.
Not since June 2007 had I been out of Airheadzona, nor had I been out of Phoenix (A.K.A. “Hell”) except for a couple of days spent in Flagstaff last October. This is not good for anyone’s mental health. It’s hot here. It’s nasty here. The people are stupid here, and the crime rate per capita is worse than New York City. Occasional vacations are needed and I was way overdue for one. So my brother Napoleon and I decided to take 8 days and go up to Northwest Nevada – get out of this brutal heat.
We rented a 2008, silver Dodge Caliber with California plates (not a bad little car: 35 M.P.G. on the highway, lots of leg room and I was impressed by the sound of the compact disc player. What else ya need for a 1,466 mile road trip?)
I didn’t really take notes on this trip, so I’m merely attempting, with my feeble little gin-soaked brain, to piece some of it back together after the fact. The events are almost entirely true, if somewhat out of proper sequence here and there, and most of the times are just approximations since my watch broke on me. Well, here goes NUTTIN'.....
Sunday, Sept. 14, 2008:
We set our sights on an 8 A.M. departure time, but we missed the goal by about 15 minutes. Then Napoleon and I each had to make an ATM withdrawal stop. Finally on the road proper by 8:30 – Napoleon behind the wheel. North on Interstate 17. First destination: “VEGAS, BAAABEEE!” I put Walter Egan’s “Not Shy” into the player: Sweet South Breeze; Magnet And Steel; Finally Find A Girlfriend; The Blonde In The Blue T-Bird; Hot Summer Nights. I never test drove Egan’s music on a road trip before, but it works.
We catch the Highway 74 interchange and hook up with Highway 93 “Out Wickenburg Way.” At Kingman, Airheadzona, we stop to let some fluid out and to take some fluid in (in the form of bottled water). We intend to continue on 93 to Boulder City but Airheadzona rubs off on us and somehow we miss the cutoff from Interstate 40, and like knuckleheads, go south toward Yucca. (Yucca, a place I’ve been dying to see! Haven’t you?) Not until it’s useless to turn back do we realize what we’ve done, so we remain on that pointless Interstate 40 “U” and enter California near Needles. We’re both disgusted. About 90 miles after missing our cutoff, we’re now even with Kingman again but on the California side of the Colorado River. Arrrrrggghhhhh!
“VEGAS, BAAABEEE!” On Highway 95, we stop at Searchlight for 12 ounces of reinforcements. It’s true that in my 20s and early 30s, I drank my share of alcohol and yours too, but since then, my drinking has been minimal and infrequent. I do, however, tend to revisit the ol’ Watering Hole in search of my Laughing Place when I’m on an official “vacation”, and THIS is an “official vacation.” After a quick 12 ounce stop at Searchlight, I take over the driving chores.
3 PM-ish:
We roll into Vegas, Baby. Tired. Still a bit miffed about missing that Route 93 cutoff. We check into the El Cortez Hotel in downtown – a room on the fifth floor. This is “The ALL NEW Historic El Cortez Hotel.” Yeah, I know that’s something of an oxymoron, but that’s the way they’re advertising it these days. The place is Old School, Rat Pack era stuffs. This is a glimpse of the mostly long gone Vegas that I preferred, before the place was turned into a themed family affair. Before they built fake pirate ships on The Strip, Vegas was an Old School playground where REAL pirates could be found roaming the streets and sleeping in alleys.
The El Cortez Hotel is where my Pa and Ma had their wedding night steak dinner in ’58. Legend has it that I was conceived later that same evening, but because I arrived 3 weeks late, kicking and screaming all the way, it can’t be proven. But my Ma insisted that she knew there was a new life inside her the morning after her wedding night, so it’s highly likely that I was a Vegas Baaabeee!
Napoleon and I take the El Cortez elevator down; we’re heading to Casino Center to grab something to eat but we wind up stuck behind an old geezer whom we can’t seem to get around. He’s wearing these wide, rainbow-colored suspenders and I tell Nappy “That’s Rule #1-A: Never wear suspenders. And Rule #1-B is never, EVER wear RAINBOW suspenders. The morning I wake up and find you in rainbow suspenders, this vacation is OVER and you’re hitchhiking back to Hell, Airheadzona!” My Hawaiian shirts seem downright subdued and conservative compared to rainbow suspenders.
We end up eating at Hennessey’s. The food’s a dud, but we HAD to raise our blood sugar level. Well, it’s nice to see that the “Howdy, Pardner” sign is still there at The Pioneer Club, but sadly, the free animatron show across the street at Sassy Sally’s is ancient history. Well, it wasn’t much to begin with, but hey, it was free. I point out “Biff’s Hotel And Casino” from the movie Back To The Future and then Nappy and I play a little video poker and have a weak drink at Happy’s Place in the El Cortez. It’s not really called Happy’s Place, but we nicknamed it after the 90 year-old Scatman Crothers look-alike bartender with the sour puss. (After I'd ordered a Bourbon & Seven from Happy and he barely even grunted at me, Napoleon leaned over to me and said, "I'll have a Coke & a Smile.")
By 9 PM we’re in our beds watching a little TV before lights out. Wild times in Vegas, Baaabeee!
Monday, Sept. 15, 2008:
Up early, I go get coffee after “The Coffee Runaround” in the hotel’s casino. Nappy showers while I sip some joe outside the door and watch a pigeon endure its death throes on the roof of the El Cortez. My day will be better than his – poor bird. My digital display wristwatch has inexplicably gone belly up. I found it dead this morning. Sad. The Countess bought it for me when I broke the one my Pa bought for me while I was repairing UCLA parking lot equipment in 1991. This is a tough town on pigeons and watches.
Combing my hair in the mirror after my shower, I notice hair just falling out like crazy. It must be this lighting because, although I recently noted that my hair seemed suddenly considerably thinner right on top, I’d never actually seen it falling out like this! What’s this all about? The body learns that it just turned 49 and so my hair gets wind of it and immediately starts to abandon scalp? But this is Vegas, and what falls out here, stays here… in a bathroom sink. I guess it’s time to grow that ponytail and full beard, eh? Maybe I’ll get an ear pierced before I leave Vegas, Baaabeee! This is a tough town on pigeons, watches and hair.
8:30 AM:
We drive down The Vegas Strip listening to Hank Williams Junior and Don Helms singing “The Ballad Of Hank Williams” – a spoof of Johnny Horton’s “The Battle Of New Orleans.”
Well, in 1950 I took a little nip
Along with Mr. Williams on the way to Mississipp’
We was stacked 8-deep in a Packard limousine
And we met this promoter in the town of New Orleans
Now the man told Daddy that he had what it took
That he liked the way he sang and he liked the way it shook
He said pretty soon he’d make us all rich
And we started believin’ that fat sumbitch
Ha!-Ha! Funny stuffs!
But then I’m almost devastated when I see that the old Algiers Hotel has been razed and the skeleton framework of a new monstrosity is being erected in its place. The Algiers was a little piece of 1950s tucked into a little spot just north of The Riviera Hotel. They had this supercool, dark and cozy little bar that felt as right as a wedge of lime in a Margarita. Everytime the door opened and a beam of light flashed in for a moment, you’d look to see if that was Frankie, Deano, or Sammy a-comin’ in to wet his whistle. That was one of my half dozen all-time favorite bars anywhere. Oh, the Algiers is history and so are the good times in Vegas, Baaabeee!
9:30 AM:
Nappy and I go to The Mandalay Bay for an all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet. Overpriced for cold scrambled eggs ‘n’ stuffs. Dud. Nappy points out that he and I are the only two people in Vegas who aren’t overweight. I tell him that I’ll bet they sometimes fake a kitchen fire in order to close down the buffet when a person who weighs in excess of 300 pounds shows up for the all-they-can-eats.
10:30 AM:
Rollin’ outta town, Baaabeee! Too much traffic. Too many kids. No Algiers. No cheap food and drinks… give Vegas back to the Mafia, it was better when they ran the gig. We’re on our way to . . . RENO, BAAABEEE!
11:45 AM:
We’re northbound on Highway 95. Rotten road! Give me two lanes in one direction and I can drive all day and all night, but this single lane sh— crap is unacceptable. It’s an unending battle to pass slowpoke drivers; you no sooner get around one dude or dudette than you find yourself under the speed limit behind another one. Nappy and I have come up with a nickname for these Goin’NowhereSlowly drivers: If he’s driving a Winnebago, we call him Winnebago Boy. “Come on, Stephen, you gotta get around Winnebago Boy!” Or it might be “Trailer Boy”, or “Trucker Boy.” If it’s just a nondescript passenger vehicle, we call him “Shorts-In-The-Shower Boy” – a nickname we picked up from an episode of Frasier.
12:00 PM:
We’re listening to the “Spectres” album, and Nappy mentions that he’d forgotten just how good Blue Oyster Cult was. Naturally, I go into my spiel about how Buck Dharma was quite possibly the single most underrated guitarist from the Classic Hard Rock era. The Cult is singing about “Death Valley Nights” and oddly enough, we are only 20 miles East of Death Valley National Monument – one-time home of Charles Manson and his Family. Imagine living in a place called Death Valley with a longhaired hippie who doesn’t bathe often and where it’s routinely over 110 degrees. The family that stinks together stays (and kills) together.
If you slow down and listen carefully while going through some of these little towns on Highway 95 you can actually hear the dueling banjos.
I see John Law has nabbed a woman speeder over there. She’s too heavy and not dolled up enough to bat her eyelashes and charm her way out of this one. You shoulda stayed in Vegas, Baaabeee!
SOMETIME PM:
Two hundred and thirty-five “Shorts-In-The-Shower” Boys behind us, we pull into Reno while Waylon’s singin’ ‘bout “Yoyos, Bozos, Bimbos And Heroes.” I’ve been the first and second of those characters my entire life.
By 5 PM:
We’re checked into our Circus Circus Reno room on the sixteenth floor and gettin’ comfortable for the next four and a half days.
8 PM:
We’ve had dinner somewhere and we catch the free “World Class” circus act at Circus Circus. This is The Imperial Acrobats Of China – 7 young Chinese women in white and silver one-piece polyester jumpsuits with the midsections cut out. They’re perfoming with something called a Diabolo; it’s like a yo-yo on steroids. Hey! They’re pretty good. I mean, I’ve never been much attracted to Asian women, so maybe it’s the white and silver polyester Elvis getups. Or maybe it’s the backflips. Or the real big yo-yos. But whatever it is, they’ve got my attention… and Nappy’s, too. And we only saw the act from behind. We’ll be back… hopefully in front.
Tuesday, Sept. 16, 2008:
No driving today – we be tired. Not thrilled with the prospect of that long drive back to Phoenix, Airheadzona, we look into the idea of dropping the car off in Reno and flying home when the time comes, but the drop-off fee would be $255. We’ll drive, thank you very much. Unless we hit a big jackpot, of course… but we really aren’t much for gambling.
2:45 PM:
I guess we ate breakfast or lunch somewhere, but who knows and who cares? We’re in the Circus Circus Keno Lounge. They offer us a good deal for staying here: we can play the same 8 numbers for 50 straight games, only $5. So Nappy and I each select 4 numbers and make out our 8-number card. The Keno Lounge manager is just about to get off work, but she has a lot of spunk and personality. We like her. It’ll take 6 hours for all 50 games to play out, but we can check on the results tomorrow.
3:30 PM:
We’re still hangin’ out in the Keno Lounge when the blonde cocktail waitress approaches. Yeah, Nappy wants a Black Russian but I just order an Irish Coffee (I think it’s a little too early for a “real” drink). When she returns with the drinks, Nappy says he wants the elaborate cross that’s hanging around her neck. “How much you want for that cross?” She says it’s hers and not for sale. I’m a little surprised that Nappy even saw the thing, buried in the cramped crevice between her full, well-rounded and 45% exposed bosoms, like it was. What was it that even made Nappy think to look there? Danged if I know, but he’s always had a knack for spotting a cross in a busy intersection. However, she won’t sell it, even when Nappy says he fears he’ll go to Hell without it. She says she’s in her mid-40s and she can’t afford to part with it now, as she also might go to Hell without it.
Me, I’m thinking: Hokey-Smoke! She looks pretty hot for a woman in her mid-40s. Ya know, 5 or 6 more of these Irish Coffees and I might be persuaded to drop my religious convictions along with my shorts and allow this bosomy, “younger” woman to steal my innocence. But alas, that elaborate metal cross would forever be in my line of vision and would scrape the skin right off my nose.
4:30 PM:
I go down to the Circus Circus Business Center to spend $3. for 10 minutes on the Internet. Nappy wants to know what gold did during the big Wall Street nosedive. I go to Kitco.com and get the update on the upswing for Nappy, then I quickly go to my “Stuffs” Blog at Blogspot.com so I can vote on my Whazit2U Polls (for some reason, my voice don’t count when I try voicing it from my own computer at home). I vote for the scent of Brand New Carpeting in the “Smelly Poll” and I vote for Rachael Ray against me in the “Most Masculine” Poll because she’s much cuter than I am. Yes, I realize it’s a question of masculinity and not cuteness, but cuteness trumps masculinity 24/7 in MY book! She gets my vote.
8:00 PM:
Nappy goes to the Circus Circus gym to work out. I do mine right in our hotel room. I try out Nappy’s 30 pound weight vest and find that while wearing it, I can only manage about 25% of the number of standard pushups I can usually do in a single set. Oooh! I like this piece of equipment – may make it part of my regular workout rountine when I get home.
9:00 PM:
I’m watching Sarah Palin’s interview with Sean Hannity on TV and I’m struck by how she is able to answer questions with 300 words and never really respond directly to a direct question. I think I’ll call this Sarah’s Bill Clinton Dance. The more this woman talks, the less I like her . . . and she talks a lot! Wow! The Great White Female Hope of the Republican Party sounds exactly like . . . a politician. Imagine that!
