It’s Only Make Believe.”
While introducing the song, I mangled his last name. Need I say how? I don’t think so. I was 13.
I loved that song. So, as a bonus, just for you, my loyal readers, here’s Conway lip syncing the 45 version.
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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?
