Being a bit lazy here, , for expediency --- going back to my favorite iteration of Blood, Sweat & Tears, masterminded by Al Kooper with very nice, bluesy white-boy vocals and a little psychedelic guitar around the edges. I dedicate it to my old friend, the daughter of a preacher man, who digs horn bands from the late '60s and who was evidently moved by her own political passions to utter the word "fuck" on this very blog a few days ago. Shame on you! Haha!
I Can't Quit Her, Blood, Sweat & Tears (1968, from "Child Is Father To The Man," Columbia CS 9619), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial critical discussion and educational purposes.
*...I fucking "augered in," as the top gun pilots say, about 90 minutes later. Augered in how, and to what? one may wonder. On my road bike is how, and into a goddam curb that was supposed to be a curb cut, according to my beautiful mind, is what. Happily, I made the most of the time dilation phenomenon, which is well known to all who have witnessed themselves heading toward an inevitable high-speed calamity. With the grace of an Ed Sullivan acrobat opening for Freddie and the Dreamers, I relinquished the handlebars and handsprung onto the concrete sidewalk, pulling off a maneuver, with my arms, something like what parachutists do when their feet meet the ground too fast for comfort. Strangely, I suffered no hand abrasions from the concrete sidewalk, or any other scrapes except one about a quarter-inch in diameter at the crotchward side of the left knee.
However, I spent the next several days in fairly intensive pain, greatly fearing I'd ripped up my only unsullied rotator cuff. Now, after a negative x-ray and some healing time, it looks like I get off the hook with a moderate-but-manageable shoulder sprain. And that, loyal reader, is why I've been offline for almost a week. It also partially accounts for the muddled portions of my previous post.
Anyway, I took the photo at the early cusp of the photographers' "golden hour" with a highly limited iPhone 3G camera. I do believe that I may get on the bike again on Sunday and try again... but not 76 miles this time.
With respect to the so-called "paralysis of analysis," in the words of Hedley Lamarr:
My mind is a raging torrent, flooded with rivulets of thought cascading into a waterfall of creative alternatives.
I haven't lost interest in offering my interpretation of current events, but I've been temporarily exhausted by the effort. From the peanut gallery where I've watched the world turn for more than 5.5 decades, current events are simply unprecedented. Therefore, they are inexplicable from my conventional perspective and analytical framework. Part of my problem, and maybe yours, too, if you have one, is that there are too many sensational data points to comprehend. Analysis --- the process of understanding a large, complex whole by breaking it into smaller, comprehensible parts --- fails us as our daily experience becomes an atomistic horrorshow of disturbing factoids lashed around by Big Lies that are driving half of us to insanity and the other half to impotence. And those factoids, of course, are served up fresh every day by Big Media, and they inflame even those of us who keep our distance from mass media.
During my relative silence here I've been trying to synthesize a big picture or long view that might begin to account for the actual or imminent failure of every major institution this country has evolved over 2.5 centuries. Without abandoning any well considered opinions I've offered here, I've become certain that the die for this epoch was cast 30 years ago and we're now well under way toward Destination: Inevitable, wherever and whenever that may be located. I've been trying to elevate my inquiries to many levels above Mr. President Jelly Bean because I don't believe that America ever was or ever will be all about Him, his homespun values, or his worship of The Corporation as the ultimate organizing principle of society. History will view him as the vulgar homewrecker of U.S. constitutional democracy. I can't see myself disowning those opinions outside of a torture chamber, yet our modern history is no more sacred than the history of the Roman Empire, or Egyptian antiquity, or the rise and fall of Native American civilization. All of us are vessels (or flotsam, take your pick) in a tide of global history, and the tide happens to be rushing out toward the unimaginable ends of the Flat Earth. But it will well up again, after 50 years, or 100, or 200 --- maybe 400 if Western history is any indicator.
Synthesis is where I'm headed; I'm asking myself what this chaos might add up to if we try using a longer view of history to rise above the hurricane of scary-looking events. My first stop is 14th century Europe. Without reading some medieval European history, you'd have no idea how modern the 1300s look to us... or how medieval we look compared with, for example, The Enlightenment. That's where I'm headed for the moment.
Today Charlie Parker would have turned 90. His birth date has been lodged in my head since 1980, when I listened to a live birthday tribute concert from the Chicago Jazz Festival on WBEZ-FM. It featured Dizzy Gillespie, James Moody, and other luminaries that I don't remember at the moment. Anyway, here's the Bird with big band recorded in March 1952, one of a handful of sessions he did in the studio with a big band, as opposed to small combo or strings.
Yes, it's that "Night and Day," featured on this very blog last night as performed by Earl Bostic. Both sides were recorded within, at most, 3 or 4 years of each other --- one being a dance tune for teen parties, the other being bop in a jazz/pop setting.
The CD compilation on which this tune appears, Charlie Parker Big Band, collects several sessions from the early 1950s. The bands are staffed by both veteran and rising stars of the era. This performance boasts a rhythm section with Oscar Peterson (p), Ray Brown (b), and Freddie Green (g). Another session features Charlie Mingus (b) and Max Roach (d), not to mention Miles Davis french horn blower Junior Collins (from Birth Of The Cool). A third session features Fifty50 hero Buddy Rich.
Strangely, this YouTube clip appears to come from one of the virtual radio stations --- "Jazz Nation Radio 108.5" --- embedded in the Grand Theft Auto video game. And judging from the YouTube comments, at least a few shorties think it's awesome.
Happy birthday, Yardbird.
Night And Day, Charlie Parker and big band (1952, from "Charlie Parker Big Band," track 6; Verve reissue of Mercury 11068), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial critical discussion and educational purposes.
I spotted this stately yet unassuming mansion this afternoon about 5 miles south of my comfort zone in southeastern Champaign County on the way to Douglas County. I snapped it on the way back into town, maybe about 5:30 p.m., as the sunlight was softening toward gold.
The architect should take a bow for exploiting this archetypal structural form of the rural midwest, penetrating walls and roof with the pairs of twin gables and enormous picture windows (another one on the southern elevation). The place must be full of light and elbow room, and I'd particularly enjoy seeing how the elongated, double-decker gables play out in the interior, function-wise. Hopefully, the designer paid attention to energy sustainability, too. I think this building is miles ahead of the generic, predesigned suburban-style houses with which everybody else feels it necessary to litter our rural roadsides. If I ever had to rebuild from scratch in town, I'd strongly consider using the design. It's aesthetically well matched to our region and, as an extra bonus, it would stir up the pod people in my neighborhood.
As a birthday indulgence to one Big Hussein Otis on this, his happiest day in the whole wide year, I present an encore performance by Earl Bostic. BHO says he really enjoyed Flamingo, which I embedded as part of this post a few weeks ago. So here's another Earl Jam with the same vibes-infused combo: a swinging up-tempo arrangement of the Cole Porter standard, "Night and Day."
Not my favorite recording of Earl playing this song, but a reasonable facsimile of it probably from several years later. Like you, I have no idea what was on the mind of "Dadreno" when he attached the awful, geezerly railroad slide show to this nice Bostic dance number. Probably ultra-lameness. Don't blame me. Or Big Otis. And especially, don't blame Earl Bostic.
Night and Day, Earl Bostic (1955, King 4765, b/w Embraceable You), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial critical discussion and educational purposes.
1511 --- the Portuguese conquer Malacca. That's right, you malaccas: Malacca!
1830 --- Tom Thumb, the prototype steam locomotive with the really cute name, is demonstrated to an investor group; it almost beat a horse-drawn railroad carriage in an impromptu race.
1990 --- Iraq annexes Kuwait... for a month or so.
I know, I know. Boring as hell, pretty much. But wait: I've discovered a new notable born on this very day in history. Year: 1917; world, say hello to The King --- Jack "King" Kirby, that is. Way to go --- much more impressive than Leo "Snooze" Tolstoy! (OMG --- JK!!!)