10:00 PM:
I’m reading from the book of Esther. Maybe it’s just my own sickly warped sense of humor but I’ve always found this to be the funniest extended segment in The Holy Bible (not that there’s a lot of competition in The Good Book when it comes to humor). I mean, really, anyone who can read Esther and not come away with the feeling that Haman is the Wile E. Coyote of The Bible… well, that person probably isn’t going to laugh at most of the same things that make me laugh. Come on, this is funny stuffs, boys ‘n’ goils . . . I mean, it’s classic in a black comedy kinda way.
Wednesday, Sept. 17, 2008:
9:00 AM:
I go to the Keno Lounge to see if our 50-game Keno ticket has made us rich; maybe we won’t have to return to Phoenix, Airheadzona after all. I’m stunned: we have won a whopping . . . nothing. Not one cent. Are you kidding me? We played 8 numbers for 50 consecutive games and managed to win nothing? Now that I find amazing, and I tell the woman at the Keno Lounge that surely this is so improbable that it must mean we get money for it. She doesn’t even crack a smile. But then again, I don’t think she understands English.
10:00 AM:
I drive us up to Lake Tahoe and we have breakfast at The Horizon Hotel on the South Side. Not a bad omelette. I find a couple of “Made In USA” Tahoe magnets that Nappy wants to buy for a couple of friends back home, and I buy a couple of post cards for two friends: The Aard, and “M” whom I had a small spat with a couple of weeks earlier. (I’m sorry my friend and I had a beef, but I learned a valuable lesson from it: when push comes to shove, no one takes anything I say all that seriously. I guess it’s about time I learned the truth, and I’m better off for it. There are only two people in this world who have ever truly believed in me: Jesus ‘n’ me.)
12:00 PM:
Nappy and I stroll onto a private Lake Tahoe beach and Nappy’s camera fails. (Sure, we weren’t supposed to be on a private beach, but we did keep our presence a secret. Ya know, like, “private”? Shhhhh… We’re here, but keep it under yer hat.)
1:30 PM:
For quite some time, we couldn't locate our car in the Harvey's Casino parking structure and this Airheadzonan act very nearly degenerated into a real-life Seinfeld episode.
2:00 PM:
I drive us around the beautiful Lake and let Pat Metheny’s “Letter From Home” album play through twice. Nappy’s not crazy about the tunes, but honestly, it’s the very best road soundtrack I own and since I’m doin’ the drivin’ I get the final say about what to play. But don’t tell Nappy… that’s “private” info. Shhhhh...
Lots of “Shorts-In-The-Shower” Boys on Route 89/28 goin’ around the West side of Lake Tahoe, but the world’s greatest driving music keeps me calm behind the wheel. If you haven’t hit the road with The Pat Metheny Group, you’ve never really become one with the road.
3:30 PM:
We stop for 12 ounces of reinforcements at The Cal-Neva Lodge at Crystal Bay in North Lake Tahoe. I have my first ever Blue Moon brew and it’s not too bad. Nappy has 24 ounces of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale after I agree to drive for the rest of the day if he takes the wheel all day tomorrow. Deal struck.
The Cal-Neva is a pretty small, neat, Old School casino; lots of polished wood. It sits right on the California/Nevada border and a gold and silver line representing the border is painted right down the middle of one rock-walled reception room. Back in The Good Ol’ Days, The Cal-Neva was actually owned by Frank Sinatra and lots of photographs of Ol’ Blue Eyes grace the walls of the place. While Nappy was sucking down his second 12 ounces of reinforcements, I visited the restroom where I saw scrawled on the wall of one toilet stall the message that “Frank Sinatra sh#t here.” Ha! I didn’t feel worthy of sitting there after reading that; I guess I can hold it until we get back to Reno but I’d better drive fast - the sightseeing is OVER! “Outta my way, Shorts-In-The-Shower Boys!”
6:00 PM:
Nappy and I head for the Circus Circus big top, hoping to catch the Imperial Acrobats Of China act, but they aren’t performing on Wednesdays. Hmmm… well, I’m happy for them, but if this was Communist China, they’d probably be playing with their yo-yos for our enjoyment. Either that, or the slave labor camp for them. (Those poor Communized people. No, I’m not being sarcastic! My heart truly does go out to those living under the yoke of Communism. I have long boycotted anything made in China. I simply refuse to pay money for any Chinese goods, and no, it makes no difference how goods she be!)
7:00 PM:
We wander on over to the Cal-Neva Reno Casino. I order a glass of robust red wine while Nappy does the beer thing. Setting my change on the bar, the Korean bartender says to me, “Thank you, Bro.” Now that was a first for me. But heck, why not? I mean, all men REALLY ARE Bros. Better tip my brother, I guess.
A few bar stools down from us is a man who has clearly had 18 too many. He says to the bartender: “Let me tell you something! Let me tell you something! I’m White but my friend is Black, and it doesn’t matter to us.” As soon as a man says loudly to a bartender “Let me tell you something” you KNOW he’s feelin’ no pain. And when he starts expressing his racial open-mindedness to a man who couldn’t care less about it… well, I REALLY don’t wanna be that man tomorrow morning.
When “Let-Me-Tell-You-Something” Boy got up to leave, Nappy and I watched fascinated as he walked slowly and cautiously toward the front door like a Thunderbirds marionette. When he got there, he leaned on the railing to speak to a man repairing a piece of carpeting on the steps, but I’m sure it was just a ploy to keep himself from falling to the carpeting. Every drunk loves a well-placed railing and an ear to bend.
8:00 PM:
Heading back up Virginia Street toward Circus Circus, a twenty-something year-old street bum staggers up to us and asks if we can spare forty-three cents. I had to laugh! If he’d asked for fifty cents I’d have said “No” because I don’t hand out money to bums, but when he’s got it calculated right down to the penny like that, you know that only forty-three cents stands between him and a Night Train short dog. So we give him exactly forty-three cents and he thanks us as he skips happily toward the liquor store. Gotta help a fellow American whose forty-three cents down on his high.
9:00 PM:
Napoleon and I go to The Ringside Bar at the Eldorado Hotel And Casino. I tell the bartender “We’ll have martinis, please” and he makes the mistake of asking what kind of martinis we want. Now I’m a 1991 graduate of a Los Angeles bartending school and Nappy used to tend bar at a neighborhood dive in Phoenix called The Side Door back in the early ‘90s. So, I inform Bartender Boy that there’s only one kind of martini and it’s made with gin. Bartender Boy says we should go ask them at Roxy’s Bar upstairs how many types of martinis there are. Well, faster’n you can say “Bartender on the ropes!” the Ringside Bar has been converted into The Boxing Ring itself. Nappy says, “Why don’t you make us the type of martini you would make for an old school man in the 1930s?” Bartender Boy says, “I wouldn’t know about that because I was born in the 1980s.” Well, we don’t take no lip from no young punk bartender. Look, man, a martini is gin and vermouth. If you make it with Vodka it’s just vodka and vermouth. Now, I don’t care if you want to get fancy and call that a V&V or a Double V, or something along those lines, but don’t call it a martini because a martini is made with gin!
Well, it turns out, Bartender Boy makes us pretty good martinis and we tip him well and carry them over to the Sports Book where we take up our old discussion about who is and who isn’t an athlete. Thought we’d worked this thing out fully in Flagstaff last October, but suddenly “Houston, we’ve got a problem! Yep, we’ve surely got trouble right here in River City.” See, previously, Nappy and I agreed that baseball, football, basketball and hockey players were athletes, while golfers, bowlers, runners, and race car drivers were not. So, if we could find the common denominator in athletes, we could systematically quantify what made one person an athlete while another person is not. We thought we’d completed our theory on last year’s trip to Flagstaff, but suddenly Nappy is calling a pole vaulter an athlete, which is silly, while I say swimmers are athletes but he disagrees. Oooh! We’ve got some work to do on this theory yet. After half an hour, I’ve convinced him with my superior logic that pole vaulters are not athletes, but he’s not yet ready to give that designation to swimmers.
Well, we’ll work this theory out yet, but it may take a few more vacations first. When all the details have been examined, completely debated and agreed upon, I’ll write a full Blog Bit on what makes one an athlete or not. But this sports theory is not ready for a public unveiling just yet.
9:45 PM:
We’re riding the elevator back to our Circus Circus room and two women are in the car with us. They look like bowling balls with a little black and brunette fuzz on top; if they aren’t lesbians, they’ve surely missed their calling. Nappy notices that they’re going to the 26th floor and he says, “Ya know, the higher you climb the more the alcohol affects you!” One of the bowling balls says. “Oh. Well, we don’t drink.” Nappy replies, “There was a time when I didn’t drink either . . . but then I was born.”
10:30 PM:
Nappy and I catch a couple episodes of Frasier on the boob tube and this helps to alleviate some of the bodily shaking we’ve been suffering due to our Frasier withdrawals. A week without Frasier is like a year at “The Rock.”
Thursday, Sept. 18, 2008:
8:30 AM:
Napoleon and I drive down to Carson City, Nevada’s capital. Heidi’s at the intersection of Highways 50 and 395 for breakfast. You’d think the 18-year-old blonde hostess with the rainbow star tattooed on her neck just below her ear would put me off my food, but actually, The Border Omelette with cheese, green chiles, sour cream and ranchero sauce is EXCELLENT; best omelette I’ve had in recent memory. Even a tattooed chick can’t spoil it for me!
10:00 AM:
We stroll around the town, take a look at the home (just a few blocks West of Cactus Jack’s Casino) which was used in a great Western movie. This was the rooming house where the dying John Wayne stayed with Lauren Bacall in The Shootist.
We walk past a bar called “Doppelgangers” and I explain to Nappy what a doppelganger is.
At The Carson City Nugget, a nice gentleman working at the Sports Book confirms for us that Nappy’s selection of the Buffalo Bills over the Oakland Raiders would be a sound pick in this weekend’s NFL pick-‘em contest. (One loss and Nappy’s season is over!)
We tour the State Capital building and don’t make a scene at all; nobody asks us to leave or quiet down or anything! We must be getting old.
12:33 PM:
I buy a compact disc at Borders Books And Music on Topsy Lane: “The Best Of Warren Zevon: A Quiet, Normal Life.” I’ve decided that I must have “Ain’t That Pretty At All” and “Looking For The Next Best Thing.” Hey, I got it on sale for just $7.99. AHHH-WOOO! My wallet’s still full and my hair is PERFECT . . . what’s left of it, that is.
We head on down to Genoa to visit Nevada’s oldest saloon and where the Mormon’s established the first permanent settlement in Nevada in 1851-53, sometimes called Mormon Station. It’s almost dichotomistic to drive into this tiny 1800s establishment while listening to Zevon sing about nuclear arms in the Middle East.
Entering Nevada’s oldest thirst parlor, I immediately recognize this as a fine drinking establishment by the C. M. Coolidge painting of Dogs Playing Poker which hangs just to the West of Raquel Welch’s old bra which hangs from the antlers of some old dead head. Yes, I could be comfortable here. I put a little money into the jukebox and play Two Toms And A Bob (That’s Waits, Petty and Seger). Stop! There’s no Waylon on this jukebox? What the hell kinda Saloon is this? Let’s go. Besides, that woman has no business working behind a bar. Give Genoa back to the Mormons, it was better when they ran the gig.
3:45 PM:
We’re in Virginia City, site of the fabulous Comstock Lode. I love this place. I lived here in a past life – maybe. I think I was Black then, too. Well, at any rate, I KNOW I was drunk. Nappy’s the designated driver, so he just orders 12 ounces of reinforcements at The Bucket Of Blood Saloon; I’m the designated drunk, so I demand a shot of Jim Beam and a bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon: good bourbon and lousy beer – two tastes that go great together. I tell Nappy the story about the first time Pooh was with me in Virginny City in ’86. A very funny story which was always one of my late friend Marty’s favorites: he was always insisting, “Stephen, tell that story again about you and Pooh in Virginia City!” But it’s too long to tell here, especially since I’m sober.
I decide to buy two (one black and one red) his ‘n’ her Bucket Of Blood Saloon T-shirts as a wedding gift for Pooh and Veronica who will get shackled together on November 1st. Nappy says, “Well, Pooh will probably appreciate something like that, but I don’t think Veronica’s going to like it.” I reply, “I couldn’t care less whether or not SHE likes it; it’s only Pooh who matters to me.” So I pay the bartenderette and inform her that these are wedding gifts for a friend. She says with a smirk, “Have fun at the wedding.” I say, “Thanks. I’m not going!” and some cowboy at the bar lets out a hearty laugh; he’s probably thinking: “That’s a good thing for you.”
[*Sept. 25th: $20. says that Pooh’s new wife hyphenates her last name. The official wedding invitation arrived in the mail just yesterday. Part of me wants to return it with a note saying, “Sorry, unable to attend, but I’ll pray for you.”]
9:00 PM:
We go to The Rum Bullion Bar in the Silver Legacy Casino. Nappy has a margarita and I a glass of red wine, but the young woman sitting next to me drives us out after one drink because of her incessant yapping.
9:45 PM:
We catch the Imperial Chinese Chicks again performing with the Diabolos yo-yo thangs. Again we see the act from the backside, but we’re still impressed. You know, like, impressed?
Friday, Sept. 19, 2008:
8:00 AM:
We get a two-for-one deal at the Circus Circus all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet. While we’re eating, I call Nappy’s attention to an extremely large woman and I say, “Watch, they’re going to fake a kitchen fire any second now and tell us everyone has to leave at once.” Nappy says, “Don’t make fun of people.” Within minutes, he points out a man in the far booth whom he says looks just like an older version of Alfred E. Neuman. “Don’t make fun of people,” I tell him.
