So people of the world. I don't know about you but as for me and my generation things have been a little shaky lately with a slew of our musical cultural icons biting the dust. Overdoses, heart attacks, cancer, and just plain old old age are yanking them out like there is no tomorrow. It makes you wonder who's gonna be next? Maybe me? I'm nowhere near being a cultural anything but I'm within the age bracket.
Donna Summer, Levon Helm, Robin Gibb, Davey Jones, Whitney Houston and Donald "Duck" Dunn are just the ones on my radar. Hell, could be another pile of them somewhere for all I know.
Now I am aware that the majority with the exception of Davey Jones (being a mega-teen idol and all) of the ones I mention would not be considered superstars of the magnitude of a McCartney, Elvis or a Dylan or even James Brown but I think they should be considered and remembered for their contributions to our and the worlds societies.
I will say right off that it will be very difficult for me to have the energy to even talk about Whitney Houston because I paid little attention if any to her music or career. I am sure she was very sweet and I know for a fact that I thought she was hot back in the early days but what she did to the great Dolly Parton's (I Will Always Love You) was too much for my sensibilities at the time. I guess I should be grateful on Dolly's part that Whitney... by selling a gazillion copies of the song... helped to fund Dollywood which has been a hillbilly retreat for the mid-western masses of the world as long as I can remember. And all-though I have never have or never will go there I am told it is a pleasant experience.
Anyway Whitney don't need me to defend her and just because I didn't get her thang don't mean she was talentless. Donna on the other hand I shall defend.
"But...who are you defending her against Jake?" you are most likely asking your computer screen at this moment bewildered by the thought that anybody would wanna diss the Queen of Disco.
I'll tell ya who daddy-o. The ones who were in the middle of a baseball field in Chicago towards the end of the 70's burning Disco records in raging fear of their culture being destroyed and all of their Styx and Eagle albums being taken out of hiding from under their lonely beds in trailer park farm towns across the nation and their like minded cohorts watching the burning on the evening news nodding their shaved heads in agreement while popping another beer can top smelling the first wafting aromas of fried grease emitting from the squalid kitchen where Debby the tin can wife is doing her best to hide her own sweet aroma... one that comes from swigging down Jack Danials all day in anticipation of what a wonderful evening it's a-gonna be when Dave comes home wanting his nightly squeezing's while the newest Boston record blasts away on the old Pioneer.
Not only did these so called open minded rocky-rollers types have it in for Donna, they also had it in for the Bee Gee's , ABBA, Chic, Tavares, The Trammps, K.C and his Sunshine Band, Kool & The Gang and a whole gaggle of talented musicians that didn't quite measure up to their high brow standards of excellence that would include tripe such as the aforementioned Eagles, REO Speedwagon, Van Halen and YES...YES for Christ's sake...I would rather have a drill shoved up my ass with a rusted wire brush attachment run at full speed in an Iranian prison than listen to one whole recording by YES.
Anyway...as for me I will take Dancing Queen anytime over Stairway to Heaven, Hot Stuff over Night Moves and Disco Inferno over all of the lousy evil records Kansas ever made.
When I was eleven years old I fell in love for the first time with a gal from across the street named Diane who had recently moved in. It was during the legendary media event that came to be known as the Summer of Love in 1967 or thereabouts that I was gnawed and bitten hard by the love bug. We swiftly became the cute couple skipping around town...me in my skin tight ribbed corduroy hipster pants belt fastened at the hip instead of the traditional front lock and load with the obligatory crisp paisley shirt tucked in ever so Jaggeresqe and of course my brand new Beatle boots added to the picture with Diana stunning in her flower power pants and polka dot shirt whew lord almighty we were a team and wouldn't you know it as with other couples on the go we had "our"song. A song every couple picks that they both for some reason yet to be figured out by scientists thinks defines them as said couple. Ours was Light My Fire by the Doors.
That said I in my own private Ohio-da-ho was listening to Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention, Cream, Jimi Hendrix, the Beatles, Dylan and secretly George Jones but Light My Fire was for us. Things went along real well for maybe, oh I don't know, a month and a half I guess until one day she ambled across Pine St. down my driveway ultimately pressing her sweet oval face against the screen of my bedroom window sadly to inform me that she was moving out of state within days and would never see me again. Well I must say that I failed to take that info like a young man should and immediately ran out into the backyard ducking into the over-sized doll house that my dad had built for my three year old sister by the skin of his superman construction hands and fell down on the plywood floor with a thud that could be heard across the universe crying rivers on the very floor where baby and I had lain just mere weeks earlier on a star studded night huddled in love where I received my first kiss...a kiss that has lasted 45 years.
A week after her moving my wretched heart ached beyond madness yet there was one consoling voice, or I should say voices, that came gurgling up from a vinyl 45 rpm record that I was playing over and over wearing out the groove with the lead singer saying "you don't know what it's like...to love somebody...to love somebody... the way I love you."
Yeah Mr. Pussyman. It wasn't Zappa that got me through the night nor Johnny Cash. It was the Bee Gee's. That's right baby. You hear me? Robin Gibb sang on that record. He also sang on Nights on Broadway, Saturday Night Fever, I Started a Joke, and countless other songs.
Robin Gibb dyed from the evil cancer this week.
Around that same time period The Monkee's TV show was being aired. Early on I heard rumblings like "they don't play their own instruments or write their own songs" like some government agency had condemned them to do that as part of a plea bargain or something yet I like many of my tween contemporaries of the era indifferent to hipsterism could have cared less. Let's be real here. I was listening to stuff that twenty year old hippy boys had never heard of. I could hold my own in any court of law regarding music cred. Still, gotta say, loved The Monkee's show. Davey Jones was no John Lennon but what the hell...Donovan was no Dylan but I really like Donovan. Davey Jones was enjoying his golden years in Florida when he dropped dead from a heart attack.
At first I wanted to play bass guitar. I wanted to because I saw Paul McCartney play one on the Ed Sullivan Show in 1964 on a black and white RCA TV and I thought at the time (as an eight year old) that he was the coolest...maybe safest of the Fab Four. Holding down the bass line was essential to my ears as a child infatuated with the latest tunes. Motown, James Brown, Sly and the Family Stone...even the hard living fast loving walking bass lines from Country artists of the day filled a void in me. The back bone, the groove, that was what I was talking about.
Donald "Duck" Dunn, bass player, session musician, songwriter, all around great guy died last week while touring Japan with the legendary guitarist Steve Cropper. Not sure what did him in yet. He was 70 years old so I'm kinda figuring drugs out. Makes no difference. You can listen to records from Booker T. & the M.G.'s, Bob Dylan, Muddy Waters, Neil Young, Steely Dan, Tom Petty, Rod Stewart, and millions of others including Levon Helm to realize his influence on the music of the last 50 years.
Speaking of Levon Helm. I met Rick Danko, band mate of Levon Helm who played bass for The Band among other instruments, co-writing some of their best songs, one night in Dayton Ohio in 1983 during a solo tour he was making inside a place called the She nightclub that used to be named The Cavern in the 1960's. A dive where I saw my first rock concert at a Saturday afternoon teen dance featuring the new musical rantings of a band known as the Outsiders playing their latest hit "Time Won't Let Me." By 1983 I owned a record store and was selling tickets to local shows so I had an in. The place was empty except for two bartenders, my sister, her boyfriend and me. It was obvious from the beginning of the night the place was run by leftover Dayton, Ohio wanna be gangsters. And it was equally obvious they were less than happy by the turnout. Rick, bless his heart, put on a show worthy of 600,000 fans...which by the way is the number of people who attended the Watkins Glen concert in the 70's featuring The Band along with the Grateful Dead. Thing was after the Dayton show the owners less enamored with Ricks legacy than I decided Rick failed to fill the place up therefore relinquishing his rights for full payment agreed to prior to the show.
As you can guess all hell broke lose with Rick being inebriated and all threats and bottles flying around as we strode in haste out to the parking lot hopping drunkenly into my borrowed Jeep chased by suited Italians hightailing down Riverside Dr. in the dead of murky humid night hair flying in the breeze towards what? Where? Turns out south towards suburbia tract housing clapboard plywood worker camps for the GM workers back in the forties sad yard mowing lots abandoned by the original owners left behind for the wild life of the new outer limits mall worlds of future even further from the heart of the forgotten city ending up at the Promoters abode death tired I and I wanting to grill Rick on all things BAND yet respecting his space giving him his peace on ragged sofa as promoter guy made peanut butter sandwiches at five in the morning.
My wife unlocked out door to let me in at daybreak. I made a feeble attempt of apology. She left for work at 8:00 and as tired as I was after she left I made some coffee and put on The Band Album... Music From Big Pink.
Levon Helm died from cancer a couple of weeks ago.
My Blog List
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Hiya pals...remember me? Of course you do you whipper snappers. Been wondering whats going on with old Jake have ye? Sure you have.