And at the very foundations of history, in 1949, a star is born:
Yogi: "Hey, Lady! Why the Beard?!?"
BO: "Ya dinna ken who I am?"
Yes, Big Hussein Otis, we do indeed ken who you am. Happy birthday, little fella.
There is, I assume, more much more trepidation than beauty experienced by denizens of the U.S. Atlantic and Gulf coastal lowlands during peak hurricane season. I think, without an ion of glee, that it may just be the price people pay to live a few miles from white sand beaches and rum shacks, gorge on fresh, affordable seafood at will, and escape the torment of long winters. There are also crosses to bear when emigrating to Champaign, Illinois. It's the nation's most mentally and morally conservative Big 10 university town. Our current alpha creatures are real estate people intent on digging out every last green space in the county to make room for unneeded new townhouses and strip malls in a moribund market. The downsides here are less dramatic than for coastal people, but I'd bet our list is much longer (and beyond the scope of this post).
But hurricane season here is outstanding. The careful observer living in the Corn Belt can often peg the beginning of hurricane season, in all its local splendor, to the week if not to the day. Two groups of people are most likely to take note: farmers (but not necessarily agri-businessmen riding in hermetically sealed, GPS-navigated combines the size of a Gothic cathedral) and road cyclists (bi-, not necessarily motor-).
One leading indicator conspicuous to both farmers and cyclists is the prevailing wind direction, which changes here somewhat abruptly from southwesterly to southeasterly and easterly. Another indicator, somewhat less consistent, is humidity, which drops significantly around the time prevailing wind directions change. The humidity drop happens to be convenient to grain farmers, who want to dry down the corn and beans as much as possible in the fields to promote cost-efficient harvesting and marketing. It's also convenient to cyclists, who appreciate hot sun combined with pleasant evaporative cooling effects. I'm certain these weather shifts are directly related to the overarching climate patterns that originate in the tropical mid-Atlantic at this time of the year, but I'm not a weatherman so I can't document that. It's a correlation observed across decades.
Our "twin cities" had a few previews of the change in wind early this month. But last week --- Wednesday, I think --- the area was abruptly overshadowed by an uncharacteristically gray, gloomy day. From the interior of an over-chilled government building, looking out any window, the vibe was late October or November (and even somewhat chilly outdoors after the "closing bell"). Sometime around that day, either the night before or after, about 1.6 inches of badly needed rain fell on the asparagus garden. Then, suddenly, meteorological glory. Bike riding patterns after work became almost exclusively outbound to the southeast, east, and even north once. The object is to ride into the draft on the way out, not on the way home while the sun is racing to auger into the west horizon. Fortuitously, due to seasonal characteristics related to Terra's orbit around the sun on an oblique axis, last 180 minutes of daylight every day for the past week-plus has fully qualified as the elusive Golden Hour that landscape photographers prize so highly. And, as if right on cue, in the Atlantic and near the Caribbean, a new crop of tropical depressions and storms began to sprout.
This is peak hurricane season in the Corn Belt: made for communing with the genial, sunny Midwestern elements in solitude. Perched on the saddle of a lightweight aluminum touring bike tanked up with water bottles; a power bar in the saddle pack; biosystems exerting straight ahead with the help of endorphins and Advil, to a soundtrack of the wind and other breathing; and a fully charged cell phone that one hopes will have signal were a tire to blow 5 miles south of Villa Grove.
It seems that over the past coupla weeks, the Yahoo mail spam filter has decided to capture all of the email notifications this blog sends to my personal account instead of sending them directly to me. At first I thought it only affected that guy with a 59 in his name, but its also getting longtime friend "Anonymous" and everybody else. I'll catch up with you all shortly. Please make a note of it.
As captured by Big Rock Head Friday evening through the southwest-facing pane of my bay-style picture window, a hummingbird briefly loitering near a feeder (not visible, stage left). I think it's an impressive shot considering that (1) BRH snapped it using the low-res camera in an iPhone 3G and (2) these shorties dart around like something out of Area 51, on crank. At this point my avian guides are failing me on identification. More research is needed.
Here's a Beach Boys production by the pensive and melancholy Brian Wilson at the height of his creative powers in 1966, as he was beginning to unravel:
Current references to Brian Wilson liken him to someone's crazy uncle, and I've read quotes attributed to him that seem to verify that. But in 1966, well established as the creative leader of THE pop group that defined, exemplified, and sanctified American youth hedonism for a short time before hippiedom emerged, Wilson was a highly sensitive and troubled soul. There are many accounts of the "battle of the bands" Wilson had with the Beatles across the sea at mid-decade --- not a hostile one --- with each group upping the ante of experimentation in response to a release by the other. This began with Brian's reaction to Rubber Soul, after a period of his own studio and lyrical experimentation. He both complimented the Beatles and tried to even top them in the studio with orchestrations, electronics, and even oddball instrumental voicings such as a boogie-inflected solo the lowest register of an accordion in I Know There's An Answer.
When listening to Pet Sounds as an adult I've always felt there was much more to Wilson's brooding instrumentations and lyrics than merely "youthful angst," as Wikipedia glibly calls it. He was not only haunted by the fleeting nature of love, which songs like Caroline, No deal with directly, but his use of psychedelic drugs seems to have helped to intensify his sense of alienation from much of humanity, including womankind and his bandmates. They lyrics of this song depict a very fragile, if self-centered, young man. The honesty and vulnerability of the lyric and performance, to my ears, raise it far above the maudlin result that this sort of creative outcrying often produces.
But listen to the music. Chances are you've never heard this song before because it never charted and you probably didn't own the album. The Beach Boys had become very uncool in a heartbeat by the end of 1967, being eclipsed by "heavy" acts like Hendrix and the Doors... and of course, The Beatles. By that point Wilson had lost creative and operational control of the group, and in my opinion almost all of the band's good work was now behind it.
If you hear some of the "genetic material" from Good Vibrations floating around in the gorgeous backgrounds of this number, it's because Brian was assembling this album concurrently with the orchestral and studio experiments that finally evolved into his signature trippy surfer "pocket symphony." (I believe that Wikipedia is incorrect, at least partially, about the sequence of Pet Sounds and Good Vibrations because there are dated rehearsal recordings that contradict that.)
Anyway, listen to the jangly rhythm sounds near the beginning of the cut; what instruments is he mixing down to get that effect, and how? Wilson was a master of audio synthesis, carefully blending and balancing unusual instrumental combinations on tape. Pianos, guitars, Farfisa organ, mallet percussion like the celeste, unified into a sound from which it is difficult to extract the individual components. Also, in this clip, don't miss the Theremin solo on the outchorus --- a poignant little line and, in my opinion, a much more memorable use of the instrument than on Good Vibrations. (Actually, I just read that it was an Electro-Theremin, inspired by the Theremin but different in terms of electronics and controls.)
You can read about Pet Sounds, Good Vibrations, and Wilson's ill-fated Smile album on Wikipedia, album jackets, and elsewhere, as well as their relation to Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Heart's Club Band. Wilson got to feeling as if he were in a doomed race to the next big thing with the Beatles, in the process becoming frenetic, obsessive, frustrated, difficult, and withdrawn while producing tracks for the "failure" of an album that produced Heroes and Villains, Wild Honey, and Darlin'.
I intend to post more Beach Boys, particularly Brian Wilson, in the future. This is a band that is very easy for both self-conscious hipsters and discerning listeners to dismiss as simple, dated, and irrelevant. I disagree. I'm an admirer, and I have conjectured that had Wilson kept a level head on his shoulders and tamped down creative conflicts with other band members, the Beach Boys might have evolved into something very much along the lines of Pink Floyd. I hope to have several surprises in the foreseeable future.
Editor's note: due to the time stamp, this post qualifies for the category of Fifty50 After Hours, yet another copyrighted feature of this blog.
