Today was the last day for James Bickers as morning show host on FPK 91.9.
I do film reviews on that show every Tuesday morning at a smidge after 8:00 am.
Frankly, the banter between my host and myself through the years had gotten, well, more than a little testy at times. We used to do a quiz in which he’d play a film clip and I had to ID the flick. He was rarely inclined to give me full credit for identifying the movies. Why? Well, you’ll have to ask Mr. Bickers . . . if you can track him down now.
I would attempt to engage the audience with cultural bon mots. Mr. Bickers lives a solitary life, so most references passed him by. Instead of displaying even the merest scintilla of interest, he would feign displeasure. It was, frankly, not a good feeling.
During our last gig together, Mr. Bickers, out of the blue, indicated the tension that many felt emanating from the studio was simply radio shtick. Imagine my surprise. He never, at any moment during our 8 year run, indicated it was all an act.
Anyway, I guess I need to let bygones be bygones, move beyond my justified resentments, understand I’m not the lowly weasel Mr. Bickers would portray me to be, and forgive. Oh yes, and forget.
Therefore, to honor Mr. Bickers, on his last day on the job. I offer this testimonial.
Sayonara, mon ami. Don’t worry, I’ll lock the door behind you.
I hooked up with some pals yesterday afternoon at the Heine Bros. on Frankfort Ave. (Where did we meet before the rejuvenation of the coffee shop era?)
Sitting at the next table, having an animated conversation with her computer was a lovely young lady. She was talking with a friend . . . in France.
Who among us, even as recently as a score of years ago, could conceptualize the Skyped, connected world we now live in? Future generations will laugh, when viewing pictures of electronic devices connected by wires and cables.
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The evidence is anecdotal, but I must ask?
Now that it’s under the gun, what with Crit Luallen auditing and all, is MSD actually taking its job seriously? For the last month or so, it seems I’ve seen workers fixing sewer lines on every other block. And they actually seem to be working as opposed to taking a break. Read the rest of this entry »
There are but a few concerts that can even dare to claim the titles, “Best Concert Ever” and/or “Most Important Concert Ever.”
It’s clear to me that the T.A.M.I. Show was both. It was staged on two nights in Santa Monica in October, 1964, and released on film soon thereafter. The name stands for Teen Age Music International. It sits nearly alone in the throne of the pantheon of live rock & roll performances. (To hack up a metaphor.)
Beach Boys. Chuck Berry. The Barbarians. Marvin Gaye. Lesley Gore. The Supremes. Smokey Robinson & the Miracles. (You know, the more I think about it, even Woodstock can’t stand up to this lineup.)
And the Stones, full of themselves, insisted they headline the deal. Which is why I feel compelled to present 11 minutes plus of evidence why Jagger’s the pretender and James Brown the champ. As the Godfather of Soul is said to have proclaimed, “Nobody follows James Brown.” Here’s why:
I’m advised that available for purchase and consumption at least at one state fair — Iowa perhaps? — is this delicacy, Fried Butter.
Um, how cholesteriffic!!! You’d think they’d have the common sense to stuff that butter with a hard boiled egg, before coating it with sugared batter and dropping it in boiling oil. Then you’d have a real American treat.
While the Film Babe and I did not traverse the entirety of the fairgrounds last night, I don’t believe that particular menu item is available.
We did see a new perennial, the bacon cheeseburger with 2 Krispy Kreme® donuts replacing the usual bun. We did peruse a vendor’s stand, offering Fried Derby Pie®, along side a big ol’ tray of Fried Kool-Aid™. We scurried past quickly, our thinking that even inhaling the air around such foodstuffs might add avoirdupois and increase cholesterol readings. Read the rest of this entry »
The blown up black and white photo on the front of Donald Fagen’s keyboard told the story.
Sir Duke Ellington and his band.
It was a booming, brassy, big band-ish incarnation of Fagen and Walter Becker’s group — 11 strong + the 2 — that landed at the Palace, during this, their “Shuffle Diplomacy” tour. It was a good thing.
Frankly, it was not what I expected. Much to my delight.
Plus, the performance gave insight why the band took almost a score of years off from touring.
The thin, almost clipped arrangements and recorded versions of their songs — the ones we all identify as being uniquely Steely Dan — are but outlines for the duo’s final vision, penciled sketches for a later masterwork in oil, skeletons without flesh and sinew and muscle. With the addition of horns, added guitar and keyboard and crack back up singers, the songs have evolved as they were meant to. They are fleshed out, fuller, more complete, mature. Read the rest of this entry »
In the initial gauge of the nation’s mindset in advance of next year’s presidential election, approximately 4760 Iowans, a plurality of those participating in a straw poll, have stated Michelle Bachmann’s their woman.
Clear thinking, intelligent citizens of every political persuasion should be concerned, should hope this is not a harbinger.