On the elevator ride back to our room, a couple gets in with us. She’s tattooed and stands about 5’5”, weighing maybe 240 pounds; her boyfriend is a couple of inches shorter and weighs perhaps 15 to 20 pounds less. She gets into the elevator car and stands next to me in the back. He enters after her and kind of squeezes in between his girlfriend and myself, and then he takes her hand in his. I get the distinct impression he’s trying to send me the message that he’s there to protect her should I get some crazy idea to grope her inappropriately. And really, forget groping – if I had even inadvertently brushed up against her while our elevator car was in free-fall in the shaft as we were plummeting to our deaths, it would have been “inappropriate.”
When Nappy and I exit the elevator I say to him, “Now that was an interesting couple.” Nappy says, “I ain’t sayin’ nothin’. As tempted as I am, I ain’t sayin’ nothin’!” I protest: “Hey, I didn’t say anything derogatory! All I said was ‘That’s an interesting couple.’ Interesting can mean a lot of things, so I wasn’t making fun of them!” But Nappy just reiterates: “I’m tempted, but ain’t sayin’ nothin’.” I can only laugh… hard!
Last day in Reno, Baaabeee! We take a drive up to Stead, 13 minutes north of downtown and look at some homes for sale. We later meet Larry and look at his mobile home which we can have for about twenty thousand dollars. We’re actually giving it some thought, seeing as how a drive back to Hell, Airheadzona hangs in our future.
In the early afternoon, we take a look at some fancy apartment building downtown, then we drive down Virginia Street to the Stremmel Gallery. I’m hoping to see some Wolf Kahn paintings that they once had on display there, but now it’s a James Shay exhibition. I’m looking at these paintings selling for four to nine thousand dollars and thinking: I could do this stuff with both eyes closed while in a drunken stupor with the room spinning, so what’s wrong with me? I just don’t get “The Art Game” I guess. Yeah, he’s got an identifiable style that I don’t find unappealing, but is that all it takes to make high-priced art?
4:00 PM:
We go to The Brew Brothers microbrew pub in The Eldorado Casino and I try their Big Dog IPA. Wow! One of the best beers I’ve ever tasted! Then I order a Double Down Stout but don’t care for it and give it to Nappy to drink. We make nuttin’ at video poker.
5:52 PM:
Nappy and I each order a martini from Charles at the Silver Baron Bar in the Silver Legacy Casino. It’s only because we like green olives so much. (It’s an olive thang – you wouldn’t understand.)
8:15 PM:
We catch the Chinese Chicks for the final time – and this time from the front. We both agree that it’s an even better act from this unique viewpoint. I think the one with the messed up teeth has the best bod. Not that I was comparing their bodies or anything. I mean, although that would be perfectly natural, it would also be demeaning, or sexist, or something really bad like that. (By the way, Nappy thought the girl with the messed up teeth had only the second best bod.)
I joke with Nappy that the Imperial Acrobats are probably now concerned about the Doppelganger Brothers who seem to show up everywhere when they perform.
8:45 PM:
I decide to shave for the first time on this trip – can hardly tell my old goatee from my new beard at this point.
8:55 PM:
I’m clean-shaven but the bathroom sink is now clogged for some reason. Don’t they ever clear these drains?!
9:00 PM:
We do our weight vest workout, watch a little boob tube and go to bed early in preparation for that long drive tomorrow.
Saturday, Sept. 20, 2008:
8:00 AM:
We check out of the hotel and hit the road. I play Tom Waits’ “Ol’ 55”, and “Virginia Avenue” while we’re driving South on Virginia. (Harold’s Club has been torn down.) On September 20th in 1986, my friend Andy killed himself, and I specifically brought this Waits disc along with a Mama Cass collection in order to honor his memory on this day.
It’s an all day drive South on Route 395 – one of my favorite highways because of the beautiful and varied scenery.
I ask Nappy if he’s noticed that there’s at least one lesbian working somewhere on every highway in the country. This, of course, is not a new revelation for me – I noted that interesting fact at least as early as 1986. To this, Nappy adds that there also seems to be a Chinese restaurant in every town regardless of how small the town might be. I say, “Yes. And another thing: there’s at least one psychic palm or tarot card reader in every town regardless of the population size.” So this becomes a game with us - to see who can be the first to spot the lesbian on the highway, the Chinese restaurant, and the town psychic: the three ubiquitous national images that link together the towns that make up this great country, America.
3 PM-ish:
We stop for lunch at The Mount Whitney Restaurant in Lone Pine, California. The food ain’t much but the waiter’s T-shirt tickles me: “Downtown Lone Pine: Conveniently Located In The Middle Of Nowhere.”
I take over at the wheel, and leaving Lone Pine, I see two cops sitting on either side of the highway. That’s got to represent the entire police force. They expecting trouble? We’re outta here!
We had the American Graffiti movie soundtrack playin’ and me and Del were singin’ “Little Runaway” – I was flyin’.
Route 58 East into Barstow was a b#tch! Mostly single lane, and Trucker Boy after Trucker Boy. It was so draining and discouraging to finally find an opening to pass a Trucker Boy going 15 MPH under the speed limit, only to find yourself behind another crawling Trucker Boy half a mile later. I took to calling Route 58 “Mother Trucker’s Highway.”
At one point, after a line of passenger vehicles waited about 10 miles for a passing lane in order to get around four 18-wheelers, we moved into the #1 lane but so did one of the Trucker Boys; he thought it was very important that he suddenly get around another trucker on an incline who was traveling about one mile an hour slower than he wanted to go. So our line of cars waited about 2 miles while these two trucks blocked both lanes during the very limited availability of a passing lane. Nappy and I both thought that the trucker did it on purpose to prevent cars from passing, so when we were finally able to go past that bloke, Nappy managed to signal his displeasure to the selfish Trucker Boy. And get this! Somehow he found a way to do it using only one finger! Oh, that Nappy, he’s a man of few words and simple gestures.
4:31 PM:
We roll into Barstow and check into the Astro Budget Motel – although a real fleabag of a joint, unfortunately all the riffraff in town appears to be staying next door at The Dewdrop Dead Motel and they don’t have a vacancy for us. (I guess we shoulda made a reservation.)
I tell the manager that we need peace and quiet ‘cause we gotta get some sleep. He says to me, “Ahhh, you no wully; I no went woom to teenajuh.”
“I hope not, Bro,” I said, “because I hate teenagers!”
5:30 PM:
Napoleon and I go across the street to the Vons Market and buy some cheese, one can each of The Club martini, and a small bottle of green olives. (We’re hooked like James Bond now! Martini in a can, shaken not stirred.) I also get a quart of Knudsen’s buttermilk. Man, I can’t go to California and not get me some of that Knudsen’s buttermilk because it’s just THE BEST, and you can only find it in The Golden State.
8:30 PM:
Lights out early. Hey, lucky us! The air conditioner is so loud that it cuts out all the noise from the riffraff next door. Surprisingly, we both sleep fairly well. Just say “No” to teenajuh!
Sunday, Sept. 21, 2008:
6:40 AM:
Nappy's in the shower, so wearing my brown cowboy boots and the grey sweatpants I sleep in, I walk up the hill to the Carrows Restaurant to get us some coffee. “Who’s your hero now?” I ask Nappy while I hand him a cup of coffee. “You are,” he says, “but I heard that a hero ain’t nothin’ but a sandwich.” Some gratitude.
8:00 AM:
On the road again. For breakfast, I have a mouthful of green olives and wash it down with Knudsen’s buttermilk. Yeah, I know how it sounds, but it’s actually better’n that. It really wakes up the ol’ Morning Mouth and makes it sing out, “What the--!”
It’s Sunday morning, I’m driving and The Beach Boys are singing:
The Sunday mornin’ Gospel goes good with a song …
Add some music to your day …
Your doctor knows it keeps you calm
Your preacher adds it to his psalm
So add some music to your day
I had been dreading our last leg of single-lane highway: Route 95 South from Needles to Blythe, but it actually turned out to be pretty interesting road. It’s all up and down and winding turns – kinda like driving through sand dunes on a massive beach. The Beach Boys were singing “Sail On, Sailor” and suddenly the road seemed more like being adrift on a choppy ocean; I almost got seasick in the car.
The good news was that I found Route 95 only sparsely populated and with a meagre number of Trucker Boys on it – easy to pass. Nevertheless, at one point I pulled out into the oncoming lane to pass a truck when I started to have second thoughts about the safety of the situation. Napoleon yelled at me, “Don’t p***y out now! Do it! It’s only our lives, and all I ask is that I don’t die in Arizona.” Well said. I got around the truck with plenty of room to spare, but the idea of dying in a head-on crash with a semi at 85 MPH just doesn’t appeal to me much, whether that be in Arizona OR California. And I’d prefer to go in one piece rather than in a fine mist.
Just a few miles later, a red sports car with the top down comes racing around to pass us and the driver dude hollers at me as he goes by:
“Outta my way, Shorts-In-The-Shower Boy!”
Oooh, that burned me up!
I stop for my customary Blizzard at the Dairy Queen in Blythe and let Nappy take over the wheel.
1:08 PM:
The Doobie Brothers are singing while I’m reading one of the Old Testament prophets in my Bible and we’re doing 80 on Interstate 10:
I don’t care what they may say
I don’t care what they may do
I don’t care what they may say
Jesus is just alright, Oh yeah!
Jesus, He’s my friend; Jesus, He’s my friend
He took me by the hand; Led me far from this land
Jesus, He’s my friend
[-The Doobies]
Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion!
Shout, O daughter of Jerusalem!
Behold, your King is coming to you;
He is just and having Salvation,
Lowly and riding on a donkey…
He shall speak Peace to the nations;
His dominion shall be from sea to sea,
And from the River to the ends of the earth.
[-Zechariah 9]
2:45 PM:
I turn on the radio to see if we can pick up some football scores. We learn that the Bills kicked a last second field goal to beat the Raiders. Whoa! That was a close call. See if we ever put any stock in Carson-City-Nugget-Sports-Book Boy’s opinion again!
3:15 PM:
It was nonstop from Blythe to Phoenix (A.K.A. “Hell”). We dump off the Caliber at the closed car rental location.
4:15 PM:
At home, I find that a spider has set up shop in the cab of my 1989 Toyota pickup truck while I was gone. It certainly doesn’t take nature long to encroach on civilization and start reclaiming everything, does it?
I water some plants and flowers around the house who are screaming at me: “Where the #@$% have you been?! Did you know it was 105 degrees here while you were gone? Enjoy your martinis in the air conditioned casinos, Alky Boy?”
8:30 PM:
After Napoleon and I watch a few episodes of Frasier to stop our shaking, the TV’s on and I catch the last inning ever played at Yankee Stadium. It’s totally sacrilegious to tear down The House That Ruth Built. Don’t get me wrong, I HATE the Yankees, but destroying Yankee Stadium is sacrilegious – an outrage! And as Nappy says, “Another sign of the Apocalypse.”
Well, the trip is over and I’m now on the wagon again until my next vacation; no more boozin’ for Martini Boy. All in all, it wasn’t a bad trip: No speeding tickets, no flat tires, no road rage, no hangovers, no drunkenness, no arguments, no jail time, no waking up one morning in an unknown woman’s trailer parked on a beach somewhere in South Carolina, no getting lost at night in the Okefenokee Swamp while surrounded by alligators and armed with nothing but a bottle of Lowenbrau, no sleeping on a Catalina Island mountaintop in your clothes with nothing over you but a starry, indigo sky. Heck, it hardly even qualified to be called a “vacation.” Damn, I think I’m getting old.
Oh well, at least Nappy and I did get the hell out of Hell for a week. I’m glad we went - it was a worthwhile trip. But to be totally honest, more than a week later, I’m still a little miffed about missing that Highway 93 cutoff out of Kingman. But I guess there’s no point in crying over 90 minutes of missed martinis in Vegas . . . Baaabeee!
~ Stephen T. McCarthy
.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Friday, September 5, 2008
A QUESTION OF "COOL" AND TOM WAITS FOR THE ANSWER
.
Hey, it occurs to me that this is the 13th entry on my “Stuffs” Blog. That’s kinda like being the 13th caller to a radio station, isn’t it? Do I win tickets to anything for this? Two tickets to see Amy Winehouse at The State Pen? Britney Spears shuckin’ an’ jivin’ at The Child Protective Services agency? Tony Bennett performing half-live nitely at The Old Folks Home? Anything at all?
.
How come I never win? Even the losers get lucky sometimes!
.
While I was in the process of gathering song lyrics for my last Blog Bit (see below), I found myself at the official Tom Waits website because I wanted to quote his song lyrics correctly, and let’s face it, it’s not always easy to hear what Waits is singing— uh, saying— uhm, well, croaking, I meant. How many times have you asked yourself “What’d he just say? Did Waits really say ‘leviticusly deuteronomous’ or was he only hawking up phlegm and expectorating into a saloon spittoon?”
.
And then of course there are those names – “Thumm and Giardina” – in his song “A Sight For Sore Eyes.” If I can’t sing or dance, I figure the least I can do is to accurately spell words and avoid spilling wine. So, attempting to find the “officially approved” lyrics and name spellings, I went to the official Tom Waits website. (I don’t know, but something just ain’t right about that combination – a Waits website. Isn’t that a bit like giving a website to the town drunk so he can write about “Great Ripples I Have Known”? Or, “The Thunderbird Best Buy Of The Day”? “Any Alley In Which I Park My Shopping Cart, That’s Where I Call Home”?)
.