I Just Wasn't Made For These Times, Beach Boys (1966, from "Pet Sounds," Capitol Records), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial critical discussion and educational purposes.
The lyrics are indicative of the motivating sensibility (so to speak) behind this copyrighted Fifty50 feature.
I think my first two Fish Frys featured Louis Jordan with his Tympany Five, but not this song. The reason, oddly enough, was that up until a few months ago no one had uploaded the original version of the it to YouTube. I say odd because this is one of Jordan's most well known and beloved hits. As with many of the most popular race music recordings, there appear to be a zillion versions out there --- some sounding similar to one another, and others from much later years sounding very different.
Such as this horrible thing, which was the only version available on YouTube when I launched this feature. The YouTube poster says this one is from 1958, and the special bonus lyrics in it refer to "bobby socks." Sheeeeit. One year earlier, Mercury Records assigned Quincy Jones to help re-energize Jordan's career as a rock performer, possibly because black rock pioneers like Chuck Berry and Little Richard were doing so well, chartwise. The result of that collaboration, which you can listen to here (but labeled with the wrong date), might not be bad in its own right if (1) you didn't know that it was being performed by a well known veteran jump R&B artist of the highest caliber, and (2) the lyrics weren't so obviously out of sync with the everyday world of the white teen audience the record was intended for. Not Jordan's fault. Maybe not even Jones' fault, although he obviously didn't know rock from shinola in 1956 - 57. Listen to that prominent roller rink organ trying to propel things along in the Mercury version. Sounds more like Henry Mancini than anything Alan Freed would be caught playing, even with a truckolad of payola. Jones, purely a jazzman and orchestrator up to that point, was just the wrong man for the job. And it also sounds like Jordan's heart wasn't really into the project anyway.
So listen to this one --- it's the big one with the bullet!
Saturday Night Fish Fry, Louis Jordan and His Tympany Five (1949, Decca 24725), via YouTube.
Addendum: the performance dates for this side are all over the place, and not even the discography at LouisJordan.com is definitive. Best guess is 1949, but my ear and gut tend to agree with the YouTuber who dates it at 1946. Maybe there was a second version in '49. Whatever, it's the classic performance. And if you ever want a fist in your eye, just mention... a Saturday Night Fish Fry!
Some 1970 big band soul jazz from the ubiquitous Quincy Jones:
I had the first pressing of this album, thanks to a tip from my high school pal, the late great Count. Being a fan of all things jazz-rock in the era of Chicago Transit Authority, BS&T, and Chase, this album puzzled me and still does. It's hard not to like the sound now, as an adult, but even back then I sensed something exploitative about the album that I didn't have the language to express. This is the music of Hugh Hefner and Playboy After Dark, marketed to youth at a time when hippie culture was being ravenously co-opted by establishment impresarios and entertainment moguls. The entire first side of the album on which Killer Joe appears is dedicated to Dead End and Walking In Space, "from the American Tribal Love-Rock Musical Hair" (speaking hip-sploitation).
Usually I despise the flute as a solo jazz instrument, but I make a provisional exception for certain muscular-sounding performances by people like Herbie Mann and Roland Kirk (and Jethro Tull's Ian Anderson, of course, although not a jazz musician). I forgive this performance because it was original and of the time. I also think the arrangement is marred by the dainty female chorus during the last half; they seem to festoon Quincy's wall of sound mostly as an audio version of Hef's mansion playmates --- mere decoration, pleasant or slightly creepy. Because of these details, both then and now I experience a mild embarrassment to admit that I enjoy this cut. And for that matter, I'd probably chat up Miss July 1970 if I ran into her at The Esquire this weekend (but she'd be lucky to snag me).
It may sound like I'm disparaging Jones a bit with these thoughts (which were pretty much unknown to me until I started typing), but no harm is intended. Quincy Jones is a monster in American musical history, and not only for his early associations with legends like Lionel Hampton, Ellington, Basie, Ray Charles, and a latter-career collaboration with Miles Davis (the trumpeter's last recording). He was behind the scenes literally everywhere as an arranger and producer, from an ill-fated 1950s effort to transform Louis Jordan into a rock star, to the top of the charts with Lesley Gore (It's My Party) and Michael Jackson (Thriller), a Sinatra collaboration, and a zillion movie soundtracks and TV show themes. His highly irritating, flute-featuring 1962 tune Soul Bossa Nova was even resurrected for the soundtrack of an Austin Powers movie and as the theme for the 1998 World Cup games. (I own it, regrettably.) Jones was responsible for any number of stinkers, but statistically that would be expected of someone involved in virtually every important aspect of postwar American jazz and pop music. The man knows how to arrange a chart exactly how it should sound, whether for good, or for... eev-ill.
Killer Joe, Quincy Jones (1970, from "Walking In Space," A&M Records)
Apropos of something: Killer Joe was composed by Benny Golson, whom we learned last week was influenced by our unlikely hero Earl Bostic.
The title of this post is one of the holiest shibboleths in the rhetorical arsenal of free-market capitalists. I never quite swallowed the associated line and sinker, and about 10 or 15 years ago I slowly started to disgorge the hook. With the stock market and worker productivity continually climbing to all-time highs, I said to myself, why do we so often have unacceptably high unemployment? And why are so many of the jobs that are available crapwork in the food and retail sectors that can't really support one householder, let alone a family? And furthermore, how can anyone claim that burgeoning corporations create jobs when every major acquisition or merger results in 10 or 20 percent of their combined workforces losing their jobs?
This recent Bob Herbert column from the Times is worth a careful read, especially, I think, to people who are confused about economics as reported by the corporate media. Herbert reports on comments by Boston economics professor Andrew sum:
The recession officially started in December 2007. From the fourth quarter of 2007 to the fourth quarter of 2009, real aggregate output in the U.S., as measured by the gross domestic product, fell by about 2.5 percent. But employers cut their payrolls by 6 percent.
In many cases, bosses told panicked workers who were still on the job that they had to take pay cuts or cuts in hours, or both. And raises were out of the question. The staggering job losses and stagnant wages are central reasons why any real recovery has been so difficult.
“They threw out far more workers and hours than they lost output,” said Professor Sum. “Here’s what happened: At the end of the fourth quarter in 2008, you see corporate profits begin to really take off, and they grow by the time you get to the first quarter of 2010 by $572 billion. And over that same time period, wage and salary payments go down by $122 billion.”
What that means, Herbert says, is this: "Many of those workers were cashiered for no reason other than outright greed by corporate managers." And I'll append Herbert by stating my opinion that small businesses (which officially includes companies employing up to 500 people) are every bit as dirty as transnational corporations. Many do it even in good times by keeping the majority of employees working 30 hours or less, so they aren't entitled to full benefits; and also by basically putting them on call instead of giving them a reliable schedule. Those practices are especially egregious in big box stores and restaurants, based on my conversations with people who work there.
"What a surprising development!" we who have jobs may say to ourselves, going straight for the humorous irony angle. But doesn't this information nevertheless make you wonder why this disconnect between worker productivity and full employment isn't reported nationally at least on a weekly basis by the "liberal media"?
The sure knowledge that businesses do not create jobs --- when it transmutes beyond the point between irony and dawning outrage --- leaves a question in its place to answer. If businesses don't create jobs, then what do they create? Answer: profits for executives, period. It has been moving in that direction for decades, and now we're there. Shit: businesses barely even make anything any more --- they sub that out to the Chinese and the Indians (who of course are rapidly learning to sub the making of stuff out to the Fourth World).
Roaring 20s President Calvin Coolidge is often erroneously quoted as having vacuously said "The business of America is business." Even if had said that, as dumb as it is, it might still be thought to convey a generic fact about American corporate and individual industry. Today, not even Silent Cal's alleged dumb remark can hold water. Because today, the business of American is multi-level marketing schemes. Just like Amway. (Don't call them "pyramid schemes" because you might hurt their feelings.)