Well I gotta tell ya it's hard baring your soul and offering opinions on a semi-weekly basis talking bout' political environmental religious isms in these glorious days of Twixter, Faceback and G-spots...no I mean I-Pads, anyway how can I keep up with it all and you know that soon as I learn the latest technology it'll be gone by next week so where does it end? And what does it matter and why should I care?
What's going on with Jake? I'll give you the sad news first. I am aging people. Time isn't passing slowly. Getting older as it were. Turned 56 last month. Abraham Lincoln was assassinated at the age of 56 though in reality he looked at least 75. Davey Jones kicked a month or so ago. Heart attack. Bam...that quick. Levon Helm, great drummer and singer for legendary group The Band whipped after a long battle with the evil cancer. I'm closer to 70 than I am to 40. Whats up with that? I remember it being a big deal turning 40...even 50 for Elvis sake!
I know I'm rambling but that's why I put the word into my blog title. I mean, I want to write more on this blog it's just I have so little time spending it on other writing projects with the expectation of perhaps being published and hopefully cashing in.
Also, the thing is something will pop up on the radar screen of daily life seemingly interesting at first glance then just about the time you begin to consider yacking about it on your blog ten million other fools have beat ya to the punch not to mention the 24 hour whirligig so called news cycle on television and the truth be told I like many of you wonderful people after being constantly bombarded by mostly useless information I begin to reel from the reality that it's to much for my already too fragile mind.
Take for instance...
I watch a lot of DVDs and there on their way out so the experts say. CD's... I have a gazillion of them. Couple of years from now won't be able to find a machine to play them on and it kinda pisses me off like it did when LP's bit the dust because it's like I have to except this constant switching out of technologies and I know the reason why it is... to keep the economy flowing giving all of us the ability to fill up our cars with gas that costs ten thousand dollars a gallon freeing us to be able to drive to the Wall-Mart or the Wall as referred to by the man holding a "will work for free" sign who chain smokes like no other and does a different dance for every car that comes by with their windows down and the radio blasting.
Jeez Louise!
Anyway I knew a guy once who could sing the song "Young Girl" better than Gary Puckett. He worked in a warehouse operating a fork lift never once complaining wanting only to graduate the school he attended learning the particulars of auto mechanics only thing was he was a real introvert shying away from any notice towards his abilities in vocalization. He was married to a real mid-west gal known for her ability to comprehend the realities of daily living and the monies required to facilitate the foundational facts needed to keep the company running. He felt for her like you would a trapped mouse just inches away from the cheese.
That was just him. I forget his name. Wait...Jerry..yes that's it.
I guess what I am a trying to spit out here is that I'm back. Gonna tell ya some stuff in the future like about the creepy six month dream I had about an alien abduction last year.
Maybe.
I have to say though before I go that I really appreciate all my worldwide friends. You guys and gals in Russia...damn, I cannot wait to visit Russia.
Well I gotta tell ya it's hard baring your soul and offering opinions on a semi-weekly basis talking bout' political environmental religious isms in these glorious days of Twixter, Faceback and G-spots...no I mean I-Pads, anyway how can I keep up with it all and you know that soon as I learn the latest technology it'll be gone by next week so where does it end? And what does it matter and why should I care?
What's going on with Jake? I'll give you the sad news first. I am aging people. Time isn't passing slowly. Getting older as it were. Turned 56 last month. Abraham Lincoln was assassinated at the age of 56 though in reality he looked at least 75. Davey Jones kicked a month or so ago. Heart attack. Bam...that quick. Levon Helm, great drummer and singer for legendary group The Band whipped after a long battle with the evil cancer. I'm closer to 70 than I am to 40. Whats up with that? I remember it being a big deal turning 40...even 50 for Elvis sake!
I know I'm rambling but that's why I put the word into my blog title. I mean, I want to write more on this blog it's just I have so little time spending it on other writing projects with the expectation of perhaps being published and hopefully cashing in.
Also, the thing is something will pop up on the radar screen of daily life seemingly interesting at first glance then just about the time you begin to consider yacking about it on your blog ten million other fools have beat ya to the punch not to mention the 24 hour whirligig so called news cycle on television and the truth be told I like many of you wonderful people after being constantly bombarded by mostly useless information I begin to reel from the reality that it's to much for my already too fragile mind.
Take for instance...
I watch a lot of DVDs and there on their way out so the experts say. CD's... I have a gazillion of them. Couple of years from now won't be able to find a machine to play them on and it kinda pisses me off like it did when LP's bit the dust because it's like I have to except this constant switching out of technologies and I know the reason why it is... to keep the economy flowing giving all of us the ability to fill up our cars with gas that costs ten thousand dollars a gallon freeing us to be able to drive to the Wall-Mart or the Wall as referred to by the man holding a "will work for free" sign who chain smokes like no other and does a different dance for every car that comes by with their windows down and the radio blasting.
Jeez Louise!
Anyway I knew a guy once who could sing the song "Young Girl" better than Gary Puckett. He worked in a warehouse operating a fork lift never once complaining wanting only to graduate the school he attended learning the particulars of auto mechanics only thing was he was a real introvert shying away from any notice towards his abilities in vocalization. He was married to a real mid-west gal known for her ability to comprehend the realities of daily living and the monies required to facilitate the foundational facts needed to keep the company running. He felt for her like you would a trapped mouse just inches away from the cheese.
That was just him. I forget his name. Wait...Jerry..yes that's it.
I guess what I am a trying to spit out here is that I'm back. Gonna tell ya some stuff in the future like about the creepy six month dream I had about an alien abduction last year.
Maybe.
I have to say though before I go that I really appreciate all my worldwide friends. You guys and gals in Russia...damn, I cannot wait to visit Russia.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Time Out of Mind
Hello there pardners. Ole' Jake is finally back from rambling around the ranch ready for some serious ranting and raving. I know, I know, you don't have to scream at me. I left without notice. Left all my fellow daydreamers and dirt kickers in the lurch wondering just what the hell was going on. To be honest I had to get away. Had to split real quick before questions were asked. Get to my refuge. New Mexico is my favorite place in all the world, I mean other than the Greek Isles. It is there you can easily find isolation yet hardly feel alone. Where your neighbor has your back even if you don't know them. Instead of everybody knowing your name nobody knows it or if they do they don't care. Most people out there have aliases anyhow. And if you do happen to meet up with some of them at say Mary's Cold Beer Hole out on Rte.33 you can be sure not a one of them will come up to you and ask what it is that you do.
Anyway after the nurse told me the doctor said it was time for me to get back to civilization, or Atlanta as some call it, Peanut and I reluctantly stored our saddles and mended some fences, turning over the keys to the cabin to our trusty winter time trustee Captain Carl, a former tug boat captain from New Orleans I picked up hitch hiking one lonesome Sunday morning outside of Albuquerque headed who knows where just wanting high country where the chance of a levy breaking is as remote as The Simpsons TV show calling it a day.
"So Jake you rambling ranting raving rambler you, you gonna spill or what?" You inquisitive Europeans may want to ask. So yeah, why not, might as well blab. Get it off my big toe.
My summer vacation. One of the first of many events that began my summer vacation was the joining of THE FACEBOOK. Yes, I took the plunge. I dove in head first and now months later the crack in my skull while healing still awakes me of the night with frightful headaches.
Now let me be clear. I am 55 years old, somewhat cranky and very leery of these here modern times with its technological ways. I mean I just heard a so called news item that there is now a pill that will keep your hair from growing grey and it made me sad. In my mind there is at best maybe, just maybe twenty records...I mean CD's, no wait a sec...ipod....damn, I don't know what they call em' now. Let's just say recordings. Yes... recordings, made in the last twenty years worth listening to. It takes me hours upon hours to figure out how to download an upload. I refuse to purchase a GPS. I mean come on man I knew how to drive a bulldozer by the age of 10 and bought my first car with my own earned money by 15 years of age for Elvis sake.
Whew. That wore me out. Where was I? Oh yeah. THE FACEBOOK. So if you check out my rant upstairs you will find that the likelihood of me digging THE FACEBOOK scene would be rather slim. I am well aware that I will be treading on dangerous old man cliche' ground here by admitting to my apprehensiveness towards the new shape of things. Actually even coming close to admitting feeling creepy about it all is looked on as suspect. Especially if your in your fifties or sixties, unemployed or stuck in a dead in low pay job trying in vain to keep up with the times, times that seem to change every micro-second.
So with much trepidation and loathing I joined up. Enlisted. Threw in my hat. First thing that happened? An unprecedented flood of love, affirmation and adoration in the form of people, some family members and close friends, then half ass friends and acquaintances, even enemies wanting to be nothing but the best of friends with you. Oh Lordy I love it. Being connected will keep me from the roach filled hell hole of my destiny. Keep me from the low down nursing home where a big hog headed nurse woman snorts and grunts while filling my veins with goody juice designed to make me think I am ready to go disco dancing.
