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.
Yes I was seriously predisposed to like this film.
It is after all a romantic comedy, in which a nerdy writer — Seth Rogen — ends up connecting romantically with the woman who babysat for him in his youth, who happens to be Secretary of State, and who happens to be running for President, and . . . most pertinently . . . who happens to be Charlize Theron.
I mean, a guy can hope, right?
That’s what movies are about most of the time, entertainment, fantasy.
The two connect as actors, making this whole rom com work, even if the plotline is familiar.
They are aided by a brilliant supporting turn by Bob Odenkirk, who plays the sitting president.
Context: New Orleans, the world’s most musical town, is a piano town and it is a horn town.
Kids don’t hide at their friend’s homes in the afternoon to avoid piano lessons.
It is a place where making the roster of the school band is not onerous but an honor.
The spirit force of Satchmo and Jelly Roll is strong, passing from generations to the next.
At this 50th Fest, there are lots of put together sets, honoring the icons of the past, who have influenced and continue to influence the citizenry and providing a harmony in the air down here.
In the Blues Tent before a throng busting its seams was The New Orleans Piano Professors Celebration. Current Masters of the 88s paying homage to their forefathers. Read the rest of this entry »
There are now two days at JazzFest when I have been simply sated, had my fill even though there was tuneage left to be heard, when I was OK to bid adieu before the music stopped.
In 1988, I felt comfortable enough to return to the indulgent charms of New Orleans and rejoined the Fest for the first time since I’d cleaned up my profligate act six years earlier.
I couldn’t get enough, running from stage to stage, heading into the night for more on the Riverboat. By the time the Neville Brothers Band, then at the height of their power took the stage the last day, I was just about consumed . . .
. . . then I heard for the first time Aaron, with only brother Art accompanying him on the piano, singing the lustrous “Arianne.”
Swooping. Soaring. Soulful. Shiver inducing. The Ultimate Aaron.
There was room for nothing more. I was full with satisfaction.
I turned, walked to the car, where I waited for an hour or so for my pals who stayed until the day’s end.
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.
Yes I was seriously predisposed to like this film.
Context: New Orleans, the world’s most musical town, is a piano town and it is a horn town.