Incidentally, here's what calvin-coolidge.org tells us that the 30th president really did say:
The quote is really: "After all, the chief business of the American people is business." However, Coolidge goes on to say that, "Of course the accumulation of wealth cannot be justified as the chief end of existence."
And what are we to make of this statement by Herbert Hoover's predecessor:
We make no concealment of the fact that we want wealth, but there are many other things that we want very much more. We want peace and honor, and that charity which is so strong an element of all civilization. The chief ideal of the American people is idealism. I cannot repeat too often that America is a nation of idealists. That is the only motive to which they ever give any strong and lasting reaction.
The guy sounds like a fucking Obamunist to me! I say we dig him up and lynch him! Thank you for your attention to this matter.
About everything I knew about Bostic until tonight I learned from Carolina Beach Music mix tapes given to me in the early '80s by my personal music archivist, Larry K, and miscellaneous articles now lost in the canyons of my minds. I recognized him as a swinging tenor man with a gravelly tone who worked the higher registers of his instrument. Wrong... or maybe 25% correct. Tonight I find that Earl actually played an alto, but he used a hard rubber alto mouthpiece tricked out with a tenor reed! Nifty hack --- I don't remember ever hearing an alto sound like this. (Still an embarrassing error by someone who played a fair amount of alto and tenor for about 10 years... and considering that Bostic is shown holding his Martin Alto on the jacket of For You. Geez.)
Anyway, this is what I consider to be Earl's classic performance of "Flamingo." Unfortunately, because he seems to have recorded half a zillion versions of his biggest hits later for the teen dance market, I don't know the date of this recording. A different YouTube video purports to be the original 1951 release, so I'm a confused guy. And evidently I'm not the only guy who is confused: the first album cover displayed in the YouTube slide show after you click the play button is a Bostic reissue on the Living Era label that in fact depicts Bull Moose Jackson blowing a tenor. Um, erf?!?
Between Bostic's tone and the predominant role of the vibes accompaniment, the sound of his combo is unmistakable. The later '50s reissues of "Flamingo," "Night and Day," and others, sound "whiter" to my ears. I think that's because he was making a good living selling dance records to teenagers in the early rock era, and so like so many other R&B tunes that were co-opted into the rock repertoire, these latter-day versions emphasized flash and novelty --- lots of shakes, falls, schmaltzy vibrato, tonguing tricks, and so forth. Somewhere I read that they typically released later Bostic recordings with pictures of sexy ladies on the sleeve to conceal the fact that Earl was an African American; suburban parents were jumpy enough about plain old rock and roll during the Eisenhower years without needing to be alarmed by the horrors of race music and the rampant miscegenation that would inevitably follow repeated listenings. The earlier versions of Earl's combo work sound "smokier" to me, and they have a more authentic swing to them, and this is one of them.
Doing my Fish Fry homework tonight I discovered that Bostic had a much richer jazz career than I was aware of during the 1940s, and he had the deep respect of giants (reed players and otherwise) like Coltrane, James Moody, Benny Golson, Stanley Turrentine, and Art Blakey. The Wiki article reports that Earl once cut Charlie Parker in an alto battle, and who am I to argue with Sweet Papa Lou Donaldson about this seemingly improbable scenario? Anyway, I love a number of Bostic recordings from the early '50s and am now inspired to dig deeper into his jazz career.
Flamingo, Earl Bostic (not dated, King Records), via YouTube.
PS: if the 59er knows about Bostic and/or the Carolina Beach Music scene I'd be grateful to hear about it.
Apropos of something, here are The Hawk and Bird from a 1950 studio session. This is part 1 of 2 of the session available on YouTube. Part 2 doesn't feature Hawkins or Parker, though.
Apropos of what, one might wonder? The juvenile Cooper's hawk perched on my woodpecker feeder Wednesday morning, that's what. With the exception of a few stray birds --- I guess you could call them Yardbirds --- the avians have been very scarce around the homestead for several days. Likewise, the squirrels have been less visible.
Anyway, this is a rare look at some giants. It's a shame we can't see what Bird's fingers are doing --- just hard to comprehend how they can move so fast and clean in sync with the tonguing. You will hear some "clams" by Bird in this set. He's past his prime here, but there are certainly lots of reedmen out there who might give their right thumb to duplicate what he's doing on this clip. But, then, it would be difficult to do that without a right thumb.
Incidentally, as a bonus, take note that our hero Buddy Rich is the guy banging the tubs in this set. Presumably he didn't lecture Parker about the "clams" after the film stopped rolling.
Ballad and Celebrity, Coleman Hawkins [ts], Charlie Parker [as], Hank Jones [p], Ray Brown [b], and Buddy Rich [d] (1950, film of studio session, provenance unknown to RubberCrutch), via YouTube.
Hello. RubberCrutch has been away from his blogging equipment for a few weeks owing to various mundane causes including a busy, exciting lifestyle; a case of poison ivy; and a bout of fever that may have been caused by a German medical bulb thermometer that registers exactly 4 degrees Fahrenheit higher than ones' actual temperature. He will return to his post at his earliest possible convenience.
Incidentally, it makes lots of sense to learn how to recognize poisonous flora in your yard. Although RubberCrutch was nearly driven insane by a case of poison ivy (or oak or sumac) contracted in California almost 35 years ago to this very day, he still forgets what the stuff looks like. Don't be like RubberCrutch --- be sure to use your noodle every day. Thank you for your attention to this matter.
There are so many disgusting aspects of this story (more here) that I must struggle to avoid tangents. I'm sure most people have heard some incomplete version of it: a right-wing provocateur posted to his website a videotape that was deliberately edited to create a defamatory context for remarks made by a USDA appointee in a March 2010 speech she gave to a Georgia chapter of the NAACP. The deceptively edited video was rapidly propagated by FOX as "news," with all the dignity that usually accompanies baseless accusations of black racism by white racists. And then, before you could say "Tom Vilsack is a craven asshole," the minor official, Shirley Sherrod, was bullied out of her job by her chain of command. Only the impression given by the video, as I say, has been demonstrated to be false and defamatory.
Vilsack: way to create a possible tort for wrongful dismissal, dicknose. Washington Post: learn how to check facts, especially when your errors reflect poorly on the wrongly accused person... motherfuckers. NAACP: yes, you sure were "snookered," but I'll spare you an obscenity since you've sort of done penance and claim to have learned something from it... but your fuck-up shows how weak your organization really is these days. And Barack Hussein Obama? Waiting....
Herein please find a special educational supplement concerning proper use of the term "irony," intended for Big Rock Head specifically and the greater Fifty50 community generally, courtesy of the Iowa "TeaParty" via TPM. You see, BRH, the irony of the scene depicted below is that President Obama is in fact a moderate, centrist U.S. President while mainstream Republican Senate "leaders" such as John Kyl, Mitch McConnell, Judd Gregg, John Cornyn, and Tom Coburn are right-wing radicals who thrive on the bitterness of fearful, naive "Real Americans" who they trick into believing that the unemployed and chronically impoverished people just have it too darned easy in life while our wealthy elites need even more tax relief than George Bush gave them 9 years ago.
A casual reading of any impartial 20th century history text will reveal that both Hitler and Stalin derived unheard-of totalitarian powers in part by aligning corporate management and strategic objectives (and financial interests) with those of their respective party apparatus. The differences in tactics of Hitler and Stalin were essentially irrelevant considering the enormity of the results they achieved, such as continual wars of aggression and industrial-scale mass murder. Can any of my shorties out there in Fifty50Land think of any examples from our modern times that resemble the Nazi and Communist merger of corporate, political, and military interests to prey on the fearful and naive? Do tell.
Editor's note: the photo above is by Deb Nicklay and copyrighted by the Associated Press and the Globe Gazette (http://gazetteonline.com/) in Iowa, U.S.A. Fair use is claimed for purposes of social commentary and community education. Thank you for your attention to this matter.