Then after a week or so certain prevailing trends began to emerge. The political blowhards, lefties and righties spewing hate filled rants without concern that it is about the same as if you were to walk into a crowded room, say the local DMV where someone from every walk of life (except for those rich enough to have someone circumvent the shitstem and stand in for them) are trapped ass down on god awful beige plastic chairs plugged into their cell phones waiting for the magic number to appear overhead undoubtedly befriending someone on Facebook while listening to ITune as the repo man texts them they are repossessing their car from the parking lot of the DMV and with all that going on they have to listen to a tourette syndrome induced rant from an ugly person that no body...and I mean nobody gives a rats ass about.
Yes...think about that. You know what I mean don't you. Yes, you do.
Sad lonely people in deep need of an ego boost and validation for their existence. Ones often not heard or consulted throughout life, mostly in high school, ignored repressed left dateless because of their severe acne and eternal weight problems. Those condemned to act favorably in kindness yet seething within pretending they're rebels without a rebellious bone in their soft roly-poly bodies. Usually from wealthy backgrounds. Boys, young men raised in a life of ease wanting to erase their man made guilt of being brought up in privilege by pretending they are Tom Joad traveling west on Rte.66 towards the California, rough tough Okie's just a-looking' for a bed without flea's and a decent job one you never really had to have did ya fat boy slim?
Good Grief!
Bottom line is THE FACEBOOK is okay I guess though I can't explain why. Just a feeling maybe. Creepy is more like it, like when you see every other guy in a vehicle whizzing by with a cell phone plastered to his face. What the hell is he talking about. Maybe business. Maybe what motel to meet his wife's best friend. Who knows. Thing is back in the day boys and men hated to talk on the phone. Yack about nonsense. Not only guys but everybody seems to be on this skateboard to hell landslide of idiotic technology. Old bastards, twelve year old girls, women with a van load of baby's stuffed in baby seats with pop tarts shoved in their mouths eye's glued to the drop down television playing lousy 3D movies in an attempt to shut em' up so mommy can endlessly blab to her mommy about how empty her life is. Even taking a walk you have to beware and walk towards the traffic straining at least one eye to get a glimpse through tinted windshields to read body language in an effort to escape being mowed down on the sidewalk by a distracted driver. Give me a drunk driver any day over a cell phone nut.
See what I mean? No wonder I took some time off. Once I get started who knows where it will lead.
Enough about that. Guess I should go off about my two wife vacation on an island.
But first...hey Russian pals when you gonna drop a line? I know I have been away but c'mon lay it down comrades. I heard the news today oh boy that Vladimir Putin is a running for President of yon country. Time O' Day I wanna ride the Siberian Express. Slide across the frozen tundra. Putin reminds me of the new Bond guy. He fishes, he hunts, jeez....what if... I mean what if him and Sarah...I almost hate to say it. I can't. Sorry.
And my Indian friends, you still with me? You know how I love Bollywood. Those meandering beggin' songs. A few hip hop artists over here could really use your expertise on begging especially without the use of singing into a plastic tube. But man do I dig those sitars. Shake baby shake. George Harrison loved them. Good enough for me. And I love the clothes you guys wear. Well not the guys because your kinda dull. But the broads....sweet. All those colors.
You know what. I desperately want to opine about my two wife vacation but I am afraid the baseball playoffs on the TV are a-calling me. And the good lord knows how I love baseball. So forgive me if I hit the old trail here. Don't fret though. Two Wife Vacation is on deck. Followed by The Death of Guitarded. Maybe.
Happy Trails To You.
Anyway after the nurse told me the doctor said it was time for me to get back to civilization, or Atlanta as some call it, Peanut and I reluctantly stored our saddles and mended some fences, turning over the keys to the cabin to our trusty winter time trustee Captain Carl, a former tug boat captain from New Orleans I picked up hitch hiking one lonesome Sunday morning outside of Albuquerque headed who knows where just wanting high country where the chance of a levy breaking is as remote as The Simpsons TV show calling it a day.
"So Jake you rambling ranting raving rambler you, you gonna spill or what?" You inquisitive Europeans may want to ask. So yeah, why not, might as well blab. Get it off my big toe.
My summer vacation. One of the first of many events that began my summer vacation was the joining of THE FACEBOOK. Yes, I took the plunge. I dove in head first and now months later the crack in my skull while healing still awakes me of the night with frightful headaches.
Now let me be clear. I am 55 years old, somewhat cranky and very leery of these here modern times with its technological ways. I mean I just heard a so called news item that there is now a pill that will keep your hair from growing grey and it made me sad. In my mind there is at best maybe, just maybe twenty records...I mean CD's, no wait a sec...ipod....damn, I don't know what they call em' now. Let's just say recordings. Yes... recordings, made in the last twenty years worth listening to. It takes me hours upon hours to figure out how to download an upload. I refuse to purchase a GPS. I mean come on man I knew how to drive a bulldozer by the age of 10 and bought my first car with my own earned money by 15 years of age for Elvis sake.
Whew. That wore me out. Where was I? Oh yeah. THE FACEBOOK. So if you check out my rant upstairs you will find that the likelihood of me digging THE FACEBOOK scene would be rather slim. I am well aware that I will be treading on dangerous old man cliche' ground here by admitting to my apprehensiveness towards the new shape of things. Actually even coming close to admitting feeling creepy about it all is looked on as suspect. Especially if your in your fifties or sixties, unemployed or stuck in a dead in low pay job trying in vain to keep up with the times, times that seem to change every micro-second.
So with much trepidation and loathing I joined up. Enlisted. Threw in my hat. First thing that happened? An unprecedented flood of love, affirmation and adoration in the form of people, some family members and close friends, then half ass friends and acquaintances, even enemies wanting to be nothing but the best of friends with you. Oh Lordy I love it. Being connected will keep me from the roach filled hell hole of my destiny. Keep me from the low down nursing home where a big hog headed nurse woman snorts and grunts while filling my veins with goody juice designed to make me think I am ready to go disco dancing.
Then after a week or so certain prevailing trends began to emerge. The political blowhards, lefties and righties spewing hate filled rants without concern that it is about the same as if you were to walk into a crowded room, say the local DMV where someone from every walk of life (except for those rich enough to have someone circumvent the shitstem and stand in for them) are trapped ass down on god awful beige plastic chairs plugged into their cell phones waiting for the magic number to appear overhead undoubtedly befriending someone on Facebook while listening to ITune as the repo man texts them they are repossessing their car from the parking lot of the DMV and with all that going on they have to listen to a tourette syndrome induced rant from an ugly person that no body...and I mean nobody gives a rats ass about.
Yes...think about that. You know what I mean don't you. Yes, you do.
Sad lonely people in deep need of an ego boost and validation for their existence. Ones often not heard or consulted throughout life, mostly in high school, ignored repressed left dateless because of their severe acne and eternal weight problems. Those condemned to act favorably in kindness yet seething within pretending they're rebels without a rebellious bone in their soft roly-poly bodies. Usually from wealthy backgrounds. Boys, young men raised in a life of ease wanting to erase their man made guilt of being brought up in privilege by pretending they are Tom Joad traveling west on Rte.66 towards the California, rough tough Okie's just a-looking' for a bed without flea's and a decent job one you never really had to have did ya fat boy slim?
Good Grief!
Bottom line is THE FACEBOOK is okay I guess though I can't explain why. Just a feeling maybe. Creepy is more like it, like when you see every other guy in a vehicle whizzing by with a cell phone plastered to his face. What the hell is he talking about. Maybe business. Maybe what motel to meet his wife's best friend. Who knows. Thing is back in the day boys and men hated to talk on the phone. Yack about nonsense. Not only guys but everybody seems to be on this skateboard to hell landslide of idiotic technology. Old bastards, twelve year old girls, women with a van load of baby's stuffed in baby seats with pop tarts shoved in their mouths eye's glued to the drop down television playing lousy 3D movies in an attempt to shut em' up so mommy can endlessly blab to her mommy about how empty her life is. Even taking a walk you have to beware and walk towards the traffic straining at least one eye to get a glimpse through tinted windshields to read body language in an effort to escape being mowed down on the sidewalk by a distracted driver. Give me a drunk driver any day over a cell phone nut.
See what I mean? No wonder I took some time off. Once I get started who knows where it will lead.
Enough about that. Guess I should go off about my two wife vacation on an island.
But first...hey Russian pals when you gonna drop a line? I know I have been away but c'mon lay it down comrades. I heard the news today oh boy that Vladimir Putin is a running for President of yon country. Time O' Day I wanna ride the Siberian Express. Slide across the frozen tundra. Putin reminds me of the new Bond guy. He fishes, he hunts, jeez....what if... I mean what if him and Sarah...I almost hate to say it. I can't. Sorry.
And my Indian friends, you still with me? You know how I love Bollywood. Those meandering beggin' songs. A few hip hop artists over here could really use your expertise on begging especially without the use of singing into a plastic tube. But man do I dig those sitars. Shake baby shake. George Harrison loved them. Good enough for me. And I love the clothes you guys wear. Well not the guys because your kinda dull. But the broads....sweet. All those colors.
You know what. I desperately want to opine about my two wife vacation but I am afraid the baseball playoffs on the TV are a-calling me. And the good lord knows how I love baseball. So forgive me if I hit the old trail here. Don't fret though. Two Wife Vacation is on deck. Followed by The Death of Guitarded. Maybe.