Anyhow, while at the Tom-approved website, I stumbled upon an interview that - it seems - ol’ Tommy boy had conducted with . . . himself. (I wonder if the “interviewer’s people” had to make an appointment for the interview with “Tom’s people.” Anyone remember the old 1969 King Crimson song called “21st Century Schizoid Man”? Well, I guess we now know who they meant.) I read a portion of Tom’s interview with Tom and then scrolled down to the comments that folks had posted, and I gotta tell ya, it’s kinda embarrassing to see guys fawning all over Waits like a gaggle of twelve year-old girls trying to sneak into Bobby Sherman’s arms in 1970.
.
One fanatic there was a David H. who on May 21, 2008 at 5:33 A.M., posted the following:
.
“And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why Tom Waits is always The Coolest Guy in the Room.”
.
You can see for yourself if ya don’t believe me:
http://www.antilabelblog.com/?p=288#more-288
.
Well, my first question: What was David H. doing on a Tom Waits website at 5:33 in the morning? I mean, really! I’ll bet he hadn’t even gone to bed yet. Does this dude have a job? Does he contribute to society in any way whatsoever? Or does he just stay up all night drinking Chivas Regal and surfing the web while listening to “Pasties And A G-String” over and over? And my second question: Is Tom Waits really always the coolest guy in the room? Nah, protly not. Although certainly his chances improved after Waylon Jennings died.
.
The question of “Who is the coolest guy in the room?” immediately reminded me of an episode I mentioned in my 1984 book “THE LEAGUE OF SOUL CRUSADERS”. Back in the early ‘80s, the red-headed Torch Nordan definitely would have had something to say about whether or not Tom Waits was always the coolest guy in the room.
.
Well, I called it a book, but “The League Of Soul Crusaders” wasn’t really a book actually; it was a 1984 Christmas present for the boys (the Soul Crusaders), but some of them mistook it for a book and I didn’t have the heart to correct them. In fact, one teen-something brother of a gal I knew said that it was “the best book” he’d ever read. But seeing as how the only printed matter he had ever read and would have been able to compare it to was his collection of DC Comic Books, I didn’t let the compliment increase my hat size.
.
Torch read the prologue from my “Christmas present” as part of his Best Man’s speech at Pooh’s wedding in 1994 (men cried and women fainted, while little children picked their noses and wondered what that term “Bachelorhood Lost” meant). Unfortunately, the “Until death do us part” part didn’t even make it to the decade mark, leaving me just hoping that my prologue wasn’t the Kryptonite in that divorce. (Maybe I should write comic books?)
.
Well, please forgive me, but I’m going to share with you here that particular episode that came to my mind when I saw David H.’s remark about Tom Waits always being the coolest guy in the room.
.
“THE LEAGUE OF SOUL CRUSADERS” by Stephen T. McCarthy
Copyright-- uh... yeah, well, if you’re going to copy it, I hope you get it right.
.
This comes from chapter 27 titled The Loudest And The Coolest and here is your cast of “characters”...
.
Torch: The most charismatic and quick-witted person I’ve ever known.
Joshua Marx: My late friend Marty Brumer (see my Blog Bit below titled “What I Imagine And What Imagines Me”).
Napoleon: My brother. Think “The Tasmanian Devil” only without the lethargy.
Wally: Napoleon’s friend recently discharged from the Army.
Pooh: My friend Pooh.
Moody: Your black-leather-jacketed tour guide . . . Me.
Tiburon: A permanently topless, (kinda resembling the color…) white, 1964 Cadillac.
.
The time: The Spring of 1983. Remember, this was before cell phones. (Yes, young reader, there was such a time!)
.
This section in the chapter comes after Pooh has already irritated a guy who’s had a fender bender; after bloody marys and several games of pool at Jolly Jacks; after I’ve proven to Cranium that I’ve already befriended the new guard dog at the auto body shop between our house on Bay Street and our home away from home: Lucky Liquor liquor store; and after we’ve learned to our great surprise that everyone else on the street is terrified of us:
.
Torch had called early that evening and we told him that we would most likely end up in Westwood at Yesterdays bar and restaurant. He had a bit of work to do on Tiburon and around the house, but said that he’d try to get in touch with us later on in the night.
.
Joshua Marx showed up as well as a few other people and before long we had abandoned our Westwood plans, and a large get-together formed at Bay Street. There was drinking and merriment and all the usual.
.
“Moody told me to walk up to you and punch you as hard as I could in the nose,” Joshua said to Wally.
“Why did he tell you to do that?”
“He wanted to watch you beat me up,” Joshua admitted.
.
The ruckus continued on into the late hours while Napoleon, Pooh, and Wally got very drunk playing Caps.
.
A bottle of bourbon was purchased and everyone began doing shots.
.
“I refuse to drink it,” Joshua said, “if it is poured above the white line on the shot glass.” Joshua was instantly booed and became the victim of much derision.
.
Torch, meanwhile, had called Yesterdays in Westwood, attempting to locate us:
.
“Yesterdays,” the hostess said into the telephone.
“Hello, I’m trying to find some friends of mine and I believe they might be there. I was wondering if you could take a quick look around for me and see if you spot them. There will probably be four or five of them, one will be wearing a black leather jacket, and they will be the loudest and the coolest people in the place.”
“They’ll be what?” the surprised hostess asked.
“They’ll be the loudest and the coolest. ...I’d appreciate it,” Torch said.
“Hold on,” she replied and set down the phone. A minute later she came back on the line. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’m afraid that there isn’t anyone here who is any louder or cooler than anyone else.”
“Oh,” said Torch, “then they aren’t there. Thank you.”
.
Torch got in touch with us afterwards and came down to our house in Tiburon to join the party.
.
Now granted, if we boys HAD been at Yesterdays when Torch called for us, and if Waylon Jennings and Tom Waits were at Yesterdays as well, there might have been some question as to where the coolest guys in the room could be found . . .
.
…WRONG!
.
Waylon and Waits would have undoubtedly asked to join us at our table, Sillies!
.
~ Stephen T. McCarthy
.
.
Hey, it occurs to me that this is the 13th entry on my “Stuffs” Blog. That’s kinda like being the 13th caller to a radio station, isn’t it? Do I win tickets to anything for this? Two tickets to see Amy Winehouse at The State Pen? Britney Spears shuckin’ an’ jivin’ at The Child Protective Services agency? Tony Bennett performing half-live nitely at The Old Folks Home? Anything at all?
.
How come I never win? Even the losers get lucky sometimes!
.
While I was in the process of gathering song lyrics for my last Blog Bit (see below), I found myself at the official Tom Waits website because I wanted to quote his song lyrics correctly, and let’s face it, it’s not always easy to hear what Waits is singing— uh, saying— uhm, well, croaking, I meant. How many times have you asked yourself “What’d he just say? Did Waits really say ‘leviticusly deuteronomous’ or was he only hawking up phlegm and expectorating into a saloon spittoon?”
.
And then of course there are those names – “Thumm and Giardina” – in his song “A Sight For Sore Eyes.” If I can’t sing or dance, I figure the least I can do is to accurately spell words and avoid spilling wine. So, attempting to find the “officially approved” lyrics and name spellings, I went to the official Tom Waits website. (I don’t know, but something just ain’t right about that combination – a Waits website. Isn’t that a bit like giving a website to the town drunk so he can write about “Great Ripples I Have Known”? Or, “The Thunderbird Best Buy Of The Day”? “Any Alley In Which I Park My Shopping Cart, That’s Where I Call Home”?)
.
Anyhow, while at the Tom-approved website, I stumbled upon an interview that - it seems - ol’ Tommy boy had conducted with . . . himself. (I wonder if the “interviewer’s people” had to make an appointment for the interview with “Tom’s people.” Anyone remember the old 1969 King Crimson song called “21st Century Schizoid Man”? Well, I guess we now know who they meant.) I read a portion of Tom’s interview with Tom and then scrolled down to the comments that folks had posted, and I gotta tell ya, it’s kinda embarrassing to see guys fawning all over Waits like a gaggle of twelve year-old girls trying to sneak into Bobby Sherman’s arms in 1970.
.
One fanatic there was a David H. who on May 21, 2008 at 5:33 A.M., posted the following:
.
“And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why Tom Waits is always The Coolest Guy in the Room.”
.
You can see for yourself if ya don’t believe me:
http://www.antilabelblog.com/?p=288#more-288
.
Well, my first question: What was David H. doing on a Tom Waits website at 5:33 in the morning? I mean, really! I’ll bet he hadn’t even gone to bed yet. Does this dude have a job? Does he contribute to society in any way whatsoever? Or does he just stay up all night drinking Chivas Regal and surfing the web while listening to “Pasties And A G-String” over and over? And my second question: Is Tom Waits really always the coolest guy in the room? Nah, protly not. Although certainly his chances improved after Waylon Jennings died.
.
The question of “Who is the coolest guy in the room?” immediately reminded me of an episode I mentioned in my 1984 book “THE LEAGUE OF SOUL CRUSADERS”. Back in the early ‘80s, the red-headed Torch Nordan definitely would have had something to say about whether or not Tom Waits was always the coolest guy in the room.
.
Well, I called it a book, but “The League Of Soul Crusaders” wasn’t really a book actually; it was a 1984 Christmas present for the boys (the Soul Crusaders), but some of them mistook it for a book and I didn’t have the heart to correct them. In fact, one teen-something brother of a gal I knew said that it was “the best book” he’d ever read. But seeing as how the only printed matter he had ever read and would have been able to compare it to was his collection of DC Comic Books, I didn’t let the compliment increase my hat size.
.
Torch read the prologue from my “Christmas present” as part of his Best Man’s speech at Pooh’s wedding in 1994 (men cried and women fainted, while little children picked their noses and wondered what that term “Bachelorhood Lost” meant). Unfortunately, the “Until death do us part” part didn’t even make it to the decade mark, leaving me just hoping that my prologue wasn’t the Kryptonite in that divorce. (Maybe I should write comic books?)
.
Well, please forgive me, but I’m going to share with you here that particular episode that came to my mind when I saw David H.’s remark about Tom Waits always being the coolest guy in the room.
.
“THE LEAGUE OF SOUL CRUSADERS” by Stephen T. McCarthy
Copyright-- uh... yeah, well, if you’re going to copy it, I hope you get it right.
.
This comes from chapter 27 titled The Loudest And The Coolest and here is your cast of “characters”...
.
Torch: The most charismatic and quick-witted person I’ve ever known.
Joshua Marx: My late friend Marty Brumer (see my Blog Bit below titled “What I Imagine And What Imagines Me”).
Napoleon: My brother. Think “The Tasmanian Devil” only without the lethargy.
Wally: Napoleon’s friend recently discharged from the Army.
Pooh: My friend Pooh.
Moody: Your black-leather-jacketed tour guide . . . Me.
Tiburon: A permanently topless, (kinda resembling the color…) white, 1964 Cadillac.
.
The time: The Spring of 1983. Remember, this was before cell phones. (Yes, young reader, there was such a time!)
.
This section in the chapter comes after Pooh has already irritated a guy who’s had a fender bender; after bloody marys and several games of pool at Jolly Jacks; after I’ve proven to Cranium that I’ve already befriended the new guard dog at the auto body shop between our house on Bay Street and our home away from home: Lucky Liquor liquor store; and after we’ve learned to our great surprise that everyone else on the street is terrified of us:
.
Torch had called early that evening and we told him that we would most likely end up in Westwood at Yesterdays bar and restaurant. He had a bit of work to do on Tiburon and around the house, but said that he’d try to get in touch with us later on in the night.
.
Joshua Marx showed up as well as a few other people and before long we had abandoned our Westwood plans, and a large get-together formed at Bay Street. There was drinking and merriment and all the usual.
.
“Moody told me to walk up to you and punch you as hard as I could in the nose,” Joshua said to Wally.
“Why did he tell you to do that?”
“He wanted to watch you beat me up,” Joshua admitted.
.
The ruckus continued on into the late hours while Napoleon, Pooh, and Wally got very drunk playing Caps.
.
A bottle of bourbon was purchased and everyone began doing shots.
.
“I refuse to drink it,” Joshua said, “if it is poured above the white line on the shot glass.” Joshua was instantly booed and became the victim of much derision.
.
Torch, meanwhile, had called Yesterdays in Westwood, attempting to locate us:
.
“Yesterdays,” the hostess said into the telephone.
“Hello, I’m trying to find some friends of mine and I believe they might be there. I was wondering if you could take a quick look around for me and see if you spot them. There will probably be four or five of them, one will be wearing a black leather jacket, and they will be the loudest and the coolest people in the place.”
“They’ll be what?” the surprised hostess asked.
“They’ll be the loudest and the coolest. ...I’d appreciate it,” Torch said.
“Hold on,” she replied and set down the phone. A minute later she came back on the line. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’m afraid that there isn’t anyone here who is any louder or cooler than anyone else.”
“Oh,” said Torch, “then they aren’t there. Thank you.”
.
Torch got in touch with us afterwards and came down to our house in Tiburon to join the party.
.
Now granted, if we boys HAD been at Yesterdays when Torch called for us, and if Waylon Jennings and Tom Waits were at Yesterdays as well, there might have been some question as to where the coolest guys in the room could be found . . .
.
…WRONG!
.
Waylon and Waits would have undoubtedly asked to join us at our table, Sillies!
.
~ Stephen T. McCarthy
.
.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
WHAT I IMAGINE AND WHAT IMAGINES ME
.
Man, can the woman sing! I recently 'rediscovered' Brenda Lee's version of "Some Of These Days".....WOW, WHAT A VOICE!! I listened to it like 15 times in a row!! Brought back some good memories.
The above came to me in a recent e-mail from a dear, old friend of mine. (OK, yes, once upon a time, she was MORE than a “friend”; and no, she’s not really that old. Heck, she’s younger than I am… and nicer, too.)