Unfortunately the needle skips a few times near the beginning of the musical number for the Declaration of Independence. The voice characterizations are a thing of beauty that awed a coupla shorties who overheard their dad playing this album in the early 1960s. Rocky and Bullwinkle fans will recognize the voices of June Foray (the voice of Rocky) doing all the female parts here, and Stan Freberg, who did umpty-nine wiseguy voices pretty much everywhere in Jay Ward cartoons in the early and mid-'60s in addition to his own hugely fruitful and influential output. Paul "Boris Badenov" Frees, is hard to recognize as the narrator. Freberg and partners did very hip and smart parody, and other tracks from this LP, The United States of America, display some pretty biting satire about the white man's relations with Indians (as we used to call Native Americans). I hope to revisit Freberg sometime in the future because he was a giant in 1950s and '60s pop culture, catering both to hipper adults and legions of kids.
Declaration of Independence and Betsy Ross and the Flag, Stan Freberg (1961, from "The United States of America: The Early Years," Capitol W/SW-1573), via YouTube.
In order to preserve the temporal integrity of this blog, I present a new name for an established feature. You will see it on the Saturday evenings when circumstances force me to click the "Publish Post" button after midnight.
So here, After Hours, I present to you a rock performance that in my opinion represents the precise origin lummox rock, and possibly even its apex.
At a neighborhood garage sale this morning I heard from inside the house this dirt simple, highly familiar guitar power chord vamp. But something about it seemed out of the ordinary to me --- way too mellow --- and I couldn't place it. The neighbor manning the cash box, an incorrigible "Deadhead," told me it was a Jerry Garcia composition called "Standing On The Moon." I suppose that it was, but not in my universe it wasn't. The vamp was supposed to be encrusted with thick distortion and reverb tomfoolery.
And then, while contemplating this disconnect, I immediately had a fleeting impression of an early '70s Chicago TV host, Svengoolie, who screened delectable monster movies late Friday nights on channel 32. Chicagoland natives of a certain age will remember the AM disc jockey Jerry G. Bishop, caked in white foundation makeup, raccoon eyes, ratty longhair wig and hippie headband, performing shtick in a Transylvania accent during the interstices between commercial and movie. And those individuals, like me, will likely remember the theme song for Svengoolie's Screaming Yellow Theater: "Rumble," by Link Wray. "Composed by Jerry Garcia," my foot. If George Harrison could be successfully sued for "subconsciously" plagiarizing the Chiffons hit "He's So Fine" when composing "My Sweet Lord," (a horseshit lawsuit, incidentally, in my highly learned opinion), then Garcia should have been thrown in a penitentiary for trying to disguise the heartbeat and pulse of "Rumble" with insignificant variations, noodling accompaniments, and lyrics that should have been used somewhere else if at all.
Few rock historians doubt that "Rumble" is a seminal rock performance that inspired the next generation of garage musicians, etc. etc. But in my opinion that doesn't mean Wray was a musical visionary, as many contend. I don't mean that as a criticism of Wray and the Ray Men. It's just that I think "Rumble" was probably less a work of genius and more the product of some guys hypnotizing themselves with heavy guitar tones, primitive beats, studio effects, and about three quarts of Schlitz apiece.
Rumble, Link Wray (1958, Cadence single 1347, b/w The Swag), via YouTube.
Went out of doors for the Fish Fry tonight; The Iron Post in Urbana, Ill., specifically. I think they call it The Iron Post because wherever you park your fundament in the room you're likely to be sitting behind an iron post.
Below is photographic documentation of a pickup band called Donald's Sons, which includes three guys named Donaldson and one guy named Big Rock Head. For most of the set BRH plucked his sweet hybrid Fender P-bass with the Jazz neck (picked it out myself when he was a tot, don't ya know), but on two tunes he and old Champaign Central HS Jazz Ensemble buddy Robert A., trumpet, played horns. In the photo, BRH (foreground) blows a tenor solo while acolyte Joel H. (right) assumes bass duties. I don't remember this second song he was blowing on when I snapped the photo because I was concentrating on getting a usable phone-cam pic. The first horn number was a version of Hendrix's "Red House." Both the vocals (by father Tim D., blurred with dorky hat) and the horn arrangement sounded reminiscent of Ray Charles, but with some Western Swing flavor. A marvelous concoction!
As seen on Hullabaloo, The Gallup Organization has applied state-of-the-art polling and statistical analysis methods to reveal that Tea Partiers are pretty much nothing more than core right-wing Republicans, if ones who like to act out and pretend they're the heirs to the philosophy of America's founders. If Fifty50 had a "No Shit, Sherlock" department, this revelation would headline it today.
However, I won't disdain Gallup for doing the survey or publicizing the results, because I think it's good that this fact be consecrated as "official" by an organization that establishment types consider to be legitimate. I will, however, disdain any reporting that Gallup's findings are surprising to any politically sentient American.
I never informed you about the fate of my asparagus experiment station, which first inserted itself in our shared folklore about here and here. The short version --- short for me, at least, is this:
On April 17 I gave it up, mourned for the asparagus crowns that I had abused the life out of, and backfilled the trench with its 3 tons of Illinois clay loam. It was my intention that after a respectful period of grieving for the little fellers I'd plant the ground with some native wildflowers or grasses. The next weekend, as I glowered over the plot trying to figure out what to do with it, I spotted a stiff purple shoot breaking through the ground at the northwest corner. "Crap," I thought. "Since this one plant is here I'm now obligated to let it grow and reserve the rest of this dirt for another try next spring." I don't like waiting for things to happen, but that's the way it would be.
Meanwhile, Rudy's long-suffering wife had, for reasons not relevant to this post, given me a St. Francis plaque to display near my garden. She had not told me that she'd blessed it with Holy Water before wrapping and delivering the gift. So I chainsawed a groove at the north pole of a walnut log and displayed the placque sort of like a Franklin Mint plate, facing the moribund asparagus patch from the east. Starting the next day, more purple shoots broke the soil. I was bemused, and started marking them with stakes. Well, by cracky, every last one of those hapless asparagus "crowns" eventually made their way to the surface, and as of yesterday I was still seeing new growth. So, as illustrated by the photograph below, which was taken late afternoon on Thursday with a phone camera, this for me truly is the dawning of The Age of Asparagus.* Thank you.
______________________ * I'm afraid I can't take credit for this pun. To the best of my knowledge it was coined by Robert Crumb in 1969. Also, apropos of nothing, the ornamental rectangular prism near bottom left is a genuine 1901 Culver Block brand embossed street paver.
You may thank frequent contributor and good friend of this blog, Anonymous, for suggesting tonight's visit by Chase, which must be the only prominent group in jazz-rock history to have used four trumpets, and four trumpets only, as its brass section. Listen to this mother!
Any geezers out there might remember that the band Chase was eponymously named for its leader, trumpet screamer Bill Chase. Chase (the guy) was old for a rock star, having been born in the middle of the Depression and having gotten his start with the original trumpet monster, Maynard Ferguson (whose lips must have been calloused thick as a catcher's mitt after decades of galloping after F over high C like it was his own fleet-footed strumpet). He then paid dues with Stan Kenton, and especially Woody Herman's New Thundering Herd through the early and mid-1960s. Anyway, my point is that the guy was a veteran jazzman before putting Chase together, so it must have been a blast for him to be, for at least a little while, a bona fide rock star. If you remember "Open Up Wide," then you'll probably also remember Chase's biggest hit, "Get It On." Here's a 1974 live Chicago performance of that tune --- a guerrilla home movie from an album release party about half a year before Bill and three other band members died in a plane crash. Check out the flowing shirts and --- gasp! --- the beards. These are the kind of guys who Buddy Rich mercilessly terrorized on the tour bus week in and week out (refer to the beard confrontation at about 6:00). No wonder younger jazzmen like Chase and Don Ellis tried to become huge rock stars instead! They shoulda stuck with it.