Happy Trails To You.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Guitarded With The Wind-Chapter II-The Levee's Gonna Break
"How many times have you heard someone say
If I had lots of money, I'd do things my way
But little they know, that it's so hard to find
One rich man in ten, with a satisfied mind"
"I am so disappointed in all of you. I go out and buy a brand new guitar. Not just any old guitar mind you but a brand freakin' new pink electric guitar for you guitar players, you chord playing wizard wiz's and what do I get from my investment? Tired old renditions of Hendrix playing the Star Spangled Banner for Elvis sake. Could not just one of you Tards give me at least a lick of Sweet Home Alabama? How bout' some Charlie Danials or Marshall Tucker for crying out loud. I mean come on people why is it you forever fail to see how tired I am?
Memph felt justified in his diatribe and I could relate. His sorrow came not from our inability to maximize the full throttle of the Sunflower Sears Silvertone amp but from our lackadaisical ways and means. It was obvious he was fed up. His jowls hung sad during the press conference just two weeks away from the Sun Sessions.
Guitarded Press conference Atlanta Georgia
May 5th, 2011
" Yeah, were going to Memphis, gonna check out Graceland" Memph gargled after his last gin and tonic. Gonna hang at BB's and all that groovy shit. But I have to say that I am extremely concerned about the flooding situation happening round' there. "
He looked like a gangsta hobo that's been up for three days, unshaven, wearing a boxers hoodi, dark porn star sunglasses, torn jeans and purple cowboy boots. By his side as usual sat Pretty Polly looking like a 19th century French painting with legs. Her turquoise eyes and laser beam attention firmly planted in the direction of her man.
He looked like a gangsta hobo that's been up for three days, unshaven, wearing a boxers hoodi, dark porn star sunglasses, torn jeans and purple cowboy boots. By his side as usual sat Pretty Polly looking like a 19th century French painting with legs. Her turquoise eyes and laser beam attention firmly planted in the direction of her man.
"Do you have a contingency plan? Are you going to be able to record? You do know high water is rising, do you not?
" I do have an uh, believe it or not, engineer that looks after such matters" he belched boozy style. " A gal in the know if you know what I mean and she has assured me that the levee will not in fact break despite all the dour predictions from pop culture icons such as Charlie Patton, Memphis Minnie and last but not least Led Zeppelin.
"Tell me Memph, if that is your real name, how do you explain your appeal?"
"I defer all expectations"
"Do you own a home?
"Well now it all depends on your definition of home."
"Have you ever felt deep regret over decisions you have made in life hurling you violently into mind numbing depressions?"
" I prefer not to answer that question other than to say don't ask me no questions and I won't tell you no lies."
"Please name the best and the worst book you have ever read."
"The Bible"
"I do believe y'all are missing the point" Polly chimed in. "Its like Hank Williams said a long time ago, (if you've never plowed a field behind a team of mules you can't sing country music.) Now true, it was most likely a metaphorical statement and everything but gee whiz ain't you ever wallowed around at the break of dawn naked rolling in the summer dew blanketed in the fragrance of sweet magnolia blooming as a lonesome train moans low in the distance down a lonesome track. Time of day people, time of day."
The room was as dismal as a DMV office on a Monday morning. Poor indifferent souls waging war on cellphones stuck slack kneed on plastic chairs trapped neath the unforgiving truth of florescent light in want of a real story, one that will sell, not quaint little antidotes about the songs but dirty laundry innuendo and vague rumors.
"Have you ever felt deep regret over decisions you have made in life hurling you violently into mind numbing depressions?"
" I prefer not to answer that question other than to say don't ask me no questions and I won't tell you no lies."
"Please name the best and the worst book you have ever read."
"The Bible"
"I do believe y'all are missing the point" Polly chimed in. "Its like Hank Williams said a long time ago, (if you've never plowed a field behind a team of mules you can't sing country music.) Now true, it was most likely a metaphorical statement and everything but gee whiz ain't you ever wallowed around at the break of dawn naked rolling in the summer dew blanketed in the fragrance of sweet magnolia blooming as a lonesome train moans low in the distance down a lonesome track. Time of day people, time of day."
The room was as dismal as a DMV office on a Monday morning. Poor indifferent souls waging war on cellphones stuck slack kneed on plastic chairs trapped neath the unforgiving truth of florescent light in want of a real story, one that will sell, not quaint little antidotes about the songs but dirty laundry innuendo and vague rumors.
" How about you Velvet, what's your take in all of this"
" All I want to do is knock out the songs as intended away back then and leave no stone unturned if ya get my drift. Memph knows what I'm talking about, he always does. And besides, what's wrong with a little nostalgia now and then? Anyway Memphis is not just about Elvis pal. You got yer Sun Studio and yer Stax Museum of American Soul Music, Beale St, the Martin Luther King Memorial, the Reverend Al Greens Full Gospel Tabernacle Choir church where on any given Sunday Mr. Green himself is known to show up and sanctify the throngs with his sweet lord o mighty dead funk soul serenades guaranteed to send you into the isles in spastic undulations not seen since the day they only shot Elvis from the waist up on the Ed Sullivan Show."
" Alright, we...us press agents... have become accustomed to your witty banter so were gonna drive to the nutshell. What is the real purpose of your visit to Memphis?"
"I want to answer that if I may" came the edgy little squeak from none other than Frida French. Her respectful plea belying the real venom about to shoot forth. Although a noticeable change in her presence and demeanor has occurred since our last rehearsal. For one thing she was wearing an Indian sari, had dyed her hair jet black and was wearing long dangling pyramid shaped silver earrings and centered inside was a laughing skull with the letters "TCB" on the forehead of the skull. All no doubt carved out by Kenny early one morning back in his anchorite hole in the swamp behind the main lair he shares with Frida.
Another peculiar aspect was upon her arrival, walking through the door her eye's were shut and she was being led by Kenny whom walked her slowly to her seat behind the press table placing her inches from the microphone where she sat cross legged on her chair with her hands clasped together under her chin as if she was deep in prayer.
I knew something was going on from the last practice when she kept insisting that we should all only play sitars on all of the song, oh, and maybe a cowbell. She was determined yet calmer than I had ever seen her which put me on edge straight away being used to the darting eyes and acid tongue. Anyway I had other problems to deal with that night. In particular Memph showing up late from the last of the deprivation tank sessions he began attending weeks earlier coinciding with his sudden infatuation with sad wistful folksy type meandering songs.
And then once he arrived he was extremely distraught over hearing the news on some local college radio station as he was driving in on a show dedicated to destroying the myths surrounding movie stars and musicians and they had somehow zeroed in on one of his heroes, the rough end of the world voiced singer from the 60's named Barry McGuire whom recorded a hit song called Eve Of Destruction followed by a few flops before drifting into obscurity was not the super folkie he had imagined. He learned that McGuire eventually crawled out as a born again-er in the lost 70's making records like "Barry McGuire, The Polka Dot Bear aka The Story of Creation" and he would show up at gigs wearing a polka dot bear suit to the dismay of the hippie leftovers waiting in hushed silence to be reminded of the good old days once more and to be reaffirmed for the hundredth time that the end was near and the eastern world was exploding.
"Our mission, if you so discern," Frida continued, her eyes still closed. "Is not to make a mockery of the established hierarchy on Beale St., no...mind you... no. Our mission...now let me get this straight... my mission is to overturn the established rule of male dominance that controls and dominates our lives keeping us from rising above the glass ceiling. "
"I must admit before entering this den of iniquity I professed a vow of silence yet find myself unable to refrain from informing all of you that opinions are pointless and when you really get down to it the expressing of opinions in certain circles could be considered to be an act of violence.
Frida's husband Kenny is having none of it. Sitting stoned faced, his chair on the back two legs, his back resting against the stained fading wall, palms resting on his thighs, fingers tapping out some internal tune with each finger individually adorned with his own custom made silver skull rings.
"Uh, please excuse me Mr French, uh, Bill Blandings here from the United Commodity Free Press. Would you be so kind as to explain one of the songs you will be recording while in Memphis. I believe the name of it is, and forgive me if I get this wrong, uh Red Hot? And if I am correct in my assumption of said song how can you possibly justify the obviously sexist lyric structure and be able to perform it without embarrassment? Not only that song but the vile shotgun shack tune referred to as King Bee recorded by a known rabble rouser named Slim Harpo. What is your comment now Mr. French?"
Squeamish gasps came from the reporters in the know and from the rest of us Guitards, even from his wife Frida knowing full well French never talks about the songs he performs and when asked at minimum the interview is over and at least he is in jail and the questioner is recuperating in the hospital.
French's chair came down squarely on all four legs. In death like silence the gathered awaited his response the way you would anticipate being electrocuted. Eternal seconds sludged by as French deliberately, painfully, with the tiniest of movements, adjusted his Ray Bans exposing the bare minimum a human can express with their eyes in a glare towards the questioner designed to dismantle and lay to waste any further idiotic attempts to get inside his soul.