The “Dear, Un-Old Friend” was referring to the self-titled BRENDA LEE album of 1991. And the “memories” she was referring to was when she and I went to Normandie Casino in Gardena, California, on April 14, 1992, to see “Little Miss Dynamite” perform live. (Brenda did the coolest thing I ever saw at a concert: she walked out into the audience and posed with lucky males in the theater while a roadie took photos with a Polaroid Instant camera, giving the developing photo to the lucky bloke while Brenda went on to select the next lucky bloke to pose with. Unfortunately, I wasn’t a lucky bloke, but it wasn’t for a lack of my “Dear, Un-Old Friend’s” waving to Brenda and pointing at me.)
Anyway, shortly after getting her welcome e-mail, I went through my box of dozens and dozens of old cassette tapes to drag out some neglected Brenda Lee tunes. And while I was plowing through the box, I came across a relic: It was a cassette from September, 1987 titled “WHAT I IMAGINE AND WHAT IMAGINES ME.” Flashback . . .
The movie industry newspaper VARIETY had this to say on Thursday, July 20, 1989:
“ACTOR KILLED WHEN SUSPECT HITS CAR”
Martin Brumer, a 28-year-old actor who’s appeared in “Days Of Our Lives” and “ChiPs”, was killed Tuesday when a car being chased by police ran a red light and struck Brumer’s car at the intersection of Arlington Ave. and Washington Blvd. in L.A.
The driver of the other car, robbery suspect [*name deleted*] fled the scene of the accident on foot but was arrested by officers two blocks away. Police said the 19-year-old from Inglewood has been booked on suspicion of murder.
A second suspect who was driving another car is still being sought by police.
There was an even more extensive article appearing in the Metro section of the July 20, 1989 LOS ANGELES TIMES newspaper, with an accompanying photo of the accident scene and a publicity still of Mr. Brumer in an inset:
“ACTOR DIES IN CRASH, VICTIM OF THE TYPE OF HEAVY HE PLAYED”
In one of his first paying roles as an actor, Martin Brumer was a bank robber in an episode of the television series “ChiPs.” In the last role of his fledgling career, he played a burglar in the 1988 movie “Chrome Hearts.”
On Tuesday night, Los Angeles police said, the 28-year-old Santa Monica resident became a victim of the kind of man he portrayed.
Driving through a mid-city intersection, Brumer was killed instantly when his 1979 Volvo was struck by a speeding stolen Chevrolet driven by a 19-year-old Inglewood man who ignored a red light while trying to elude a pursuing police car, Detective Dave Martin said.
The driver of the speeding car … suffered only minor injuries in the 10:25 p.m. crash and tried to flee on foot, but was tackled and arrested by two officers, Martin said.
(The suspect) who has a recored of “narcotics-related arrests”, was booked on suspicion of murder, the detective said.
Brumer, a 1983 drama graduate of UC Irvine, who also studied Karate, was “an eager young actor who was determined to work hard to make it,” according to William Lee of Talent Bank, the agency that represented him. …
The article closed with this:
“He would call me once or twice a week to check whether he had any offers. Some people are pushy, but he was very nice,” Lee said.
Sherrill Kushner, 40, an attorney who lives next door to Brumer’s family in Santa Monica, said the young actor was considering a legal career. Brumer was expected to take preliminary law school exams in September.
Despite having gotten a few bad-guy roles, Brumer was more like a comedian off the set, Kushner said. “He will always be known as a guy who always made everybody laugh,” she said.
The subject of these articles, Marty (“Rhymes with party!”) Brumer, was my best friend. And the cassette tape, “WHAT I IMAGINE AND WHAT IMAGINES ME”, is a tape of music that I had made for Marty and which was returned to me after his death.
I’d met Marty (remember: “Rhymes with party”, as he used to like to say) in 1977. We were both members of the Santa Monica high school Theater Arts Dept. Marty was the guy standing in the middle between all those “alternative lifestyle”-looking dudes in the theater department who were forever prancing around singing West Side Story songs, and the Neanderthal (me) from the varsity wrestling team who just sat by himself in the corner, reticent, “doing his best James Dean” (although I had no idea who James Dean was at that point), watching all the fruitcakes and wondering if maybe he should give up the acting dream and go into big game hunting instead. (Aw, c’mon, you know I’m just kidding.)
Well, unbeknownst to me, Marty found me to be the most interesting person in the department because I was obviously the one introverted outsider. I mean, I fit in with that group like a lumberjack at a ballet. (Hmmm… shades of Monty Python. Maybe that wasn’t the best analogy I could have come up with.) But, well, what I’m trying to say is that, for all I know, Marty and I might have been the only heterosexuals in the theater department.
Anyway, one day, while wating for the teacher to arrive and unlock the room, Marty approached me stealthily and said in a hushed tone, “Are you Stephen McCarthy?” I went along with it, “Yeah, why?” Marty inched closer, “I’ve got a message for you from the big boss.” I played the insolent tough guy part, “Oh yeah? What’s that?” And with that, Marty pretended to draw a dagger from an overcoat and said “THIS!” pretending to stab me to death. And that’s how we officially met. Marty and I would replay that little scene many times in the ensuing years, and every year when I encounter the Judges 3:19-21 passage while engaged in my Bible study, I’m reminded of it all over again.
Later, after high school graduation, Marty (“Rhymes with—” Oh, I’m sure you remember by now) would join me at a good acting workshop I’d discovered, and then we’d attend another famous one I found later, and finally, I joined him at an acting school where he was working. We were EXTREMELY SERIOUS about the acting careers and we had many in-depth discussions about the art. (Most of them beginning with one of his standard opening throwaway lines such as “How’s yer urination?” Or, “If you’re going to drink and drive, make sure you’re drinking Evian bottled water!”)
Our friendship grew strong through the years until we really had become best friends. One year, for his birthday, I made a very large oil painting for him of the character he most identified with in a favorite movie – “AMERICAN POP.” (I sure wish I had that painting now.) And we used to make music compilation tapes for each other from our LP collections (LP?… well, think of a licorice pizza.)
There are four songs that most remind me of “Party” Marty:
One is Stevie Wonder’s “DON’T YOU WORRY ‘BOUT A THING” because I love the song to begin with, and because he put it on the “A Smile A Day Makes Happiness Stay” tape that he created for me in 1981.
Everybody needs a change
A chance to check out the new
But you're the only one to see
The changes you take yourself through
.
Don't you worry 'bout a thing
Cause I'll be standing in the wings
When you check it out
Don't you worry 'bout a thing
Over the years, I’ve liked the idea of Marty “standing in the wings” while I’ve checked out life and contemplated “the changes I take myself through” on behalf of both of us. I’ve missed him greatly, and I’ve often imagined some of the great conversations we’d have had if he had lived longer (I mean, the conversation after we got past the “How’s yer urination?” bit). I know I’ve changed a lot, and I’m curious to know how much he too would have changed as we traveled down the road of life together, discovering new things, discussing them and vehemently arguing over them.
Another song I can’t hear without immediately thinking of Marty is “BROKEN BICYCLES” from the Tom Waits soundtrack to the movie “One From The Heart” which he and I first saw together. Based on the number of times I heard Marty mumbling that song thereafter, I’d have to guess that it was likely his all-time favorite. No matter where we were going, there was always Marty singing to himself:
Broken bicycles, old busted chains
With rusted handle bars, out in the rain
Somebody must have an orphanage for
All these things that nobody wants any more
.
September's reminding July
It's time to be saying goodbye
Summer is gone, but our love will remain
Like old broken bicycles out in the rain
I remember one night Marty and I went out to walk and talk, and returning to his apartment from the Palisades Park, he suddenly put his Walkman’s headphones on me so I could hear the Rickie Lee Jones’ song “THE RETURNS”:
But after all
There are such things
And these are the things
That’ll turn your memories back into dreams again
Oh, it's all flying and waving
For you to keep trying
You're so close.
So close.
.
All the returns
One of these days,
One of these days,
One of these days.
Sadly, for Marty, there were no “returns”… unless we’re talking about the return to his Great Maker after such a short, unfulfilled life.
But the other song that vividly conjures Marty in my mind for me, is Bob Dylan’s “POSITIVELY 4TH STREET.” Not because Marty was necessarily crazy about the song, but because I nearly drove him crazy with it. I (being the good friend I was) deliberately tortured the hell out of him with that song just for kicks ‘n’ reactions. The song starts out with these lyrics:
You got a lotta nerve
To say you are my friend
When I was down
You just stood there grinning
You got a lotta nerve
To say you got a helping hand to lend
You just want to be on
The side that's winning
Just to torment my good friend, I often had that song queued up when I knew he was soon to come around, and the moment he arrived he would find it playing to welcome him. If I was picking him up to go somewhere, he’d find it playing the moment he got into my car. If he was due at my house, he’d enter to find Dylan singing, “You got a lotta nerve to say you are my friend…”
I had forgotten all about this song and the way I tormented Marty with it for years, until my recent rediscovery of Bob Dylan’s music and the realization of its influence in my life (see my May 25, 2008 Blog installment below titled “HIGHWAY ZIMMERMAN REVISITED”). I recently bought Dylan’s “Greatest Hits” but I didn’t even recognize the title “POSITIVELY 4TH STREET” since I hadn’t heard the song for about 23 years. But the moment I heard “that voice” singing those words, “You got a lotta nerve…”, it came flooding back to me: “Welcome back, Marty!” Hokie-Smokes! It was like an old, unremembered dream catching up to me in 2008; a very weird phenomenon!
Well, another thing I used to do to (playfully) irritate my old buddy, was to tell him occasionally that neither he nor anyone else would ever “REALLY know me.” After our years of good friendship, I think this statement began to get under his skin a bit. I had a way of annoying him just for the pure pleasure of it – think of it as my own little way of sticking it to “the big boss.”
Well, Marty got even with me one day by creating a cassette music tape for me which he titled “ODE TO STEPHEN McCARTHY.” This was a collection of music meant to prove that he really did know me, despite all of my protestations to the contrary. Side Two of the tape was six songs long, including Supertramp’s “HIDE IN YOUR SHELL”, David Bowie’s “ROCK AND ROLL SUICIDE”, and Stevie Wonder’s “HE’S MISSTRA KNOW-IT-ALL.” (Ha! Very funny, Party Boy!)
But it was Side One in which Marty showed his creativity and made his most forceful statement: Side one was just one song recorded over and over again, taking up the entire 30 minutes of that side. The song? Simon & Garfunkel’s “I AM A ROCK”:
A winter’s day
In a deep and dark December;
I am alone,
Gazing from my window to the streets below
On a freshly fallen, silent shroud of snow.
I am a rock,
I am an island.
I’ve built walls,
And a fortress deep and mighty,
That none may penetrate.
I have no need of friendship; friendship causes pain.
It’s laughter and it’s loving I disdain.
I am a rock,
I am an island.
Don’t talk of love,
But I’ve heard the word before;
It’s sleeping in my memory.
I won’t disturb the slumber of feelings that have died.
If I never loved, I never would have cried.
I am a rock,
I am an island.
I have my books
And my poetry to protect me;
I am shielded in my armor,
Hiding in my room, safe within my womb.
I touch no one and no one touches me.
I am a rock,
I am an island.
And a rock feels no pain;
And an island never cries.
Well, ain’t that a fine How Do Ya Do? And this was supposed to be a good friend of mine?! (Ha! What goes around, comes around, eh? Touche, Martay!)
The last distinct memory I have of Marty finds us at Fisherman’s Village in Marina Del Rey one afternoon and discussing the recent massacre of protestors at Tiananmen Square.
It was highly unexpected that Marty should be one of the first from my group of friends to die. The rest of us were major partyers, consuming massive amounts of alchohol regularly and performing all sorts of crazy stunts. (Some nights I had trouble falling asleep because my liver was crying “Uncle” so loudly.) However, Marty really was the orange juice or Evian drinker who went along for the fun but was not fully committed to the lunacy most of the time. If someone was likely to warn us, “You do that and you know the cops will be here soon”, it was almost sure to be “Party Marty.” But I’ll give him credit for hanging in there with us until the cops showed up.
Sure, we’d sometimes dog Marty for not drinking like us big dawgs, but I had a certain level of respect for Marty that I did not necessarily have for everyone else. I remember one night I came back to the Bay Street pad with a few of the boys and I was in an unusually high state of intoxication (when I zigged, the legs zagged). But when I saw Marty sitting on the couch, I was too embarrassed to let him observe me in that over-the-top “liquidated” condition, so I just said “Hey, Marty,” while heading straight to the bathroom and locking the door behind me.
It was nearly 20 minutes before anyone got curious enough to ask “What happened to Stephen?” and to force open the bathroom door. And when they did, they found the room empty with the window wide open. The Beatles once sang about a woman who “came in through the bathroom window”, but I’m the guy who once poured himself OUT of one. (I just zigged and zagged the streets for a couple of hours until I was sure Marty had left the scene.)
Evidently, Marty had a premonition that he was soon to pass away. His mother later told me that he had begun to pester her incessantly, saying, “Look, if something happens to me, this is who I want you to give my things to—” She would interrupt him, insisting that she didn’t even want to think about this. But he kept broaching the subject day after day. This in itself is very strange, because Marty was all about LIFE – not death. I’m the one who was much more apt to discuss my death, and in fact, Marty and I often did: he used to joke about all the lies he’d tell the media about me after I was gone. (He and I both just assumed that between the two of us, I was the one who would make it biggest in the acting world and die first.) Marty and I sneaked into a cemetary one night and I believe he never did quite get over seeing me lie down in a freshly dug grave (I shouldn’t have done it – I was certainly drunk enough to know better!)