I seem to remember that the other three beardy trumpeters in Chase were also alums of the New Thundering Herd. All of them are adept at playing in this piercing brass register, and this particular chart really makes the most of those tones with insanely rich chromaticism and dissonances. Nobody I'm aware of ever used trumpets like this except Bill Chase --- at least not without another 15 pieces playing along. Nice use of the Echoplex at the beginning. Other than that, nothing to say except just listen to these staccato motherfuckers! And don't miss the rhythm section!
I owned the first two Chase albums back when I was a scrawny suburban delinquent, but I remember being somewhat bored by most tracks on those discs. I think the problem was that Chase and the boys tried getting a little too arty-farty (i.e., heavy) but couldn't quite pull it off in a way that the kids related to. They're probably worthy of revisiting in their entirety, however, just in case.
I read in the YouTube comments section that marching bands attempt to perform "Open Up Wide." I've never heard one try it. Sounds like a foolhardy task to say the least, if not less. A world-class bugle corps... maybe.
Open Up Wide, Chase (1971, from "Chase," Epic Records), via YouTube.
This incarnation of Blood, Sweat & Tears (1967-68) is probably the least known, but in my opinion it is by far the best-ever lineup. The band's sound is highly recognizable and unified from track to track, but every composition shows off a different facet of the ensemble's talents, not to mention Al Kooper's arranging genius. In addition to Kooper's original compositions, they covered tunes by Nilsson, Randy Newman, and Goffin and King.
Wikipedia and everyone else categorize BS&T as a jazz-rock combo, but that descriptor is much too narrow for the original lineup. The Kooper BS&T album, "Child is Father to the Man," begins with a formal overture that functions exactly as a classical overture is intended to, with much verve and wit. And near the end of side 2, "The Modern Adventures of Plato, Diogenes and Freud" pairs Kooper's intense psycho-philosophical lyrics with an orchestration that might be described as outre avant-garde pop.
"Morning Glory" is one impressive stop on this vinyl tour de force. The song was originally composed and performed in a folk style by Tim Buckley, with allegorical psychedelic lyrics by his partner Larry Beckett. You can hear Buckley's ethereal, elegiac treatment of "Morning Glory" here on YouTube. Buckley's style of music mostly has never appealed to me, and therefore I never would have heard this song if not for Kooper and his treatment of it. There's both a majesty and a foolishness to the arrangement that captures the psychonaut's innocent, earnest, and completely deluded expectation that enlightenment will be delivered on his desired schedule to the front door by a magic guru. As a teenager I would not have been able to extract any meaning from Buckley's languid performance of Beckett's creakily worded parable. Kooper and BS&T turned it into something a pimply suburban delinquent could relate to even before he discovered railroad-striped bell bottoms and incense.
Morning Glory, Blood, Sweat & Tears (1968, from "Child is Father to the Man," Columbia Records), via YouTube.
This Balloon Juice page has been hanging open in a Firefox tab on my machine for the past week. I wanted to link to it here for two reasons.
First, the author points out a corporate media meme that should be troubling all of us these days: the idea that us everyday slobs have no business criticizing individuals and corporations who turned the global financial system into a pyramid scheme or whose possibly criminal negligence is responsible for runaway pollution of the Gulf of Mexico, and by extension that the President of the United States --- our First Among Equals --- is an unseemly "bully" for threatening to hold them accountable for their acts. That meme, of course, does not extend to a president's nakedly unconstitutional breaking of international treaties, the instigation of illegal wars, the elimination of habeas corpus on demand, or the bulk wiretapping of electronic communications by innocent civilians --- it only applies to picking on corporations and the man-children who direct them.
Second, the post hints at just how unaccustomed to criticism and populist anger these elites have become after 30 years of The Good Life. There are PR campaigns, executed not only though advertising but by marquee-name news commentators, that scold citizens for "vilifying" financiers and oilmen for the destruction they have sown. Why would the captains of industry bother with such nonsense? Because we make them nervous. They do not like their parasitic livelihoods and lifestyles to be criticized, because they're important people and therefore entitled to anything they wish: unearned income, untaxed riches, unwarranted power, and immunity from accountability. They are nervous because many, many people are beginning to understand that they are parasites out of control. And that they are terrified sissies. There's not a man among them; candy-ass jabronis. Revel in their fear.
On the slim chance that President Obama decides to take my advice on how to handle the problem with his allegedly insubordinate General Officer, then he also may consider my serving suggestion for the exit interview.
The general's seat at the conference table should be reserved with one warm bottle of Bud Lite Lime, placed on a TGI Friday's coaster. Obama should arrive at the meeting 15 minutes late with an ice-cold 40, two fresh packs of Philip Morris Commanders, and a box of kitchen matches. Joe Biden should arrive at the meeting 15 minutes early with two fifths of Wild Irish Rose (no glass) so he can keep the general company until the boss is done chillin'.
Something about the layout and editing of the HuffPost front page from tonight, shown below, gives me the strong gut feeling that Obama will not fire his insubordinate 4-star general. Check the wording on the subhead: "President Obama Rebukes His Top Afghan General For 'Poor Judgment'."
Nope. If you're going to fire the guy, you don't make Peep 1 about it for the Tuesday evening headline writers. Why would the president bother with public "tough talk" before having the guy's ass on a platter in person? If my hunch is correct, I must say that it would be a really witless move with zero upside. BHO will get mau-maued whether he cans McChrystal or lets him stay. But in the latter case, Obama will also look like a king-hell pansy. And he should expect more of the same in his future. Limbaugh wins much less if Obama emerges from the oval office with the general's blood dripping from his socialist fangs.
No one is indispensable. Meanwhile, insubordination is unacceptable in any job, period, and it's always cause for immediate dismissal. Soldiers know this as well as forklift operators and Wal-Mart associates and Army public affairs officers. Maybe McChrystal wants to get fired and become the newest political darling of right-wingers (a role I still see Petraeus playing even if he retires along normal lines). So let him. Whether you support the Afghanastan mission or not, the good general has jeopardized its execution with his hi-jinx and he knows it. Not exactly a career-crowning achievement on which to base a political campaign, though. Basically, his motives seem pretty murky to me unless he just can't hold his Bud Lite Lime (the drinking of which should certainly be sufficient grounds for loss of rank and dismissal).
Update: Florida Rep. Alan Grayson has a few more reasons why McChrystal's presence can no longer be tolerated, including an incident last year when he publicly showed-up Obama about Afghanistan troop strength. And, incidentally and apropos of nothing, Grayson is my leading candidate to become the next Huey Long. Just a disinterested observation....
Hokey smoke, Bullwinkle! It's an ultra-rare Saturday night twin spin!
Why? Because when I walked into Schunck's (The Friendliest Store In Town, I'll have you know!) to shop for victuals this evening, I was pleasantly smacked upside the head to hear this terrific summer 1966 wimp-rocker in progress. It's a swingin' guilty pleasure, what can I say? Musta heard this repeatedly on transistor radios at the Indiana Dunes; I can practically feel the sun blistering my skin off and smell other people's suntan lotion as I listen to it.
This was the title tune from a comeback album by one Ezekiel Christopher Montanez. Wikipedia sez, "The title single from the album, sung in a soft, very high tenor range and played on primarily adult-formatted radio stations, confused some disc jockeys...." Haha! "Very high tenor" indeed --- I think they used to call that "alto." Anyway, the title single didn't "confuse" the program directors at WLS and WCFL in Chicago that summer, because that's where and when I done imprinted on it like a baby bird.
Other Wikipedia things I did not know: this tune was penned in 1945, and was performed earlier by Sara Vaughn, Nat Cole and Nancy Wilson, and even (date unknown) by the great JohnnyHartman.
The More I See You, Chris Montez (1966, A&M Records), via YouTube.