"Honestly Bill... Mr. Blandings, excuse me, if I may, what I would like to do at this moment is take you over to my house, give you a drink or two, show you around the inside, my pool room, my master bedroom, hell, even my den with the moose head on the wall. Feed you a nice hearty comfort food type of meal. Get you all cozy and gooey.
Then, you know, right about then, I'd love to take you out and show you my well house. Yes, that's right, my house is over a hundred years old and it has a well house. It also has a pot bellied stove in each guest room with complimentary piss pots but that's beside the point. The well house is deep enough in the ground alright. The door creaks when you open it and their are cobwebs everywhere. It has a dirt floor. It is dank. Know what Blandings? You wouldn't like it there. You follow?"
Pretty Polly began to chirp softly like a bird caught on a barbwire fence in fear of what was about to happen. Other than Memph she knew French better than any of us and she also recognized like the rest of us the eerie similarity between his lingo and The Colonels.
"Okay Bland Boy Nobody, just for fun and because Frida will get her thrill from this I will answer your question although herein lies the dilemma. My response to your lousy question will be a tale, a narrative if you wish, and you must listen like you have never listened to a story before. Not one your mama told you as a child to keep you from peeing the bed or one some old preacher laid on you in an attempt to keep the checks coming in. No sir, gonna be different this one is. You follow?"
Someone with the intelligence of an alien had the foresight to dim the lights. A sanctified hush blanketed the crowd. Cellphones silenced not in reverence but in fear as French leaned into the gold plated microphone to speak.
"I grew up on Elvis and Cash you little shit," he growled in a voice not from heaven nor hell. "I knew as a youngin' their worth. I didn't have to be a genius kindergarten wunderkind computer hack to figure it out. They were my founding fathers you dig? Real hero's with with balls galore.
" It's easy to think you are some kind of rebel I bet. Doodling around in your warehouse mind believing your some kind of bad ass Sting type or whoever it is from your particular age group you like to pretend you are. Sure, you had it hard growing up...not knowing which computer to choose from on the list of prepaid computers your parents gave you to shut you up for Christ's sake just for one simple moment of calm. Then again its like Faulkner, or the way Lucinda Williams brings to mind Faulkner.
Or Lenny Bruce for that matter. You think your some kind of American idol? How's this piss ant. Drive around Memphis all day in 1954 driving a delivery truck hauling who knows what kind of detergent beat poor going home to a cramped Roosevelt dwelling where the walls stink and the sun don't shine then get up early in the morning and drive your southern ass around till you reek of disappointment pulling up in front of Sun Studios with nothing left to lose other than your mind wanting only to hip shake daddy and affirm that it's alright mama."
Yeah, I'll tell you a story alright. Once upon a time I worked in a record store up Detroit way. Owned by a black guy by the name of Jimmy. Called it Jimmy's Records. Jimmy was in my mind at the time the hippest dude around. Had a Fro that couldn't be beat. Fact is I went to a beauty parlor and had my white ass hair frizzled up just like his. Lasted at least three years. Anyway, Jimmy ran a tight operation. Soul and sweet rhythm and blues was his bag baby. And cocaine, oh yeah, that was another side of Jimmy. Ran the business out of the basement of the record store. He was a pillar of the at least black community with a beautiful wife and three children all in college, two daughter beauty queens and a handsome son ready to inherit the family jewels.
He hired me cause he wanted the white angle. See, Jimmy was about money and he knew that I could bring the white chicks in, maybe even some dudes. Everything worked tight and even till mid "77" when the cops became aware of his goings on and immediately shut down his operations.
But here's the kicker. Just mere hours before the raid went down I am in my customary role of soul loving white dude spinning Boogie Nights for the gazillionth time for my faithful customers and lord have mercy here comes this crazy ass white broad bounding into the store pushing off the regular clientele as though she owed the place determined to achieve her objective which I found in time was to buy the latest recording by Elvis Presley.
Now Elvis hadn't had a hit in a while so my natural inclination was to assume that the woman, like me, was prone to E attacks. You know, your walking down the street humming little ditty's like the Sammy Davis Jr's song Candy Man or Seasons In The Sun by Terry Jacks. Then without warning this unseen force enters into your soul taking control of your faculties as a seed planted deep down that blooms outward in sunflower yellow flooding your already too fragile mind as your other mind up and gets a mind of its own where without thinking you follow your stumbling heart usually ending up inside the nearest record store in desperate need of a shot of the King.
Before that theory played out though I received a call. It was from my darling girl Lori from the north country. She was in tears asking if I had heard the news. "What news?" I mumbled knowing something was up seeing how before me stood a line of whites and blacks all wanting nothing but Elvis records.
He's d-e-a---? I breathed into the phone. I knew it but couldn't sound it out. A chill gnawed into my spine. Compressed images of Elvis roared through my mind as my other mind focused on the throng steadily filing into the store. So called people of all races and ages were pouring into Jimmy's little soul store with nothing more than than money making on their minds. I tried to figure out the enemy from the true believers but it was like I was stuck inside a painting that is hanging in the Louvre leaving me frozen in the moment with my back stuck against the wall.
That night lady and I held each other oh so tight inside the moldy basement or her tenement building equipped with an ancient floor model stereo swaying... grinding reverently to the croon of I can't help falling in love with you crying dripping Tupelo honey sweat chilled to the devil bone trying in vain to rationalize the cruelty of fate and the fragility of life determined from that sad moment on to live my life on the square cover my body with tattoo's make skull rings and visit Graceland every year until the day I go to meet Elvis in the sky.
Sure, it was rough in the beginningbut I new I had to get out of Detroit fast forsaking my first true love and throw myself on the mercy of the world hitting the road with a vengeance stoked with an urge for going like I'd never known before with the realization I had to keep running till the end of time because they are right behind you baby the factory line chicken beak slicing backstabbing sales gods standing in corrupt righteousness hiding behind podiums preaching professing proclaiming the virtues of Amish work ethics all the while hiding behind the apron strings of suburban baby buggy two dog car garage house hens giving up a quarter of their lives wondering who the next prefab idol will be and they chase you see wanting to convince you of the wonderment of their modern life justifying their misery till you end up hiding out on a mountain side outside of San Francisco looking down at the pods being loaded onto ships just like that movie Invasion of the Body Snatchers and you wonder are you one of them or not.
So, before all of you reet-petite Minnie mouses start mulling over in your sublet minds the next inane question to ask me about the color of my socks or do I prefer milk over Jack Danial's remember this little tale and save your lousy breath."
"You, Kenny French are more full of shit than a Christmas turkey." Memph opined. "You actually want us Guitards, the press peoples, the weathermen and might I add women if your so inclined, to believe that load of crap?
Who would you be without me pal? I set you up not to let you down. I wanted you to fill the void left by Vat Barge. God only knows what a waste that creep was. Let's talk about it shall we? Lets go there itchy face."
The crowd that had dwindled down to about eight people listening reverently as Memph laid out his tale of woe.
"Barge was a friend of mine in the beginning, I do admit that. He would hang around the house slack like for hours on end. At times I wondered about his sanity yet never held it close to my chest as others would have you to believe. He had a few gal friends although nothing serious. Most of the broads he hung with tired easily of his guitar meanderings. Although I have to say there were rumors, innuendo if you may, about his association with the boss of the clothes line plant where he worked.
He took Karate lessons on the side thinking that's what the chicks liked but the funny thing was in reality couldn't kick his way out of a wet paper bag. Why? Cause he has no balls. No amount of muscle on earth can beat back crazy. You got me? Nothing. I know men that will call up the police and tell them the second they are gonna take somebody out by a slit of a neck at the edge of night when all are sleeping genteel like secure in their chicken shit minds to come pick them up on murder charges and feel righteous and secure in their knowing they did the right thing.
His worthless life consisted of flashing bull like over-sized cigars in your face and tricking pussy people into believing his rock and tumble loner loser shtick guitar man that knows the first licks of Brown Sugar greasy style yet who in reality is forty something and lives off and on with his trendy beige wearing upscale parents.
Yeah, I gotta say, he could play guitar. Only problem was he would start a song then about a line or two in he would drop out. He played mostly cliched rock star ramblings that ten million people on earth know how to play. Oh lordy could he pick the worst shit on earth. Like that idiot YES song called Roustabout, eh wait a sec, um...no that's an Elvis movie, uh Roundabout, yes, that was the drivel he usually started out the evening with before moving on to the intro of Smoke On The Water and other assembly line songs.
The strangest thing about this dullard though was his penchant for bitching about every restaurant, party, movie house, gay bar, cigar holding demonstrations, AA meetings, clothes folding seminars, Kris Kristofferson look alike contests, and the monthly meetings with other musicians in the Atlanta area unable to finish songs care group he attended. After every event...I mean... say you had a party, and in the days following you received many thank you's about the get together and how much fun was had by all then maybe, I don't know, maybe a week later your attending a Christmas party at a local business feeling groovy eating pretzel snacks while enjoying a Corona Light when all of a sudden Kristofferson walks sullenly over to you asking if he may have a word. And let me tell you before I go on if that ever happens to you get out quick and call the police. Anyway, like a man with a severe case of tourette syndrome he blurts out that your party was the WORST PARTY THAT HE HAS EVER BEEN TO.