Well, Marty eventually wore down his Mom’s resolve not to hear his requests, and so one day in July of 1989, she told him, “OK, Marty. I’m listening. Say it once, and never mention it to me again.” So, he told her what she was to do with his property. He had gotten into photography and had even sold a few photos that were published as magazine covers, etc. Marty and I used to take little photographic day trips around L.A. and so he wanted me to have his expensive camera and photography equipment. He told his Mom who was supposed to get all of his other important stuffs; she made a mental note of it, and then a week or two later, he was gone.
Afterwards, I did attend the trial of Marty’s murderer at the L.A. County Courthouse and I was relieved when he was found guilty and sentenced to prison.
In September, 1987, I made a musical cassette tape for Marty titled “WHAT I IMAGINE AND WHAT IMAGINES ME” and I inscribed it: “OK, Marty… NOW you know me!” This was evidently meant to be my own musical autobiography, in which I used a variety of songs to reflect multiple aspects of my life, thoughts and personality. It seems Marty’s Mom had returned it to me after his passing in ’89, but I just put it in a carton with my other tapes, never played it, and forgot all about its existence until just a couple of weeks ago when I ran across it. I pulled it out and listened to the entire thing, thinking it would be interesting to get a look at my own mind from about 21 years ago. There was no song listing, so I never knew what I was going to hear next; it was a real grab bag, and all the while I was listening, I asked myself: Why THIS song? Why did I associate THIS song with who I was in ’87? What was I trying to express about myself to Marty by choosing this particular number?
Well, it was a cool little retro self-examination of the Stephen T. McCarthy circa late ‘80s. The first thing I noticed in opening the old tape box was a folded piece of paper on which I’d typed the William Blake poem “The Price Of Experience”:
What is the price of Experience? Do men buy it for a song?
Or wisdom for a dance in the street? No, it is bought with the price
Of all that a man hath, his house, his wife, his children
Wisdom is sold in the desolate market where none come to buy
And in the wither'd field where the farmer plows for bread in vain
It is an easy thing to triumph in the summer's sun
And in the vintage and to sing on the waggon loaded with corn
It is an easy thing to talk of patience to the afflicted
To speak the laws of prudence to the homeless wanderer
To listen to the hungry raven's cry in wintry season
When the red blood is fill'd with wine and with the marrow of lambs
.
It is an easy thing to laugh at wrathful elements
To hear the dog howl at the wintry door, the ox in the slaughter house moan;
To see a god on every wind and a blessing on every blast
To hear sounds of love in the thunder storm that destroys our enemies' house;
To rejoice in the blight that covers his field and the sickness that cuts off his children
While our olive and vine sing and laugh round our door and our children bring fruits and flowers
.
Then the groan and the dolor are quite forgotten and the slave grinding at the mill
And the captive in chains and the poor in the prison and the soldier in the field
When the shatter'd bone hath laid him groaning among the happier dead
.It is an easy thing to rejoice in the tents of prosperity:
Thus could I sing and thus rejoice: but it is not so with me
I had not the slightest idea what I would find in this (as it turned out, mostly morose) autobiographical musical melange, but I got a pretty good laugh quickly when I realized that the entire first half of the 90 minute tape was exclusively instrumentals. (Ha! That was just so “ME.” In essence, I was saying, “OK, Marty, I’ll let you in on my deepest thoughts and feelings, but I will use songs to convey them” but then I turn around and say it all sans lyrics. Ha! The first time Marty listened to this, he must have thought: “Stephen, you a$$h***!”)
Anyway, here’s a listing of the instrumentals that comprised Side One:
“TRAVELS” by Pat Metheny; “MAIN THEME FROM THE MOVIE TAXI DRIVER” by Tom Scott; “SARAH’S CRIME” by Toshi Hinata; “INARTICULATE SPEECH OF THE HEART” by Van Morrison; [Unknown Saxophone Solo] possibly by John Klemmer from his “Touch” album; “ARE YOU GOING WITH ME?” by Pat Metheny; [Unknown Bossa Nova Saxophone Solo] by Stan Getz, probably from the “Getz/Gilberto” album; “SEPTEMBER NIGHT” by Van Morrison; “CITY, COUNTRY, CITY” by War.
As much as I’d like to be able to say that the entire tape was instrumental in nature, I’m afraid I caved in on the second side and attempted to give Marty a little of myself in actual lyric form. I’ll include a song listing here along with what I’m guessing was the most relevant lyrical content at that time. I started my “talking” side with The Blues of Muddy Waters.
#1: “I’M READY” by Muddy Waters
I got an axe handle pistol on a graveyard frame
That shoot tombstone bullets, wearin' balls and chains
I'm drinkin' TNT, I'm smokin' dynamite
I hope some screwball start a fight
'Cause I'm ready, ready as anybody can be
I'm ready for you, I hope you're ready for me
I been drinkin' gin like never before
I feel so good, I want you to know
One more drink, I wish you would
It takes a whole lotta lovin' to make me feel good
'Cause I'm ready, ready as anybody can be
Now I'm ready for you, I hope you're ready for me
.
(2008 Note: Yeah, well, like I said, I was a “Drinking Man” once upon a time. I don’t know what I thought I was ready for, but probably a bowl of Excedrin and a pitcher of Alka-Seltzer.)
#2: “AIN’T THAT PRETTY AT ALL” by Warren Zevon
Well, I've seen all there is to see
And I've heard all they have to say
I've done everything I wanted to do
I've done that TOO!
And it ain't that pretty at all
Ain't that pretty at all
.
So I'm going to hurl myself against the wall
'Cause I'd rather feel bad than not feel anything at all
.
You know, I just had a short vacation, Roy
Spent it getting a root canal
"Oh? How'd you like it?"
Well, it ain't that pretty at all
So I'm going to hurl myself against the wall
'Cause I'd rather feel bad than not feel anything at all
.
Gonna get a good running start and throw myself at the wall as hard as I can, man
(2008 Note: Zevon had a twisted sense of humor – stole it from me. I’d exhume him and sue his a$$, but I’m afraid it wouldn’t be that pretty at all.)
.
#3: “ACCIDENTALLY LIKE A MARTYR” by Warren Zevon
The days slide by
Should have done, should have done, we all sigh
Never thought I'd ever be so lonely
After such a long, long time
Time out of mind
.
We made mad love
Shadow love
Random love
And abandoned love
Accidentally like a martyr
The hurt gets worse and the heart gets harder
(2008 Note: Uhm… Well… OK then. Just pat my hand gently and soothingly say, “There, there.”)
#4: "OL’ 55" by Tom Waits
Well my time went so quickly, I went lickety-splitly out to my old '55
As I drove away slowly, feeling so holy, God knows, I was feeling alive.
.
Now the sun's coming up, I'm riding with Lady Luck, freeway cars and trucks,
Stars beginning to fade, and I lead the parade
Just a-wishing I'd stayed a little longer,
Oh, Lord, let me tell you that the feeling's getting stronger.
(2008 Note: What’s interesting is that in the ensuing years, I have come to associate this song not with myself, but with another good friend, Andy, who committed suicide in 1986. Naturally, Marty and Andy knew each other, both being loyal friends of mine, but with certain traits of theirs being at opposite ends of the personality spectrum, ironically, Marty and Andy didn’t like each other much, even though I loved them both.)
#5: “SUMMER” by War
Ridin' 'round town with all the windows down
Eight track playin' all your favorite sounds
The rhythm of the bongos fill the park
The street musicians tryin' to get a start
'Cause it's summer
Summer time is here
Yes, it's summer
My time of year
.
Stretched out on a blanket in the sand
Kids of all ages diggin' Disneyland
Rappin' on the C B radio in your van
We'll give a big "ten four" to the truckin' man
(2008 Note: For me, this is a very wistful tune as it reminds me of my idyllic youth, growing up in Southern California. Ah, the good ol’ days; turn back the clock.)
#6: “KING OF THE ROAD” by Roger Miller
Trailers for sale or rent
Rooms to let...fifty cents.
No phone, no pool, no pets
I ain't got no cigarettes
Ah, but, two hours of pushin' broom
Buys an eight by twelve four-bit room
I'm a man of means by no means
King of the road.
(2008 Note: Love the song; love Roger Miller period – he had a weird sense of humor. And Roger always reminds me of my Pa, who had a wacky sense of humor himself. But, Dang Me, I don’t know why I included this particular song.)
.
#7: “DESPERADOS UNDER THE EAVES” by Warren Zevon
I was sitting in the Hollywood Hawaiian Hotel
I was staring in my empty coffee cup
I was thinking that the gypsy wasn't lyin'
All the salty margaritas in Los Angeles
I'm gonna drink 'em up
.
And if California slides into the ocean
Like the mystics and statistics say it will
I predict this motel will be standing until I pay my bill
.
Still waking up in the mornings with shaking hands
And I'm trying to find a girl who understands me
But except in dreams you're never really free
Don't the sun look angry at me.
.
(2008 Note: Obviously, this was before I threw the “babes” out with the feminist bathwater.)
.
#8: “CARMELITA” by Warren Zevon
Carmelita hold me tighter
I think I'm sinking down
And I'm all strung out on heroin
On the outskirts of town
.
Well, I pawned my Smith-Corona
And I went to meet my man
He hangs out down on Alvarado Street
By the Pioneer chicken stand
.
(2008 Note: For those of you younger than about 30, Smith-Corona was a brand of typewriter. I’ve never done any hard drugs and only smoked weed once in my life. Unlike Bill Clinton, however, I’ll admit that I did inhale it, thus disqualifying me, I suppose, from ever running for the White House. But it is apparent to me that even as far back as ’87, I recognized my great potential for not living up to my potential. And by the way, back in the ‘70s, there really was a Pioneer chicken stand on Alvarado street in L.A. near Echo Park with lots of unsavory characters hanging out there day in and day out.)
#9: “SAN DIEGO SERENADE” by Tom Waits
I never saw the morning 'til I stayed up all night
I never saw the sunshine 'til you turned out the light
I never saw my hometown until I stayed away too long
I never heard the melody, until I needed the song.
(2008 Note: I think that “San Diego Serenade” contains probably the greatest song lyrics ever written, but the song’s connection to me is only general and therefore somewhat tenuous.)
.
#10: “BRIGHT SIDE OF THE ROAD” by Van Morrison
Into this life we're born
Baby, sometimes we don't know why
And time seems to go by so fast
In the twinkling of an eye
.
Let's enjoy it while we can
Won't you help me sing my song
From the dark end of the street
To the bright side of the road
(2008 Note: Hey, how’d this positive attitude crap get in here? Sergeant-At-Arms, are you watching that door or not?!)
.
#11: “WINTER WONDERLAND” by Johnny Mathis
Gone away is the bluebird,
Here to stay is a new bird
He sings a love song,
As we go along,
Walking in a winter wonderland.
.
Later on, we'll conspire,
As we dream by the fire
To face unafraid,
The plans that we've made,
Walking in a winter wonderland.
(2008 Note: Alright, clearly I was trying to make this thing a bit more upbeat at this juncture, but don’t worry, folks, it can’t last long. I know myself too well to expect that.)
.
#12: “A SIGHT FOR SORE EYES” by Tom Waits
(*See? What’d I tell ya?)
(Piano Intro: “Auld Lang Syne”)
Hey, sight for sore eyes; it's a long time no see
Workin’ hard, hardly workin, hey man, you know me
Water under the bridge. Did ya see my new car?
Well it's bought and it's paid for, parked outside of the bar
And hey barkeep, what's keepin’ you? Keep pourin’ drinks
For all these palookas. Hey, you know what I thinks?
That we toast to the old days and DiMaggio, too
And ol’ Drysdale and Mantle, Whitey Ford, and to you
Oh, you know the old gang ain't around, everyone has left town
'Cept for Thumm And Giardina, said they just might be down
Oh, half drunk half the time, and I'm all drunk the rest
Monk's still the champion, oh, but I am the best
Guess you heard about Nash, he was killed in a crash
Oh, that must have been two or three years ago now
Yeah, he spun out and he rolled, hit a telephone pole
He died with the radio on
.
Flo, she's married with a kid, finally split up with Sid
He's up north for a nickel's worth, for armed robbery.
And I'll play you some pinball, though you ain't got a chance
Then go on over and ask her to dance
.
And hey barkeep, what's keepin’ you? Keep pourin’ drinks
For all these palookas. Hey, you know what I thinks?
That we toast to the old days and DiMaggio, too
And ol’ Drysdale and Mantle, Whitey Ford, and to you
(2008 Note: I had forgotten this song over the years, but when it got to that line about the fate of Nash, I found it very poignant and even a bit chilling. It’s almost certain that when Marty died, he had the radio on. In fact, at the moment of impact, he might very well have been listening to one of the several music tapes I’d made for him. I only know that “WHAT I IMAGINE AND WHAT IMAGINES ME” wasn’t in his car’s cassette player or I wouldn’t have it in my possession today.)
#13: The last thing recorded on the tape was a snippet of dialogue from the soundtrack of the movie “TAXI DRIVER” in which Robert De Niro playing the part of Travis Bickle says:
“Loneliness has followed me my whole life. Everywhere. In bars, and cars, sidewalks, stores. Everywhere. There's no escape. I'm God's lonely man.”
(2008 Note: I have no idea why I concluded the tape with this.)
I found it kind of fascinating to musically reflect on where I was as a person back in ’87. I have my doubts, however, that if I were attempting to create a musical autobiography today I would reuse even one of the songs I recorded 21 years ago. What I’d probably do now in 2008 is just fill a tape from beginning to end with Simon & Garfunkel’s “I AM A ROCK” and be done with it.
Ya know, call me crazy, but I’m starting to think that maybe Marty knew me even better than I knew myself. But Marty is GONE while I Rock ON. (And a rock feels no pain.)