This proto-lummox-rock speaks for itself. That said, I will briefly point to a few amusing features of this video, of which I do not know the provenance. First, the Pharaohs look more like Sheiks than what they purport to be. Second, Sam is costumed more like a Sikh than a Pharaoh, but maybe that was why he called himself a Sham. Third, the boys give us a fresh and clever application of go-go girl technology, namely being that the cuties are as motionless as mummies throughout the performance. And fourth, Sam didn't need no stinking lip syncing, as is especially evident during the last chorus as his voice tatters and he even cracks up at being busted with it on live TV. Probably either one run-through or tequila shot too many before rolling videotape. Everything about it looks fun.
RubberCrutch Bonus Trivia! In summer 2007, inspired by my memory of these antic lyric stylings of Domingo “Sam” Samudio whilst being browbeaten by my Chinese date and a small roomful of her equally Chinese students upstairs of a campus bar at a private karaoke party, I plucked this song from the tune menu they kept shoving up my grille. "I'll fix their wagon," I thought to myself. The crowd went wild, so I ended up doing two more by request. And significantly, there was no alcohol whatsoever involved! That's what Sam means by "let's not be L7"!
Wooly Bully, Sam The Sham and The Pharaohs (1966, unknown live TV performance), via YouTube.
I fell in love with this song, like so many others in the 1966 - 1967 timeframe, before dawn. The situation was this: every Wednesday evening the Williams Press truck would engine-knock up our driveway and throw me a bundle or two of The Homewood-Flossmoor Star, the biweekly area newspaper. I would roll 'em all up in rubber bands (or when they were fat or I was lazy I'd use the flat trifold method) and get to bed early. Before bed, though, I'd snatch my sister Peggy's red and white plastic transistor Sears Silvertone radio/record player, which was the size of a Belgian paver but also a marvel of miniaturization at the time, and stash it with the bulldog edition of the Star in my old-school canvas paperboy bag. Then, around 4 or 4:30 a.m. I'd drag my scrawny carcass out of bed, get dressed, and head out into the suburban dark. The important thing was that radio, even more important than the princely paycheck. I started every Thursday all alone in the calm, dark reverberating open-air auditorium of suburban concrete, brick, and cedar siding with the predawn sounds of WCFL-1000, one of Chicago's two Top 40 powerhouses in the mid-'60s. (At that time WLS-890 didn't start broadcasting music until Chrome-Dome Weber came on around 6:05, after all the farmer nonsense.) These were formative mystical experiences for me, and I gratefully soaked up everything from The Casinos to the Doors. I remember first taking note this song, "Tell It Like It Is," around February 1967. This was the same month I heard the early-morning Chicago premier of a jaw-dropping Beatles song called "Strawberry Fields Forever," which literally brought me to a dead stop in the snow flurries as I tried to puzzle out its melody and structure.
So I originally felt a little weird about luxuriating in "Tell It Like It Is" because to my innocent ears it sounded like (wait for it) serious country and western! That's right: I heard it as a crossover country-pop tune (not actually knowing that term at the time), and it would have been damn uncool for me to admit liking such a thing in the winter of 1967 even as the crocuses of The Summer Of Love were starting to think about peeping their randy little budding heads up out of the earth. (Editor's note: some country was OK by me even back then, such as Roger Miller and a Jack Jones hit or two, but that stuff kinda at least sounded like rock.) It's not that I was some kind of proto-hippie or was even aware of such things beyond how they were made fun of on "Petticoat Junction." But it wasn't rock and roll, so what the hell else could it be!?! Sorta jazzy, but definitely not jazz. Well, "country" or whatever, I'd never heard a more beautiful rhythm guitar sound before then, and the piano and percussion kept things peppy with a 6/8 beat in back of the seductive melody. And that voice... like a choir of bells.
I rediscovered this song in the mid-'70s when I started hoarding 45 rpm records from thrift stores with Larry K. With more mature ears, informed by three semesters of college-level music theory (harmony), I was bowled over by it again. By then I'd recategorized it as "country soul" in my still-underdeveloped bean, and remember thinking to myself about Aaron Neville's vocal performance, "this guy is like a white Al Green!" I don't think that it was until sometime in the 1980s that I finally discovered that Aaron Neville and his brothers were, uh, black. Today I can recognize the vivid New Orleans flavor of the chart, especially in the horn sounds and even the rhythm guitar, but I still hear "Tell It Like It Is" as a small masterpiece of country soul.
Tell It Like It Is, Aaron Neville (1966, Par-Lo Records), via YouTube.
Office still life with margarita glass and melba toast resembling polar cross section of a lemon. Shot on iPhone 3G; cropped, slightly gamma-corrected, and sharpened using Adobe Bridge and Photoshop.
Apropos of nothing, my good pal Highly Osmotic Salami recently sent me the link to a rollicking 1895 critique, penned by Mark Twain, regarding the literary contributions of James Fenimore Cooper. You can read Twain's highly informative and entertaining essay here. Even if 19th century criticism is not your cup of tea or it runs too long for your tastes, I highly recommend that you scan the first few sentences, at least, and then sample some of the text after the numbered list, or else try the five paragraphs starting at the sentence that begins, "If Cooper had been an observer his inventive faculty...." Not only is Twain's use of humor devastating, as usual, but his application of language is at once both princely and accessible. There's barely a hint of old-fashioned rhetoric or vocabulary; mainly just the power of plainly written English, authored with craft and intent. I would be honored and amazed if I were able to roughly approximate Twain's elegant economy with words and discipline of tone. His late-life essays, which I devoured over 30 years ago but haven't much revisited, are never far from from the back of my mind.
That said, I think Twain was indulging in a bit of blood sport with the legacy of the late Cooper, who was considered a literary giant throughout 19th century America and also overseas. For example, although the point about Cooper's "singularly dull" word sense may be well taken, Twain's extensive catalog of the author's specific transgressions seems somewhat petty and academic, especially to postmodern citizens who have been forced to accept some unlovely aspects of rapidly evolving vocabulary and usage.
Having only once tried to read Cooper as 4th grader and becoming bored stupid within about 21 pages of The Last of the Mohicans, I can't claim any first-hand knowledge of Cooper's work or his career. But the absurd heroics that Twain amusingly deconstructs, such as the forest shoot-off where bullets hit bulls-eyes and then other bullets hit the earlier bullets, may have been intended less to withstand critical analysis and more to excite the minds and imaginations of young boys whose families were building new towns at the edges of frontier territories. If Cooper was a hack, then maybe he knew it and didn't care. Or maybe he even relished his role as a hack popular entertainer, endowing his canny woodmen and noble savages with the prowess of Olympians for pure diversion value just like Stan Lee and Jack Kirby did in the 1960s with their own lovable and highly significant hack creations like Spider-Man, The Thing, the X-Men, and even the mythology-inspired Thor. Perhaps Cooper became a literary force mostly because the cultural elites said he was rather than by his own pretense. You know: just like John Irving.
Anyway, I'll probably never read Fenimore Cooper, in large part because of Twain's critique, which I can't help but to honor even given the churlish* undertone of it. But one of Twain's most devastating observations about Cooper's incompetence at writing dialog attracted my own postmodern interest, not only as the literary insult intended but also as a possible hint that Cooper may at the same time have been 150 years ahead of his peers in this regard. Says Twain:
The conversations in the Cooper books have a curious sound in our modern ears. To believe that such talk really ever came out of people's mouths would be to believe that there was a time when time was of no value to a person who thought he had something to say; when it was the custom to spread a two-minute remark out to ten; when a man's mouth was a rolling-mill, and busied itself all day long in turning four-foot pigs of thought into thirty-foot bars of conversational railroad iron by attenuation; when subjects were seldom faithfully stuck to, but the talk wandered all around and arrived nowhere; when conversations consisted mainly of irrelevancies, with here and there a relevancy, a relevancy with an embarrassed look, as not being able to explain how it got there.