Well, that was this cat. The worst movie, the worst AA meeting. I mean he would go up to the ticket office of a movie house a month after watching the latest addition of the Harry Potter series, just walk right up to the teller teenager boy or girl and just lay them out about how the sound system sucked or there was a leftover candy bar wrapper on the floor within five feet of his right foot.
"Whatever happened to him" one of the two professional reporters left asked sheepishly.
"Well, I'll tell ya" Memph went on. "If it twas anybody else a man would have to feel sorry for the bastard. It was on the night of our last rehearsal with him in the band. The rest of us had already met previously in secret to decide if we were going to kick him out of the band for refusing to finish songs.
As usual he came in late looking disheveled and haggard but that was nothing new because that was his look. See, he was the cleanest of all us Tards. No drugs, booze, anything. Always popping vitamins drinking bottled water by the gallons and polishing his toenails.
One thing I new about him the others didn't was that he would spend two to three hours a day primping in front of the mirror perfecting what I called his "I am just a troubled lonely sensitive soul that might be a college professor or a man with deep thoughts and tenderness of the heart" look little girls are squealing for.
Anyway, we let him know right off. Either finish the songs or get out. At first he didn't believe us. Said he was the leader of the band and was the best at fooling the public we were better than we actually were as a band. He went from being very defensive to a threatening stance.
"You freaks know about my karate skills do you not?" he screamed as he began to kick his legs wildly into the air kind of in our general direction but more off to the side like it was difficult for him to maintain his balance. Kind of looking like a soused ballet dancer that should have quit the game twenty years earlier.
"I will not go quietly. I will return that is my promise. This is the worst rehearsal I have ever been to, you hear me?, I mean it... the worst."
He kept kicking into the air as he hop stepped backward out the door coughing harshly and sobbing insanely.
Two days later they found him hanging from the ceiling of his childhood bedroom at his parents house by a noose made from hundreds of intertwined guitar strings. It was obvious he had been working on it for years. There were some comments made by a few police officers and a medic about the sterile creepiness of the room. How every item from his Ken Doll collection to the Ronald McDonald bed sheets was in pristine condition, as though they had never been touched. And it was know for a fact he, even at his age, was sleeping there of most nights.
"Can we please just move on from this tripe face discussion about a dead guy who lived such a pointless little life that it could be argued he was never really alive anyway?" Velvet pleaded.
"Okay, next question, lets go, snap snap."
" I think I have a question" a pinch faced one armed man in a torn raincoat squeaked.
"Would one of you Guitards please explain the absence of presence from this press conference of your manager Col. Tom Collins and the lovely Miss Stella?"
"I'd like to figure that mystery out myself" blurted out Pretty Polly in a moment of lucidity. "I mean, c'mon now...last I heard he decided he might not be able to take hanging with, in his own words, all us "tards".
"Why the hell not?" I shot towards the direction of Polly in mock anger knowing in my gut the answer to the question even before asking for I emphasized with the Colonel even though I didn't care much for him and maybe it was because of Stella and her southern charm, the kind that would thin out your blood just by her walking by, always smelling like she just stepped out of a bathtub full of the stuff put into making a bar of Zest soap giving you a precious moment of phony innocence like on the most perfect of earliest spring days after the toughest of winters right before a tornado hits.
Whatever, I knew he had a handful with us.
"I can tell ya this" Polly carried on. "He absolutely despised all of you and most of the music you like. Especially you French. He couldn't understand for the life of him your fascination with country music singers and your incessant attempts at trying to convince him they don't all sound alike.
And Lefty, don't act is if your shit don't stink in this matter. Why hell, the Colonel told me of your feeble attempt to butter him up by taking him to a Atlanta Braves baseball game thinking you might soften him up a bit, lull him into some kind of languid stupor generated by the genteel meanderings of overpaid twenty somethings existing in some kind of never-land dream state fueled by expensive beer and prescription drugs.
Anyway, last I heard he's in Nashville. He may or may not show up but if he does boys ya better show respect or you will see a side of my man Memphis like you have never seen. And I got to say, in all earnest, the Colonel more than anything is put off by your lack of spine. He has silently watched as you go-getters manipulate the truth in the face of injustice just to save your worthless jobs. He oversees, ya dig? He knows the ins and outs of bearded whack job peter principle candidates hanging on to their jobs by banging washed out dullard married women who at tender ages lacked the intelligence and upbringing to adjust to the reality of their hopeless situations and it galls him to no end the lack of balls he sees among us required to settle situations.
I was stunned to say the least the amount of vitriol erupting out of Pretty Polly. It was like a scene out of the Exorcist. Maybe it was a telling of the stress the looming trip to Memphis was having on her, on all of us.
It felt like 7th period in high school staring at the clock waiting in anguish for the strike of three thus freeing me from the chains of idiocy I was shackled to. Why we were still there I don't know. All of the press corp had left the building save for three Community College Journalism students who had moved to the back of the room and were playing stud poker and drinking whiskey from flasks.
"Oh Elvis, why hast thou forsaken me" I said audibly to no ones notice. I look down the table at my fellow Guitards searching for one redeeming quality, one morsel of dignity and grace among them to give me hope and energy to make it to Memphis and complete our destiny. Frida, eyes still closed humming some God forsaken mantra just under her breath hands on her knee's palms facing the ceiling her bony fingers twitching to the beat of an unknown entity.
And Kenny as usual lost in a world, a world I will never know nor want to rocking in his chair while meticulously cleaning the dirt from under his painted black fingernails with an original Bowie knife passed down through the French generations. Their is no doubt among us he has sold his soul down at the crossroads yet the question is for how much.
And Velvet, my sweet Velvet Jones Johnson who somewhere along the line had wandered off to the side of the room finding an empty table where she proceeded to lay out some newspapers giving her the opportunity to spray paint her newest afro wig powder blue.
Memph, well Memph has grown more sullen by the second. He's sipping steadily from a bottle of cheap Vodka as he crawls up inside himself to that dark place a place known to quite a few gamblers and midnight ramblers. A hell-hound on his trail and he ain't talking.
Pretty Polly miraculously back to her old self standing beside Memph practicing a dance she just found out about called the Twist, one she wants to perform during breaks at the recording session.
The lights of the room begin to flicker letting us know the press conference is over. The leftover cigarette smoke refuses to let go its death like grip of the room. Tonight I will pack "Little Pink", the official Guitarded guitar with the utmost care. Velvet will no doubt do the same in securing her 1920's tenor banjo handed down by her grandfather Lukie, a brakeman on the Erie-Lackawanna line up in northeast Ohio.
Memph will fill up his 1968 Winnebago with cases of Budweiser and bologna. Pretty Polly will be sure to find a place for her tanning bed.
The French's, well lets just say a few voodoo dolls and all the fix-in's required for non-stop James Bond martini's is about all they need.
In mere days we will all together yet separate begin our journey to Graceland and all the other major attractions. Vel and I will stop first in Tupelo, hang at the Kings birthplace, have a picnic and breath in the air of growing up "E". A glimmer, a speck of hope rises up from my despair from outta nowhere reassuring in an undefinable way that yes, somehow we shall all be received in Graceland.
Another peculiar aspect was upon her arrival, walking through the door her eye's were shut and she was being led by Kenny whom walked her slowly to her seat behind the press table placing her inches from the microphone where she sat cross legged on her chair with her hands clasped together under her chin as if she was deep in prayer.
I knew something was going on from the last practice when she kept insisting that we should all only play sitars on all of the song, oh, and maybe a cowbell. She was determined yet calmer than I had ever seen her which put me on edge straight away being used to the darting eyes and acid tongue. Anyway I had other problems to deal with that night. In particular Memph showing up late from the last of the deprivation tank sessions he began attending weeks earlier coinciding with his sudden infatuation with sad wistful folksy type meandering songs.
And then once he arrived he was extremely distraught over hearing the news on some local college radio station as he was driving in on a show dedicated to destroying the myths surrounding movie stars and musicians and they had somehow zeroed in on one of his heroes, the rough end of the world voiced singer from the 60's named Barry McGuire whom recorded a hit song called Eve Of Destruction followed by a few flops before drifting into obscurity was not the super folkie he had imagined. He learned that McGuire eventually crawled out as a born again-er in the lost 70's making records like "Barry McGuire, The Polka Dot Bear aka The Story of Creation" and he would show up at gigs wearing a polka dot bear suit to the dismay of the hippie leftovers waiting in hushed silence to be reminded of the good old days once more and to be reaffirmed for the hundredth time that the end was near and the eastern world was exploding.