~ Stephen T. McCarthy
.
Man, can the woman sing! I recently 'rediscovered' Brenda Lee's version of "Some Of These Days".....WOW, WHAT A VOICE!! I listened to it like 15 times in a row!! Brought back some good memories.
The above came to me in a recent e-mail from a dear, old friend of mine. (OK, yes, once upon a time, she was MORE than a “friend”; and no, she’s not really that old. Heck, she’s younger than I am… and nicer, too.)
The “Dear, Un-Old Friend” was referring to the self-titled BRENDA LEE album of 1991. And the “memories” she was referring to was when she and I went to Normandie Casino in Gardena, California, on April 14, 1992, to see “Little Miss Dynamite” perform live. (Brenda did the coolest thing I ever saw at a concert: she walked out into the audience and posed with lucky males in the theater while a roadie took photos with a Polaroid Instant camera, giving the developing photo to the lucky bloke while Brenda went on to select the next lucky bloke to pose with. Unfortunately, I wasn’t a lucky bloke, but it wasn’t for a lack of my “Dear, Un-Old Friend’s” waving to Brenda and pointing at me.)
Anyway, shortly after getting her welcome e-mail, I went through my box of dozens and dozens of old cassette tapes to drag out some neglected Brenda Lee tunes. And while I was plowing through the box, I came across a relic: It was a cassette from September, 1987 titled “WHAT I IMAGINE AND WHAT IMAGINES ME.” Flashback . . .
The movie industry newspaper VARIETY had this to say on Thursday, July 20, 1989:
“ACTOR KILLED WHEN SUSPECT HITS CAR”
Martin Brumer, a 28-year-old actor who’s appeared in “Days Of Our Lives” and “ChiPs”, was killed Tuesday when a car being chased by police ran a red light and struck Brumer’s car at the intersection of Arlington Ave. and Washington Blvd. in L.A.
The driver of the other car, robbery suspect [*name deleted*] fled the scene of the accident on foot but was arrested by officers two blocks away. Police said the 19-year-old from Inglewood has been booked on suspicion of murder.
A second suspect who was driving another car is still being sought by police.
There was an even more extensive article appearing in the Metro section of the July 20, 1989 LOS ANGELES TIMES newspaper, with an accompanying photo of the accident scene and a publicity still of Mr. Brumer in an inset:
“ACTOR DIES IN CRASH, VICTIM OF THE TYPE OF HEAVY HE PLAYED”
In one of his first paying roles as an actor, Martin Brumer was a bank robber in an episode of the television series “ChiPs.” In the last role of his fledgling career, he played a burglar in the 1988 movie “Chrome Hearts.”
On Tuesday night, Los Angeles police said, the 28-year-old Santa Monica resident became a victim of the kind of man he portrayed.
Driving through a mid-city intersection, Brumer was killed instantly when his 1979 Volvo was struck by a speeding stolen Chevrolet driven by a 19-year-old Inglewood man who ignored a red light while trying to elude a pursuing police car, Detective Dave Martin said.
The driver of the speeding car … suffered only minor injuries in the 10:25 p.m. crash and tried to flee on foot, but was tackled and arrested by two officers, Martin said.
(The suspect) who has a recored of “narcotics-related arrests”, was booked on suspicion of murder, the detective said.
Brumer, a 1983 drama graduate of UC Irvine, who also studied Karate, was “an eager young actor who was determined to work hard to make it,” according to William Lee of Talent Bank, the agency that represented him. …
The article closed with this:
“He would call me once or twice a week to check whether he had any offers. Some people are pushy, but he was very nice,” Lee said.
Sherrill Kushner, 40, an attorney who lives next door to Brumer’s family in Santa Monica, said the young actor was considering a legal career. Brumer was expected to take preliminary law school exams in September.
Despite having gotten a few bad-guy roles, Brumer was more like a comedian off the set, Kushner said. “He will always be known as a guy who always made everybody laugh,” she said.
The subject of these articles, Marty (“Rhymes with party!”) Brumer, was my best friend. And the cassette tape, “WHAT I IMAGINE AND WHAT IMAGINES ME”, is a tape of music that I had made for Marty and which was returned to me after his death.
I’d met Marty (remember: “Rhymes with party”, as he used to like to say) in 1977. We were both members of the Santa Monica high school Theater Arts Dept. Marty was the guy standing in the middle between all those “alternative lifestyle”-looking dudes in the theater department who were forever prancing around singing West Side Story songs, and the Neanderthal (me) from the varsity wrestling team who just sat by himself in the corner, reticent, “doing his best James Dean” (although I had no idea who James Dean was at that point), watching all the fruitcakes and wondering if maybe he should give up the acting dream and go into big game hunting instead. (Aw, c’mon, you know I’m just kidding.)
Well, unbeknownst to me, Marty found me to be the most interesting person in the department because I was obviously the one introverted outsider. I mean, I fit in with that group like a lumberjack at a ballet. (Hmmm… shades of Monty Python. Maybe that wasn’t the best analogy I could have come up with.) But, well, what I’m trying to say is that, for all I know, Marty and I might have been the only heterosexuals in the theater department.
Anyway, one day, while wating for the teacher to arrive and unlock the room, Marty approached me stealthily and said in a hushed tone, “Are you Stephen McCarthy?” I went along with it, “Yeah, why?” Marty inched closer, “I’ve got a message for you from the big boss.” I played the insolent tough guy part, “Oh yeah? What’s that?” And with that, Marty pretended to draw a dagger from an overcoat and said “THIS!” pretending to stab me to death. And that’s how we officially met. Marty and I would replay that little scene many times in the ensuing years, and every year when I encounter the Judges 3:19-21 passage while engaged in my Bible study, I’m reminded of it all over again.
Later, after high school graduation, Marty (“Rhymes with—” Oh, I’m sure you remember by now) would join me at a good acting workshop I’d discovered, and then we’d attend another famous one I found later, and finally, I joined him at an acting school where he was working. We were EXTREMELY SERIOUS about the acting careers and we had many in-depth discussions about the art. (Most of them beginning with one of his standard opening throwaway lines such as “How’s yer urination?” Or, “If you’re going to drink and drive, make sure you’re drinking Evian bottled water!”)
Our friendship grew strong through the years until we really had become best friends. One year, for his birthday, I made a very large oil painting for him of the character he most identified with in a favorite movie – “AMERICAN POP.” (I sure wish I had that painting now.) And we used to make music compilation tapes for each other from our LP collections (LP?… well, think of a licorice pizza.)
There are four songs that most remind me of “Party” Marty:
One is Stevie Wonder’s “DON’T YOU WORRY ‘BOUT A THING” because I love the song to begin with, and because he put it on the “A Smile A Day Makes Happiness Stay” tape that he created for me in 1981.
Everybody needs a change
A chance to check out the new
But you're the only one to see
The changes you take yourself through
.
Don't you worry 'bout a thing
Cause I'll be standing in the wings
When you check it out
Don't you worry 'bout a thing
Over the years, I’ve liked the idea of Marty “standing in the wings” while I’ve checked out life and contemplated “the changes I take myself through” on behalf of both of us. I’ve missed him greatly, and I’ve often imagined some of the great conversations we’d have had if he had lived longer (I mean, the conversation after we got past the “How’s yer urination?” bit). I know I’ve changed a lot, and I’m curious to know how much he too would have changed as we traveled down the road of life together, discovering new things, discussing them and vehemently arguing over them.
Another song I can’t hear without immediately thinking of Marty is “BROKEN BICYCLES” from the Tom Waits soundtrack to the movie “One From The Heart” which he and I first saw together. Based on the number of times I heard Marty mumbling that song thereafter, I’d have to guess that it was likely his all-time favorite. No matter where we were going, there was always Marty singing to himself:
Broken bicycles, old busted chains
With rusted handle bars, out in the rain
Somebody must have an orphanage for
All these things that nobody wants any more
.
September's reminding July
It's time to be saying goodbye
Summer is gone, but our love will remain
Like old broken bicycles out in the rain
I remember one night Marty and I went out to walk and talk, and returning to his apartment from the Palisades Park, he suddenly put his Walkman’s headphones on me so I could hear the Rickie Lee Jones’ song “THE RETURNS”:
But after all
There are such things
And these are the things
That’ll turn your memories back into dreams again
Oh, it's all flying and waving
For you to keep trying
You're so close.
So close.
.
All the returns
One of these days,
One of these days,
One of these days.
Sadly, for Marty, there were no “returns”… unless we’re talking about the return to his Great Maker after such a short, unfulfilled life.
But the other song that vividly conjures Marty in my mind for me, is Bob Dylan’s “POSITIVELY 4TH STREET.” Not because Marty was necessarily crazy about the song, but because I nearly drove him crazy with it. I (being the good friend I was) deliberately tortured the hell out of him with that song just for kicks ‘n’ reactions. The song starts out with these lyrics:
You got a lotta nerve
To say you are my friend
When I was down
You just stood there grinning
You got a lotta nerve
To say you got a helping hand to lend
You just want to be on
The side that's winning
Just to torment my good friend, I often had that song queued up when I knew he was soon to come around, and the moment he arrived he would find it playing to welcome him. If I was picking him up to go somewhere, he’d find it playing the moment he got into my car. If he was due at my house, he’d enter to find Dylan singing, “You got a lotta nerve to say you are my friend…”
I had forgotten all about this song and the way I tormented Marty with it for years, until my recent rediscovery of Bob Dylan’s music and the realization of its influence in my life (see my May 25, 2008 Blog installment below titled “HIGHWAY ZIMMERMAN REVISITED”). I recently bought Dylan’s “Greatest Hits” but I didn’t even recognize the title “POSITIVELY 4TH STREET” since I hadn’t heard the song for about 23 years. But the moment I heard “that voice” singing those words, “You got a lotta nerve…”, it came flooding back to me: “Welcome back, Marty!” Hokie-Smokes! It was like an old, unremembered dream catching up to me in 2008; a very weird phenomenon!
Well, another thing I used to do to (playfully) irritate my old buddy, was to tell him occasionally that neither he nor anyone else would ever “REALLY know me.” After our years of good friendship, I think this statement began to get under his skin a bit. I had a way of annoying him just for the pure pleasure of it – think of it as my own little way of sticking it to “the big boss.”
Well, Marty got even with me one day by creating a cassette music tape for me which he titled “ODE TO STEPHEN McCARTHY.” This was a collection of music meant to prove that he really did know me, despite all of my protestations to the contrary. Side Two of the tape was six songs long, including Supertramp’s “HIDE IN YOUR SHELL”, David Bowie’s “ROCK AND ROLL SUICIDE”, and Stevie Wonder’s “HE’S MISSTRA KNOW-IT-ALL.” (Ha! Very funny, Party Boy!)
But it was Side One in which Marty showed his creativity and made his most forceful statement: Side one was just one song recorded over and over again, taking up the entire 30 minutes of that side. The song? Simon & Garfunkel’s “I AM A ROCK”:
A winter’s day
In a deep and dark December;
I am alone,
Gazing from my window to the streets below
On a freshly fallen, silent shroud of snow.
I am a rock,
I am an island.
I’ve built walls,
And a fortress deep and mighty,
That none may penetrate.
I have no need of friendship; friendship causes pain.
It’s laughter and it’s loving I disdain.
I am a rock,
I am an island.
Don’t talk of love,
But I’ve heard the word before;
It’s sleeping in my memory.
I won’t disturb the slumber of feelings that have died.
If I never loved, I never would have cried.
I am a rock,
I am an island.
I have my books
And my poetry to protect me;
I am shielded in my armor,
Hiding in my room, safe within my womb.
I touch no one and no one touches me.
I am a rock,
I am an island.
And a rock feels no pain;
And an island never cries.
Well, ain’t that a fine How Do Ya Do? And this was supposed to be a good friend of mine?! (Ha! What goes around, comes around, eh? Touche, Martay!)
The last distinct memory I have of Marty finds us at Fisherman’s Village in Marina Del Rey one afternoon and discussing the recent massacre of protestors at Tiananmen Square.
It was highly unexpected that Marty should be one of the first from my group of friends to die. The rest of us were major partyers, consuming massive amounts of alchohol regularly and performing all sorts of crazy stunts. (Some nights I had trouble falling asleep because my liver was crying “Uncle” so loudly.) However, Marty really was the orange juice or Evian drinker who went along for the fun but was not fully committed to the lunacy most of the time. If someone was likely to warn us, “You do that and you know the cops will be here soon”, it was almost sure to be “Party Marty.” But I’ll give him credit for hanging in there with us until the cops showed up.
Sure, we’d sometimes dog Marty for not drinking like us big dawgs, but I had a certain level of respect for Marty that I did not necessarily have for everyone else. I remember one night I came back to the Bay Street pad with a few of the boys and I was in an unusually high state of intoxication (when I zigged, the legs zagged). But when I saw Marty sitting on the couch, I was too embarrassed to let him observe me in that over-the-top “liquidated” condition, so I just said “Hey, Marty,” while heading straight to the bathroom and locking the door behind me.
It was nearly 20 minutes before anyone got curious enough to ask “What happened to Stephen?” and to force open the bathroom door. And when they did, they found the room empty with the window wide open. The Beatles once sang about a woman who “came in through the bathroom window”, but I’m the guy who once poured himself OUT of one. (I just zigged and zagged the streets for a couple of hours until I was sure Marty had left the scene.)
