I’m a rock & roll lifer. I got stories. Lots of stories. Here’s another.
Starting in ’70, the year I finished law school, somehow passed the bar, and got a real adult job, ventured into psychedelics, I also attended my first rock festival.
Where I heard the whole panoply of music being made in rock’s most experimental era. Bands I didn’t know that intrigued me.
So, having the means, I started going to every concert in town whether I knew the music of the groups on the bill or not. Most of the time I heard something that resonated.
If not, there was always the scene.
King Crimson topped the bill at one of those at the Convention Center in the early 70s.*
At least that’s how I initially remembered the show and submitted this remembrance. Until my knowing and alert editor at the FPL — thank you, Mel Fisher — wondered if it wasn’t the show where the headliner was actually Humble Pie? She sent me a photo of the concert poster.Read the rest of this entry »
Merrily, Don, the Mailman and I arrived in Byron, Ga. on the 2d of July in 1970.
The Atlanta Pop Festival would start the next day.
Little did I know it would change my life.
Arriving ahead of time allowed us to avoid the heavy traffic which backed up the interstate for miles. We set up camp on the grounds by a grove of trees, just a short walk to the festival stage area.
That Thursday night I meandered over to a small stage back in the woods across the road. I listened to a couple of bands, the name of only one of which I recall.
Chakra. How very 70s.
The other remembrance of that evening — the weekend was generally a blur for reasons that needn’t be explained — was a guy at the mic kept saying, “Stick around, Sky Dog is gonna come and jam.”
I had no idea Sky Dog was Duane Allman. I’d never heard him play — that I was aware of at the time — or even of him.
Before advising why you should consider reading John Wade Christensen’s “Coming Home: A Stranger In The Smokies,” allow me please to answer the question being asked by the elephant now staring over my shoulder.
Were it not so worthy of your time, would I be reviewing this book for public consumption?
Transparent answer: Yes.
John Christensen — the Wade he included to distinguish himself from another author — is my good friend.
During the halcyon daze of the 70s, when he wrote features, music reviews and sports for the Louisville Times, he was my next door neighbor.
He was my runnin’ podner.
There are tales. Some of which could be shared if there was time. Many of which shall remain sealed in a lock box hidden beneath the floor boards.
(I am referenced twice in the book, once in the acknowledgments, once in the text.)
For decades, he desired to write a book about his spiritual quest and evolution.
This is a remembrance of my first college concert.
James Brown Revue.
Fall ’63. In Doremus Gymnasium at Washington & Lee University in Lexington, Virginia.
For the full story we need to go back to where the story starts. The winter prior, my senior year in high school. When my pals and I discovered WLAC 1510 AM Nashville. (We were far from the only ones. Such as the Brothers Allman — Greg and Duane — have spoken of the station’s influence. So too, Robbie Robertson up north of the borderline.)
It is a 50,000 watt clear channel station, which means its signal carries long and far after dark. Which is when the station’s otherwise pro forma programming shifted into soul and blues. That which had not so many years prior been dubbed “race music.”
I fell in love, we fell in love, regaling each other in the mornings with tales of the evening before’s programming.
The DJ that we most loved was a fellow who on the air went as Big Hugh Baby. Hugh Jarrett had once been a member of the Jordanaires, backing Elvis often.
For us, he was the raucous guy whose patter was full of sexual double entendres, aimed it seemed directly at us and frat boys across the land. Though his primary sponsors were Royal Crown Pomade, baby chicks and Randy’s Record Shop in nearby Gallatin.
Guys would call in, advising Big Hugh on the air, they were in the midst of reverie, and needed some help. (As I did once during spring break in Florida.) Read the rest of this entry »
I live in a part of my hometown where everybody seems to be interconnected, where there are not a lot of degrees of separation. Where your cousin is likely to work with your neighbor’s uncle. The mother of your daughter’s current BF went to the junior prom 25 years ago with your boss’s brother. A former fellow bandmate of your Louisville contractor teaches guitar to your former fraternity brother. In New Orleans.
That kind of stuff.
An educated area, yet when asked what school one attended, the intention is to learn what high school, not college.
I’ve often joked that on my deathbed, two people will walk in together and provide the final tie in to everyone I’ve known.
I am used to connectivity.
So, I look for links in my life.
* * * * *
I am a huge music fan.
Rock & Roll.
I’m full with it, my history with it. I can tell you exactly where I was when I first heard “Walk Don’t Run.” What acts were on the bill at the first concert I attended. “Biggest Show of Stars.” On July 29, 1961.
I’ve often mused whether I’d have made it as I have to double sevens without tuneage to provide a necessary soundtrack along the way. Read the rest of this entry »
Sad-Eyed Lady of the Highlands/ Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes/ My lonely eyes, my second-line drums/ Should I leave them at your gate/ My sweet sad-eyed lady as I wait? — After Bob Dylan
Abbey had me at first lick.
Literally.
A couple of years earlier, Joanie and I had lost Lila the Love Dog, whom my bride brought into our relationship. Never having had a dog my whole life, my relationship with that loyal black lab taught me the reasons why people do.
They look in your eyes.
They steal your heart.
There was one of these please-take-us-home rescue dog events at Hogan’s Fountain.
Joanie was ready. I wasn’t sure.