I am not among those Democratic stalwarts, who desire that Ms. Bachmann nab the GOP nomination, based on the thinking that it would insure an Obama W. I care about my country. I believe it best to have two worthy candidates facing off to see who domiciles in the Oval Office. Read the rest of this entry »
I found myself in Fairdale the other day. (Okay, if you must ask a Highlands guy what he’s doing out there, know that the office of my dentist of long standing is right down the street from Fairdale HS.)
Coming off the ramp of the Gene Snyder onto National Turnpike, I saw a site I’ve never seen before in my town.
A convoy of sorts.
Three big military transport vehicles. Given their general dilapidated condition and the oil fumes they were spewing, I suspect Vietnam era issue.
They were ragged, but obviously a source of pride to those involved in . . . whatever. On one was a logo, reading “Ace of Spades.” On another, over a fire-breathing razorback, the moniker, “Wild Thing.” The third was designated, “Proud American.”
Trailing was an ancient Jeep, military issue also, designated “Wolfman.”
On the back of one of the trucks, somewhat explanatory, was a flapping sign reading, “We Support Vietnam Veterans.”
Riding in the bed of each of the trucks, like a ragtag guerilla outfit of some sort, were several guys, adults and young teens.
Mounted in each of the trucks were several machine guns.
It is a bracing moment when one’s compassion, sense of equality, and years of liberal beliefs are called into question.
If fosters knee jerk emotions one hopes never to consider.
I live in a bucolic neighborhood. Tall oaks, lots of shade. Managed yards. A minimum of litter on the ground. Though in an urban area, it is generally safe to walk the streets, even well after dark.
At the end of my block sits one of our gorgeous city parks.
Around the corner is a nifty little park with a playground, a relatively new service building with restrooms and a gazebo where concerts are held on summer Sunday nights.
Early yesterday morning, as the traffic for those heading downtown to work was just building, I jogged through that little park, past that gazebo. Read the rest of this entry »
Before getting on with these observations of President Barack Obama’s Catch-22, a caveat.
I can not think like a black man thinks. Nor see the world as a black man sees the world.
I know this to be true from experience.
A score of years ago, two well-meaning, intellectually inquisitive groups of fellows — one black, one white — decided to meet monthly. To discuss politics. Culture. Sports. Society. And the racial aspects of all those subjects. One month we’d meet at a place one group chose, the next month at a spot chosen by the other. Thus we were all taken out of our comfort zones to areas of Louisville where we might not otherwise travel.
The meetings were always cordial, never acrimonious. The purpose was to foster understanding, bridge gaps. There were certainly differences of opinion, often the perspectives were far apart. We were always respectful, striving for a common understanding.
One night the subject of a local personality came up. Several of the men of color were absolutely positive the person was a racist. They gave reasons. I know this personality, have spent time in his/ her company. I had never considered for a moment that he/ she was racist. Read the rest of this entry »
So after weeks and weeks and battles to the death, almost, with a talented but oh so stubborn web guru, my new site is up and running.
But, hey, you know that, you’re here checkin’ it out.
Pretty boffo, don’t you think?
Well, let me know. And, if you have any suggestions about other helpful tools you’d like here, let me know. Just click on that groovy “Contact Me” button at the top of the page.
I’ve got some new features coming soon. Which, to be frank and objective, I think you’re going to love. Announcements about same are, as they in the biz, Coming Soon.
How’s that for a tease?
So, anyway, welcome to the New, Improved, All Natural, Vitamin Enriched, Reduced Calorie CultureMaven.com. Check out the archives. Make yourself at home. Enjoy.
Otis Redding did not write “Try A Little Tenderness.” Nor did Stax/ Volt producer extraordinaire Isaac Hayes.
The tender ballad which became a standard in the pop lexicon was first put to wax in 1932 by a big band. The singer’s name: Val Rosing.
Lots of folks have done it through the years. Sinatra. Aretha. Three Dog, ahem, Night. Frankie Laine. Al Jarreau. And the proverbial many, many more.
Essentially Redding grabbed the song by the short and curlies and made it his own. The Greatest Soul Singer ever — please, no arguments — turned this gentle diddy into an anthemic R & B classic.
I was fortunate to hear him do it live at the single greatest concert I’ve ever attended at Louisville Gardens in the mid 60s.
I know we don’t talk much anymore. Okay, we’ve never spoken before, but I did try to reach you via email the other day. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one. Your web site was down, I assume, from so much traffic of all those wanting your ear on the debt ceiling smackdown.
Anyway, we live in the same town, essentially the same neighborhood. I almost built a house several years back right up the hill from your condo. But still live within a jog just a couple neighborhoods over in the Highlands.
We root for the same team, Mitch. I’m talking about the U of L Cardinals we both love so much.
The Cardinal hoopsters haven’t done so well when it mattered the last couple of seasons, in the NCAA tourney. We’re both looking for big things from Rick Pitino and his charges this coming season, maybe even One Shining Moment.
Today was the last day for James Bickers as morning show host on FPK 91.9.