"Our mission, if you so discern," Frida continued, her eyes still closed. "Is not to make a mockery of the established hierarchy on Beale St., no...mind you... no. Our mission...now let me get this straight... my mission is to overturn the established rule of male dominance that controls and dominates our lives keeping us from rising above the glass ceiling. "
"I must admit before entering this den of iniquity I professed a vow of silence yet find myself unable to refrain from informing all of you that opinions are pointless and when you really get down to it the expressing of opinions in certain circles could be considered to be an act of violence.
Frida's husband Kenny is having none of it. Sitting stoned faced, his chair on the back two legs, his back resting against the stained fading wall, palms resting on his thighs, fingers tapping out some internal tune with each finger individually adorned with his own custom made silver skull rings.
"Uh, please excuse me Mr French, uh, Bill Blandings here from the United Commodity Free Press. Would you be so kind as to explain one of the songs you will be recording while in Memphis. I believe the name of it is, and forgive me if I get this wrong, uh Red Hot? And if I am correct in my assumption of said song how can you possibly justify the obviously sexist lyric structure and be able to perform it without embarrassment? Not only that song but the vile shotgun shack tune referred to as King Bee recorded by a known rabble rouser named Slim Harpo. What is your comment now Mr. French?"
Squeamish gasps came from the reporters in the know and from the rest of us Guitards, even from his wife Frida knowing full well French never talks about the songs he performs and when asked at minimum the interview is over and at least he is in jail and the questioner is recuperating in the hospital.
French's chair came down squarely on all four legs. In death like silence the gathered awaited his response the way you would anticipate being electrocuted. Eternal seconds sludged by as French deliberately, painfully, with the tiniest of movements, adjusted his Ray Bans exposing the bare minimum a human can express with their eyes in a glare towards the questioner designed to dismantle and lay to waste any further idiotic attempts to get inside his soul.
"Honestly Bill... Mr. Blandings, excuse me, if I may, what I would like to do at this moment is take you over to my house, give you a drink or two, show you around the inside, my pool room, my master bedroom, hell, even my den with the moose head on the wall. Feed you a nice hearty comfort food type of meal. Get you all cozy and gooey.
Then, you know, right about then, I'd love to take you out and show you my well house. Yes, that's right, my house is over a hundred years old and it has a well house. It also has a pot bellied stove in each guest room with complimentary piss pots but that's beside the point. The well house is deep enough in the ground alright. The door creaks when you open it and their are cobwebs everywhere. It has a dirt floor. It is dank. Know what Blandings? You wouldn't like it there. You follow?"
Pretty Polly began to chirp softly like a bird caught on a barbwire fence in fear of what was about to happen. Other than Memph she knew French better than any of us and she also recognized like the rest of us the eerie similarity between his lingo and The Colonels.
"Okay Bland Boy Nobody, just for fun and because Frida will get her thrill from this I will answer your question although herein lies the dilemma. My response to your lousy question will be a tale, a narrative if you wish, and you must listen like you have never listened to a story before. Not one your mama told you as a child to keep you from peeing the bed or one some old preacher laid on you in an attempt to keep the checks coming in. No sir, gonna be different this one is. You follow?"
Someone with the intelligence of an alien had the foresight to dim the lights. A sanctified hush blanketed the crowd. Cellphones silenced not in reverence but in fear as French leaned into the gold plated microphone to speak.
"I grew up on Elvis and Cash you little shit," he growled in a voice not from heaven nor hell. "I knew as a youngin' their worth. I didn't have to be a genius kindergarten wunderkind computer hack to figure it out. They were my founding fathers you dig? Real hero's with with balls galore.
" It's easy to think you are some kind of rebel I bet. Doodling around in your warehouse mind believing your some kind of bad ass Sting type or whoever it is from your particular age group you like to pretend you are. Sure, you had it hard growing up...not knowing which computer to choose from on the list of prepaid computers your parents gave you to shut you up for Christ's sake just for one simple moment of calm. Then again its like Faulkner, or the way Lucinda Williams brings to mind Faulkner.
Or Lenny Bruce for that matter. You think your some kind of American idol? How's this piss ant. Drive around Memphis all day in 1954 driving a delivery truck hauling who knows what kind of detergent beat poor going home to a cramped Roosevelt dwelling where the walls stink and the sun don't shine then get up early in the morning and drive your southern ass around till you reek of disappointment pulling up in front of Sun Studios with nothing left to lose other than your mind wanting only to hip shake daddy and affirm that it's alright mama."
Yeah, I'll tell you a story alright. Once upon a time I worked in a record store up Detroit way. Owned by a black guy by the name of Jimmy. Called it Jimmy's Records. Jimmy was in my mind at the time the hippest dude around. Had a Fro that couldn't be beat. Fact is I went to a beauty parlor and had my white ass hair frizzled up just like his. Lasted at least three years. Anyway, Jimmy ran a tight operation. Soul and sweet rhythm and blues was his bag baby. And cocaine, oh yeah, that was another side of Jimmy. Ran the business out of the basement of the record store. He was a pillar of the at least black community with a beautiful wife and three children all in college, two daughter beauty queens and a handsome son ready to inherit the family jewels.
He hired me cause he wanted the white angle. See, Jimmy was about money and he knew that I could bring the white chicks in, maybe even some dudes. Everything worked tight and even till mid "77" when the cops became aware of his goings on and immediately shut down his operations.
But here's the kicker. Just mere hours before the raid went down I am in my customary role of soul loving white dude spinning Boogie Nights for the gazillionth time for my faithful customers and lord have mercy here comes this crazy ass white broad bounding into the store pushing off the regular clientele as though she owed the place determined to achieve her objective which I found in time was to buy the latest recording by Elvis Presley.
Now Elvis hadn't had a hit in a while so my natural inclination was to assume that the woman, like me, was prone to E attacks. You know, your walking down the street humming little ditty's like the Sammy Davis Jr's song Candy Man or Seasons In The Sun by Terry Jacks. Then without warning this unseen force enters into your soul taking control of your faculties as a seed planted deep down that blooms outward in sunflower yellow flooding your already too fragile mind as your other mind up and gets a mind of its own where without thinking you follow your stumbling heart usually ending up inside the nearest record store in desperate need of a shot of the King.
Before that theory played out though I received a call. It was from my darling girl Lori from the north country. She was in tears asking if I had heard the news. "What news?" I mumbled knowing something was up seeing how before me stood a line of whites and blacks all wanting nothing but Elvis records.
He's d-e-a---? I breathed into the phone. I knew it but couldn't sound it out. A chill gnawed into my spine. Compressed images of Elvis roared through my mind as my other mind focused on the throng steadily filing into the store. So called people of all races and ages were pouring into Jimmy's little soul store with nothing more than than money making on their minds. I tried to figure out the enemy from the true believers but it was like I was stuck inside a painting that is hanging in the Louvre leaving me frozen in the moment with my back stuck against the wall.
That night lady and I held each other oh so tight inside the moldy basement or her tenement building equipped with an ancient floor model stereo swaying... grinding reverently to the croon of I can't help falling in love with you crying dripping Tupelo honey sweat chilled to the devil bone trying in vain to rationalize the cruelty of fate and the fragility of life determined from that sad moment on to live my life on the square cover my body with tattoo's make skull rings and visit Graceland every year until the day I go to meet Elvis in the sky.
Sure, it was rough in the beginningbut I new I had to get out of Detroit fast forsaking my first true love and throw myself on the mercy of the world hitting the road with a vengeance stoked with an urge for going like I'd never known before with the realization I had to keep running till the end of time because they are right behind you baby the factory line chicken beak slicing backstabbing sales gods standing in corrupt righteousness hiding behind podiums preaching professing proclaiming the virtues of Amish work ethics all the while hiding behind the apron strings of suburban baby buggy two dog car garage house hens giving up a quarter of their lives wondering who the next prefab idol will be and they chase you see wanting to convince you of the wonderment of their modern life justifying their misery till you end up hiding out on a mountain side outside of San Francisco looking down at the pods being loaded onto ships just like that movie Invasion of the Body Snatchers and you wonder are you one of them or not.
So, before all of you reet-petite Minnie mouses start mulling over in your sublet minds the next inane question to ask me about the color of my socks or do I prefer milk over Jack Danial's remember this little tale and save your lousy breath."
"You, Kenny French are more full of shit than a Christmas turkey." Memph opined. "You actually want us Guitards, the press peoples, the weathermen and might I add women if your so inclined, to believe that load of crap?
Who would you be without me pal? I set you up not to let you down. I wanted you to fill the void left by Vat Barge. God only knows what a waste that creep was. Let's talk about it shall we? Lets go there itchy face."
The crowd that had dwindled down to about eight people listening reverently as Memph laid out his tale of woe.
"Barge was a friend of mine in the beginning, I do admit that. He would hang around the house slack like for hours on end. At times I wondered about his sanity yet never held it close to my chest as others would have you to believe. He had a few gal friends although nothing serious. Most of the broads he hung with tired easily of his guitar meanderings. Although I have to say there were rumors, innuendo if you may, about his association with the boss of the clothes line plant where he worked.