While I was sitting on the ground as Joanie looked around, Abbey ran up to me and started licking my face.
This Independence Day marks the half century anniversary of the 1970 Atlanta Pop Festival.
The following memories of mine were written and published a decade ago on the occasion of the event’s 40th anniversary. They have been edited, and updated, though my memory of that time long ago far away is absolutely no better on its own than ten years ago.
Which is why I reached out to a few friends who were at the festival, and, I’ve included the memories of those who responded and have any somewhat cogent recollection at all. They are added in italics. c d k
Captain Canada and The Mailman.
It’s fifty years gone this Fourth of July 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 weekend outside Byron, Georgia, the tales told here are probably true, but perhaps not. Only the synapses of my and pals’ hippocampi know for sure. And they’ve long since lost most if not all connectitude to that time and place. Read the rest of this entry »
As I write this Saturday afternoon, I’m listening to old JazzFest classic sets at WWOZ.org, which the station will be streaming again Sunday the 26th, and next Thursday through Sunday, noon to 8:00 EDT.
Today’s sumptuous slate opened with Bonerama, which as I write I am confirming to myself might be my favorite of the current New Orleans fusion maestros. (I’d like to more definitive, but, my ears are easily turned, faves change on a whim.)
You know Bonerama’s like funk and rock and some second line Longhairish rumba, all fronted by — Ready for it? — a trio of trombones. Which they play straight up or synthesized.
I mean, ya know, it’s New Orleans. Where else?
And, listening to them open today with “Big Chief,” reminded me of a favorite JF musical moment I’d forgotten. Read the rest of this entry »
I, for one, am truly grateful that, among the gifts bestowed to us during the holiday season, are many of the year’s best films.
More important. Some of them are actual adult dramas, not just comic books and Star Wars reboots.
So, it has come to pass that Noah Baumbach’s heralded “Marriage Story” has arrived on Netflix. (That’s the new paradigm, kids, get used to it.)
The filmtells the searing tale of how Nicole (Scarlett Johansson) and Charlie (Adam Driver) deal with each other during the reality of their separation and divorce.
The film is most astutely observed, a sometimes funny look at the phenomenon that plagues about half of all marriages.
It is a master class in tour de force acting. Johansson and Driver craft two of the year’s finest performances.
For more details and observations of the film, listen to the podcast below:
First he stole the show in Tarantino’s Oscar-favorite homage to Hollywood circa ’69. And bested a Bruce Lee character while doing it.
Now, as an astronaut like his father before him, he is off to deep space to see if dad is still alive somewhere near Saturn?
Papa (Tommy Lee Jones) led a mission 16 years previous and hasn’t been heard from. Most feel he is dead. Space Control seems to believe he still lives and has gone rogue.
What we have here is another take on Joseph Conrad’s “Heart of Darkness,” full with Pitt’s voice over inner turmoil, just like Martin Sheen before him in “Apocalypse Now.”
Lots of cool CGI here. It does take place after in outer space.
Along with attempts for it to be more cerebral than your average popcorn fare.
For more details, and to find out if the film works or not, listen to the podcast below.
That I am able to review “Under the Silver Lake” is a testament to the new dynamic in the world of cinema.
The trailers for this film showed a year ago or so at the eight screen cineplex in my town that used to show indie films and small films and what used to be known as “art films.” Operative phrase: “used to show.” Now it’s all Avengers all the time, along with other lowest common denominator popcorn flicks. And the film itself never showed.
Sigh. Such is the nature of the biz.
So, if it weren’t for Netflix and Jeff Bezos Prime and their ilk, we’d never have an opportunity to see such as “Under the Silver Lake” and other oddities of interest, but not enough interest to make it to the Heartland on a big screen.
It’s the yin and yang of life.
So, I’m grateful, if somewhat exasperated.
As for the film, more details about which you can learn from listening to the podcast below, well, it intrigues, if not providing total satiation.
Andrew Garfield is an underachiever in LA, who meets Riley Keough one evening, when she’s swimming in his apartment complex pool. They flirt, cuddle and make plans to hook up the next day. But she’s gone, and her apartment is empty.
Garfield commences an odyssey to find her, and discover the meaning of other mysteries abounding in his neighborhood. Along the way, he is bombarded with decades of pop culture references.
I’m a rock & roll lifer. I got stories. Lots of stories. Here’s another. 
Merrily, Don, the Mailman and I arrived in Byron, Ga. on the 2d of July in 1970.
Before advising why you should consider reading John Wade Christensen’s “Coming Home: A Stranger In The Smokies,” allow me please to answer the question being asked by the elephant now staring over my shoulder.
This is a remembrance of my first college concert.
The header is not a misspell. Read on.
Sad-Eyed Lady of the Highlands/ Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes/ My lonely eyes, my second-line drums/ Should I leave them at your gate/ My sweet sad-eyed lady as I wait? — After Bob Dylan
This Independence Day marks the half century anniversary of the 1970 Atlanta Pop Festival. 
Who among us, in these oh so strange and perilous times, isn’t looking for some little way to escape?
Oh my, the power of suggestion.
I, for one, am truly grateful that, among the gifts bestowed to us during the holiday season, are many of the year’s best films.
It’s been a big year for Brad Pitt.
That I am able to review “Under the Silver Lake” is a testament to the new dynamic in the world of cinema.