In the bemused mind of Twain, who presumably had not traveled a century into the future and attended various Lynn Street happy hours, Cooper's dialog was surreal and insufferable. But if Twain's characterization is accurate, then Fenimore Cooper's dialog may have amounted to literary prophecy. Sometime soon, sit unobtrusively in a bar or coffee shop sometime, or maybe your own neighborhood gathering, and listen. Try the break room at work, or the weekly staff meeting. Or the Sunday morning infotainment shows. Listen intently for the "relevancy with an embarrassed look." ______________ * I learned the term churl in 1965 when Lee-and-Kirby creation Dr. Doom back-knuckled a hapless lackey with his iron gauntlet as punishment for some offense, real or imagined by the supreme despot of Latveria, and publicly denounced the poor sap as a "WITLESS CHURL!"
Previously on Fifty50 --- last night, to be precise --- I compared the decay of our democratic and business institutions (not to mention church congregations) to what happens when a parasite thrives without any natural regulation and ultimately kills its host (and, a bit later, itself). But I'm not a biologist, so my parasitism similes may lack a certain technical "oomph" when critically examined. And with regard to the aforementioned post, there's a certain awkward mixing of parasitism similes and engineering metaphors. (That's one reason I write an E-list blog instead of textbooks.)
A favorite Big Hussein Otis metaphor for our current epoch is the 1960 George Pal film version of The Time Machine, portraying a future in which the hideous, animalistic Morlock society lures the passive, survival-challenged Eloi population to its underground fortress for the slaughter. [Editor's note: social metaphors aside, this is an awesome family film that every household should own, and is perfect for playfully scaring shit out of any 7-year-old who hasn't been raised on slasher movies.] I agree with BHO's assessment.
The Morlocks are an interesting crew. In a sense they're an apex predator, but they employ what might be viewed as a parasitic ranching strategy. (Again, caveat emptor with regard to my incomplete understanding of natural systems; Fifty50's technical monitors may feel free to help with refinement and nuance.) I say "parasitic ranching" because, if memory of the movie serves, the Morlocks provided no inputs to the Eloi flock --- no management was involved --- but simply exploited the atavistic Eloi response to civil defense sirens. So the Morlocks might think they're the smartest guys in the room, and they probably are. But someone with a more sophisticated perspective, who incidentally is not in the room, can quickly grasp that the Morlocks do not have a sustainable "business model" for at least two reasons. First, lacking any stewardship of their food supply, the Morlocks are certain to exhaust the herd and consequently starve themselves to extinction. Second, it may be possible for the herd to organically develop a resistance to the parasite --- that is, adapt.
I wonder what would happen to our latter-dayMorlocks if the Gulf Coast Eloi were to come under the influence of a 21st century Huey Long.
Another editor's note: the publicity photo of Eloi Yvette Mimieux and her Morlock captor, for The Time Machine (1960), is reproduced as fair use for purposes of literary criticism and social commentary. Thank you for your attention to this matter.)
The Portland Cement Association defines progressive collapse as "a situation where local failure of a primary structural component(s) leads to the collapse of adjoining members, which in turn leads to additional collapse." This dread phenomenon in structural engineering was the immediate cause of mass casualties in the 1995 right-wing terrorist bombing of the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City.*
Progressive collapse also can occur under stresses that are otherwise nominal, but produce catastrophic failure when members or materials have been under-designed or have been subject to accelerated degradation that cannot support a design peak load. [Editor's note: at this point I welcome and invite the intervention of our local mystery technical phenom, who may go by the moniker of Professor Mahatma Kane Jeeves, to correct my imprecisions or to augment my explanations if necessary, or both.] As a general matter, progressive collapse considered a nonlinear event.
Since I first began to grasp the potential magnitude of the Deepwater Horizon oilwell disaster I've felt that this event --- which would probably be containable in an alternate universe in which U.S. democracy can marshal resources to serve the public good about as effectively as it did in the 1930s and '40s --- could start a cascade of environmental, economic, and political failures that industrial age institutions just won't be able to cope with. Our institutions are already run through with stress cracks and fatigue. The human institutions, public and private, have been rotting from the head for 30 or 40 years, and now they're necrotic right through to leech-filled guts. The parasites are killing their hosts. They think it's funny, and that the chaos they create means they're smart. They don't believe the concept of extinction applies to them.
I don't like my own melodramatics any more than I like anyone else's. But just consider how a few major stresses could play out directly, and consider the feedback loops that could get started. We have one of the largest environmental catastrophes of the industrial era, but it's not only making pretty birds oily and dead but also destroying the ecological services that provide income for tens of thousands of families along the "south coast." Meanwhile, rich people will not stand for restoring personal and corporate marginal income tax rates to a level that can sustain emergency government response to natural disasters, industrial disasters, or disastrous levels of U.S. unemployment. Bigots and know-nothings blame their usual suspects. Cracker politicians and infotainment media deliberately inflamethem. At this point in U.S. history it is no longer unacceptable to puke hate speech over the public airwaves or in "mainstream" political gatherings:
What if the Gulf disaster, perhaps with help from a few hurricanes, makes large portions of the coast, including New Orleans, literally uninhabitable both owing to environmental impacts and the fully played-out impacts of a collapsed regional economy. Is it possible that tens of thousands of people --- or hundreds of thousands --- might be displaced? If so, maybe it's a good thing that we have a nice surplus of (decaying) housing stock; they all can move to California, Vegas, and Florida (at least until the tarballs and dead seabirds reach the latter). And don't forget that if nothing else, the BP blowout will most certainly inflate energy prices. And also don't forget about the conversion of the U.S. banking system into a multi-level marketing plan, like Amway and Ponzi schemes.
Meanwhile, I don't understand, in any technical sense, the financial pathology afflicting the Eurozone or what China is doing to the world economy, but many reality-based people who are savvy to those kinds of things are scared about what they could do to us. North Korea and Israel have both done a great service to the cause of international instability over the past 2 weeks. Significantly, the one hot zone stresses the U.S. and China in a big way, and the other stresses the U.S. and its oil protectorates (and oil antagonists).
And no, Chauncey, the "free market" will not prevent a progressive collapse, or stop it once it begins. We don't have a user's manual or a helpdesk for this sort of thing. I've been writing about various aspects of this looming situation for several years as if each aspect is at least somewhat independent of the others. That's because I came to this point in history believing that a robust constitutional democracy and a consensus about the role of government provided all of the stability necessary to break big problems into smaller ones, and then solve them. But the black spew has got me worrying that there will be a much larger price to pay for the Reagan Revolution than crumbling infrastructure and a 3-decade white collar crime spree. It's an event that deeply stresses the economy, the environment, civic peace, and possibly geopolitics.
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* Although the collapse of the World Trade Center towers on September 11, 2001, also has been attributed --- supposedly conclusively --- to this phenomenon, I feel certain that future historians and forensic engineers (probably members of whatever superior civilization buries our own decadent one) will document something very much to the contrary.
RubberCrutch, 14-watt illuminatus and man about town, earns his living as a simple country editor, as if toiling on a chain gang beside Larry Fine, making little sentences out of big ones.
He has 30 years of professional experience in written and visual communications, including journalism, public relations, advertising, technical publishing, and photography. In connection with some of those roles he has won several unimportant awards.
[Editor's note: in archived Fifty50 posts, all references to one "StuporMundi" in fact pertain to our hero, RubberCrutch, unless otherwise noted. Thank you for your attention in this matter.]
It is the mission of this weblog to offer you, at least half the time, an assortment of essays and pictures pertaining to current events, aesthetic studies, psychological inquiries, and everyday tomfoolery, presented in a jocular setting that is suitable for Mom, Pop, Junior, and Sis, as long as Mom and Sis do not object to literature that sometimes contains words such as "asshole" and "fuck."