He took Karate lessons on the side thinking that's what the chicks liked but the funny thing was in reality couldn't kick his way out of a wet paper bag. Why? Cause he has no balls. No amount of muscle on earth can beat back crazy. You got me? Nothing. I know men that will call up the police and tell them the second they are gonna take somebody out by a slit of a neck at the edge of night when all are sleeping genteel like secure in their chicken shit minds to come pick them up on murder charges and feel righteous and secure in their knowing they did the right thing.
His worthless life consisted of flashing bull like over-sized cigars in your face and tricking pussy people into believing his rock and tumble loner loser shtick guitar man that knows the first licks of Brown Sugar greasy style yet who in reality is forty something and lives off and on with his trendy beige wearing upscale parents.
Yeah, I gotta say, he could play guitar. Only problem was he would start a song then about a line or two in he would drop out. He played mostly cliched rock star ramblings that ten million people on earth know how to play. Oh lordy could he pick the worst shit on earth. Like that idiot YES song called Roustabout, eh wait a sec, um...no that's an Elvis movie, uh Roundabout, yes, that was the drivel he usually started out the evening with before moving on to the intro of Smoke On The Water and other assembly line songs.
The strangest thing about this dullard though was his penchant for bitching about every restaurant, party, movie house, gay bar, cigar holding demonstrations, AA meetings, clothes folding seminars, Kris Kristofferson look alike contests, and the monthly meetings with other musicians in the Atlanta area unable to finish songs care group he attended. After every event...I mean... say you had a party, and in the days following you received many thank you's about the get together and how much fun was had by all then maybe, I don't know, maybe a week later your attending a Christmas party at a local business feeling groovy eating pretzel snacks while enjoying a Corona Light when all of a sudden Kristofferson walks sullenly over to you asking if he may have a word. And let me tell you before I go on if that ever happens to you get out quick and call the police. Anyway, like a man with a severe case of tourette syndrome he blurts out that your party was the WORST PARTY THAT HE HAS EVER BEEN TO.
Well, that was this cat. The worst movie, the worst AA meeting. I mean he would go up to the ticket office of a movie house a month after watching the latest addition of the Harry Potter series, just walk right up to the teller teenager boy or girl and just lay them out about how the sound system sucked or there was a leftover candy bar wrapper on the floor within five feet of his right foot.
"Whatever happened to him" one of the two professional reporters left asked sheepishly.
"Well, I'll tell ya" Memph went on. "If it twas anybody else a man would have to feel sorry for the bastard. It was on the night of our last rehearsal with him in the band. The rest of us had already met previously in secret to decide if we were going to kick him out of the band for refusing to finish songs.
As usual he came in late looking disheveled and haggard but that was nothing new because that was his look. See, he was the cleanest of all us Tards. No drugs, booze, anything. Always popping vitamins drinking bottled water by the gallons and polishing his toenails.
One thing I new about him the others didn't was that he would spend two to three hours a day primping in front of the mirror perfecting what I called his "I am just a troubled lonely sensitive soul that might be a college professor or a man with deep thoughts and tenderness of the heart" look little girls are squealing for.
Anyway, we let him know right off. Either finish the songs or get out. At first he didn't believe us. Said he was the leader of the band and was the best at fooling the public we were better than we actually were as a band. He went from being very defensive to a threatening stance.
"You freaks know about my karate skills do you not?" he screamed as he began to kick his legs wildly into the air kind of in our general direction but more off to the side like it was difficult for him to maintain his balance. Kind of looking like a soused ballet dancer that should have quit the game twenty years earlier.
"I will not go quietly. I will return that is my promise. This is the worst rehearsal I have ever been to, you hear me?, I mean it... the worst."
He kept kicking into the air as he hop stepped backward out the door coughing harshly and sobbing insanely.
Two days later they found him hanging from the ceiling of his childhood bedroom at his parents house by a noose made from hundreds of intertwined guitar strings. It was obvious he had been working on it for years. There were some comments made by a few police officers and a medic about the sterile creepiness of the room. How every item from his Ken Doll collection to the Ronald McDonald bed sheets was in pristine condition, as though they had never been touched. And it was know for a fact he, even at his age, was sleeping there of most nights.
"Can we please just move on from this tripe face discussion about a dead guy who lived such a pointless little life that it could be argued he was never really alive anyway?" Velvet pleaded.
"Okay, next question, lets go, snap snap."
" I think I have a question" a pinch faced one armed man in a torn raincoat squeaked.
"Would one of you Guitards please explain the absence of presence from this press conference of your manager Col. Tom Collins and the lovely Miss Stella?"
"I'd like to figure that mystery out myself" blurted out Pretty Polly in a moment of lucidity. "I mean, c'mon now...last I heard he decided he might not be able to take hanging with, in his own words, all us "tards".
"Why the hell not?" I shot towards the direction of Polly in mock anger knowing in my gut the answer to the question even before asking for I emphasized with the Colonel even though I didn't care much for him and maybe it was because of Stella and her southern charm, the kind that would thin out your blood just by her walking by, always smelling like she just stepped out of a bathtub full of the stuff put into making a bar of Zest soap giving you a precious moment of phony innocence like on the most perfect of earliest spring days after the toughest of winters right before a tornado hits.
Whatever, I knew he had a handful with us.
"I can tell ya this" Polly carried on. "He absolutely despised all of you and most of the music you like. Especially you French. He couldn't understand for the life of him your fascination with country music singers and your incessant attempts at trying to convince him they don't all sound alike.
And Lefty, don't act is if your shit don't stink in this matter. Why hell, the Colonel told me of your feeble attempt to butter him up by taking him to a Atlanta Braves baseball game thinking you might soften him up a bit, lull him into some kind of languid stupor generated by the genteel meanderings of overpaid twenty somethings existing in some kind of never-land dream state fueled by expensive beer and prescription drugs.
Anyway, last I heard he's in Nashville. He may or may not show up but if he does boys ya better show respect or you will see a side of my man Memphis like you have never seen. And I got to say, in all earnest, the Colonel more than anything is put off by your lack of spine. He has silently watched as you go-getters manipulate the truth in the face of injustice just to save your worthless jobs. He oversees, ya dig? He knows the ins and outs of bearded whack job peter principle candidates hanging on to their jobs by banging washed out dullard married women who at tender ages lacked the intelligence and upbringing to adjust to the reality of their hopeless situations and it galls him to no end the lack of balls he sees among us required to settle situations.
I was stunned to say the least the amount of vitriol erupting out of Pretty Polly. It was like a scene out of the Exorcist. Maybe it was a telling of the stress the looming trip to Memphis was having on her, on all of us.
It felt like 7th period in high school staring at the clock waiting in anguish for the strike of three thus freeing me from the chains of idiocy I was shackled to. Why we were still there I don't know. All of the press corp had left the building save for three Community College Journalism students who had moved to the back of the room and were playing stud poker and drinking whiskey from flasks.
"Oh Elvis, why hast thou forsaken me" I said audibly to no ones notice. I look down the table at my fellow Guitards searching for one redeeming quality, one morsel of dignity and grace among them to give me hope and energy to make it to Memphis and complete our destiny. Frida, eyes still closed humming some God forsaken mantra just under her breath hands on her knee's palms facing the ceiling her bony fingers twitching to the beat of an unknown entity.
And Kenny as usual lost in a world, a world I will never know nor want to rocking in his chair while meticulously cleaning the dirt from under his painted black fingernails with an original Bowie knife passed down through the French generations. Their is no doubt among us he has sold his soul down at the crossroads yet the question is for how much.
And Velvet, my sweet Velvet Jones Johnson who somewhere along the line had wandered off to the side of the room finding an empty table where she proceeded to lay out some newspapers giving her the opportunity to spray paint her newest afro wig powder blue.
Memph, well Memph has grown more sullen by the second. He's sipping steadily from a bottle of cheap Vodka as he crawls up inside himself to that dark place a place known to quite a few gamblers and midnight ramblers. A hell-hound on his trail and he ain't talking.
Pretty Polly miraculously back to her old self standing beside Memph practicing a dance she just found out about called the Twist, one she wants to perform during breaks at the recording session.
The lights of the room begin to flicker letting us know the press conference is over. The leftover cigarette smoke refuses to let go its death like grip of the room. Tonight I will pack "Little Pink", the official Guitarded guitar with the utmost care. Velvet will no doubt do the same in securing her 1920's tenor banjo handed down by her grandfather Lukie, a brakeman on the Erie-Lackawanna line up in northeast Ohio.
Memph will fill up his 1968 Winnebago with cases of Budweiser and bologna. Pretty Polly will be sure to find a place for her tanning bed.
The French's, well lets just say a few voodoo dolls and all the fix-in's required for non-stop James Bond martini's is about all they need.
In mere days we will all together yet separate begin our journey to Graceland and all the other major attractions. Vel and I will stop first in Tupelo, hang at the Kings birthplace, have a picnic and breath in the air of growing up "E". A glimmer, a speck of hope rises up from my despair from outta nowhere reassuring in an undefinable way that yes, somehow we shall all be received in Graceland.
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