Evidently, Marty had a premonition that he was soon to pass away. His mother later told me that he had begun to pester her incessantly, saying, “Look, if something happens to me, this is who I want you to give my things to—” She would interrupt him, insisting that she didn’t even want to think about this. But he kept broaching the subject day after day. This in itself is very strange, because Marty was all about LIFE – not death. I’m the one who was much more apt to discuss my death, and in fact, Marty and I often did: he used to joke about all the lies he’d tell the media about me after I was gone. (He and I both just assumed that between the two of us, I was the one who would make it biggest in the acting world and die first.) Marty and I sneaked into a cemetary one night and I believe he never did quite get over seeing me lie down in a freshly dug grave (I shouldn’t have done it – I was certainly drunk enough to know better!)
Well, Marty eventually wore down his Mom’s resolve not to hear his requests, and so one day in July of 1989, she told him, “OK, Marty. I’m listening. Say it once, and never mention it to me again.” So, he told her what she was to do with his property. He had gotten into photography and had even sold a few photos that were published as magazine covers, etc. Marty and I used to take little photographic day trips around L.A. and so he wanted me to have his expensive camera and photography equipment. He told his Mom who was supposed to get all of his other important stuffs; she made a mental note of it, and then a week or two later, he was gone.
Afterwards, I did attend the trial of Marty’s murderer at the L.A. County Courthouse and I was relieved when he was found guilty and sentenced to prison.
In September, 1987, I made a musical cassette tape for Marty titled “WHAT I IMAGINE AND WHAT IMAGINES ME” and I inscribed it: “OK, Marty… NOW you know me!” This was evidently meant to be my own musical autobiography, in which I used a variety of songs to reflect multiple aspects of my life, thoughts and personality. It seems Marty’s Mom had returned it to me after his passing in ’89, but I just put it in a carton with my other tapes, never played it, and forgot all about its existence until just a couple of weeks ago when I ran across it. I pulled it out and listened to the entire thing, thinking it would be interesting to get a look at my own mind from about 21 years ago. There was no song listing, so I never knew what I was going to hear next; it was a real grab bag, and all the while I was listening, I asked myself: Why THIS song? Why did I associate THIS song with who I was in ’87? What was I trying to express about myself to Marty by choosing this particular number?
Well, it was a cool little retro self-examination of the Stephen T. McCarthy circa late ‘80s. The first thing I noticed in opening the old tape box was a folded piece of paper on which I’d typed the William Blake poem “The Price Of Experience”:
What is the price of Experience? Do men buy it for a song?
Or wisdom for a dance in the street? No, it is bought with the price
Of all that a man hath, his house, his wife, his children
Wisdom is sold in the desolate market where none come to buy
And in the wither'd field where the farmer plows for bread in vain
It is an easy thing to triumph in the summer's sun
And in the vintage and to sing on the waggon loaded with corn
It is an easy thing to talk of patience to the afflicted
To speak the laws of prudence to the homeless wanderer
To listen to the hungry raven's cry in wintry season
When the red blood is fill'd with wine and with the marrow of lambs
.
It is an easy thing to laugh at wrathful elements
To hear the dog howl at the wintry door, the ox in the slaughter house moan;
To see a god on every wind and a blessing on every blast
To hear sounds of love in the thunder storm that destroys our enemies' house;
To rejoice in the blight that covers his field and the sickness that cuts off his children
While our olive and vine sing and laugh round our door and our children bring fruits and flowers
.
Then the groan and the dolor are quite forgotten and the slave grinding at the mill
And the captive in chains and the poor in the prison and the soldier in the field
When the shatter'd bone hath laid him groaning among the happier dead
.It is an easy thing to rejoice in the tents of prosperity:
Thus could I sing and thus rejoice: but it is not so with me
I had not the slightest idea what I would find in this (as it turned out, mostly morose) autobiographical musical melange, but I got a pretty good laugh quickly when I realized that the entire first half of the 90 minute tape was exclusively instrumentals. (Ha! That was just so “ME.” In essence, I was saying, “OK, Marty, I’ll let you in on my deepest thoughts and feelings, but I will use songs to convey them” but then I turn around and say it all sans lyrics. Ha! The first time Marty listened to this, he must have thought: “Stephen, you a$$h***!”)
Anyway, here’s a listing of the instrumentals that comprised Side One:
“TRAVELS” by Pat Metheny; “MAIN THEME FROM THE MOVIE TAXI DRIVER” by Tom Scott; “SARAH’S CRIME” by Toshi Hinata; “INARTICULATE SPEECH OF THE HEART” by Van Morrison; [Unknown Saxophone Solo] possibly by John Klemmer from his “Touch” album; “ARE YOU GOING WITH ME?” by Pat Metheny; [Unknown Bossa Nova Saxophone Solo] by Stan Getz, probably from the “Getz/Gilberto” album; “SEPTEMBER NIGHT” by Van Morrison; “CITY, COUNTRY, CITY” by War.
As much as I’d like to be able to say that the entire tape was instrumental in nature, I’m afraid I caved in on the second side and attempted to give Marty a little of myself in actual lyric form. I’ll include a song listing here along with what I’m guessing was the most relevant lyrical content at that time. I started my “talking” side with The Blues of Muddy Waters.
#1: “I’M READY” by Muddy Waters
I got an axe handle pistol on a graveyard frame
That shoot tombstone bullets, wearin' balls and chains
I'm drinkin' TNT, I'm smokin' dynamite
I hope some screwball start a fight
'Cause I'm ready, ready as anybody can be
I'm ready for you, I hope you're ready for me
I been drinkin' gin like never before
I feel so good, I want you to know
One more drink, I wish you would
It takes a whole lotta lovin' to make me feel good
'Cause I'm ready, ready as anybody can be
Now I'm ready for you, I hope you're ready for me
.
(2008 Note: Yeah, well, like I said, I was a “Drinking Man” once upon a time. I don’t know what I thought I was ready for, but probably a bowl of Excedrin and a pitcher of Alka-Seltzer.)
#2: “AIN’T THAT PRETTY AT ALL” by Warren Zevon
Well, I've seen all there is to see
And I've heard all they have to say
I've done everything I wanted to do
I've done that TOO!
And it ain't that pretty at all
Ain't that pretty at all
.
So I'm going to hurl myself against the wall
'Cause I'd rather feel bad than not feel anything at all
.
You know, I just had a short vacation, Roy
Spent it getting a root canal
"Oh? How'd you like it?"
Well, it ain't that pretty at all
So I'm going to hurl myself against the wall
'Cause I'd rather feel bad than not feel anything at all
.
Gonna get a good running start and throw myself at the wall as hard as I can, man
(2008 Note: Zevon had a twisted sense of humor – stole it from me. I’d exhume him and sue his a$$, but I’m afraid it wouldn’t be that pretty at all.)
.
#3: “ACCIDENTALLY LIKE A MARTYR” by Warren Zevon
The days slide by
Should have done, should have done, we all sigh
Never thought I'd ever be so lonely
After such a long, long time
Time out of mind
.
We made mad love
Shadow love
Random love
And abandoned love
Accidentally like a martyr
The hurt gets worse and the heart gets harder
(2008 Note: Uhm… Well… OK then. Just pat my hand gently and soothingly say, “There, there.”)
#4: "OL’ 55" by Tom Waits
Well my time went so quickly, I went lickety-splitly out to my old '55
As I drove away slowly, feeling so holy, God knows, I was feeling alive.
.
Now the sun's coming up, I'm riding with Lady Luck, freeway cars and trucks,
Stars beginning to fade, and I lead the parade
Just a-wishing I'd stayed a little longer,
Oh, Lord, let me tell you that the feeling's getting stronger.
(2008 Note: What’s interesting is that in the ensuing years, I have come to associate this song not with myself, but with another good friend, Andy, who committed suicide in 1986. Naturally, Marty and Andy knew each other, both being loyal friends of mine, but with certain traits of theirs being at opposite ends of the personality spectrum, ironically, Marty and Andy didn’t like each other much, even though I loved them both.)
#5: “SUMMER” by War
Ridin' 'round town with all the windows down
Eight track playin' all your favorite sounds
The rhythm of the bongos fill the park
The street musicians tryin' to get a start
'Cause it's summer
Summer time is here
Yes, it's summer
My time of year
.
Stretched out on a blanket in the sand
Kids of all ages diggin' Disneyland
Rappin' on the C B radio in your van
We'll give a big "ten four" to the truckin' man
(2008 Note: For me, this is a very wistful tune as it reminds me of my idyllic youth, growing up in Southern California. Ah, the good ol’ days; turn back the clock.)
#6: “KING OF THE ROAD” by Roger Miller
Trailers for sale or rent
Rooms to let...fifty cents.
No phone, no pool, no pets
I ain't got no cigarettes
Ah, but, two hours of pushin' broom
Buys an eight by twelve four-bit room
I'm a man of means by no means
King of the road.
(2008 Note: Love the song; love Roger Miller period – he had a weird sense of humor. And Roger always reminds me of my Pa, who had a wacky sense of humor himself. But, Dang Me, I don’t know why I included this particular song.)
.
#7: “DESPERADOS UNDER THE EAVES” by Warren Zevon
I was sitting in the Hollywood Hawaiian Hotel
I was staring in my empty coffee cup
I was thinking that the gypsy wasn't lyin'
All the salty margaritas in Los Angeles
I'm gonna drink 'em up
.
And if California slides into the ocean
Like the mystics and statistics say it will
I predict this motel will be standing until I pay my bill
.
Still waking up in the mornings with shaking hands
And I'm trying to find a girl who understands me
But except in dreams you're never really free
Don't the sun look angry at me.
.
(2008 Note: Obviously, this was before I threw the “babes” out with the feminist bathwater.)
.
#8: “CARMELITA” by Warren Zevon
Carmelita hold me tighter
I think I'm sinking down
And I'm all strung out on heroin
On the outskirts of town
.
Well, I pawned my Smith-Corona
And I went to meet my man
He hangs out down on Alvarado Street
By the Pioneer chicken stand
.
(2008 Note: For those of you younger than about 30, Smith-Corona was a brand of typewriter. I’ve never done any hard drugs and only smoked weed once in my life. Unlike Bill Clinton, however, I’ll admit that I did inhale it, thus disqualifying me, I suppose, from ever running for the White House. But it is apparent to me that even as far back as ’87, I recognized my great potential for not living up to my potential. And by the way, back in the ‘70s, there really was a Pioneer chicken stand on Alvarado street in L.A. near Echo Park with lots of unsavory characters hanging out there day in and day out.)
#9: “SAN DIEGO SERENADE” by Tom Waits
I never saw the morning 'til I stayed up all night
I never saw the sunshine 'til you turned out the light
I never saw my hometown until I stayed away too long
I never heard the melody, until I needed the song.
(2008 Note: I think that “San Diego Serenade” contains probably the greatest song lyrics ever written, but the song’s connection to me is only general and therefore somewhat tenuous.)
.
#10: “BRIGHT SIDE OF THE ROAD” by Van Morrison
Into this life we're born
Baby, sometimes we don't know why
And time seems to go by so fast
In the twinkling of an eye
.
Let's enjoy it while we can
Won't you help me sing my song
From the dark end of the street
To the bright side of the road
(2008 Note: Hey, how’d this positive attitude crap get in here? Sergeant-At-Arms, are you watching that door or not?!)
.
#11: “WINTER WONDERLAND” by Johnny Mathis
Gone away is the bluebird,
Here to stay is a new bird
He sings a love song,
As we go along,
Walking in a winter wonderland.
.
Later on, we'll conspire,
As we dream by the fire
To face unafraid,
The plans that we've made,
Walking in a winter wonderland.
(2008 Note: Alright, clearly I was trying to make this thing a bit more upbeat at this juncture, but don’t worry, folks, it can’t last long. I know myself too well to expect that.)
.
#12: “A SIGHT FOR SORE EYES” by Tom Waits
(*See? What’d I tell ya?)
(Piano Intro: “Auld Lang Syne”)
Hey, sight for sore eyes; it's a long time no see
Workin’ hard, hardly workin, hey man, you know me
Water under the bridge. Did ya see my new car?
Well it's bought and it's paid for, parked outside of the bar
And hey barkeep, what's keepin’ you? Keep pourin’ drinks
For all these palookas. Hey, you know what I thinks?
That we toast to the old days and DiMaggio, too
And ol’ Drysdale and Mantle, Whitey Ford, and to you
Oh, you know the old gang ain't around, everyone has left town
'Cept for Thumm And Giardina, said they just might be down
Oh, half drunk half the time, and I'm all drunk the rest
Monk's still the champion, oh, but I am the best
Guess you heard about Nash, he was killed in a crash
Oh, that must have been two or three years ago now
Yeah, he spun out and he rolled, hit a telephone pole
He died with the radio on
.
Flo, she's married with a kid, finally split up with Sid
He's up north for a nickel's worth, for armed robbery.
And I'll play you some pinball, though you ain't got a chance
Then go on over and ask her to dance
.
And hey barkeep, what's keepin’ you? Keep pourin’ drinks
For all these palookas. Hey, you know what I thinks?
That we toast to the old days and DiMaggio, too
And ol’ Drysdale and Mantle, Whitey Ford, and to you
(2008 Note: I had forgotten this song over the years, but when it got to that line about the fate of Nash, I found it very poignant and even a bit chilling. It’s almost certain that when Marty died, he had the radio on. In fact, at the moment of impact, he might very well have been listening to one of the several music tapes I’d made for him. I only know that “WHAT I IMAGINE AND WHAT IMAGINES ME” wasn’t in his car’s cassette player or I wouldn’t have it in my possession today.)
#13: The last thing recorded on the tape was a snippet of dialogue from the soundtrack of the movie “TAXI DRIVER” in which Robert De Niro playing the part of Travis Bickle says:
“Loneliness has followed me my whole life. Everywhere. In bars, and cars, sidewalks, stores. Everywhere. There's no escape. I'm God's lonely man.”
(2008 Note: I have no idea why I concluded the tape with this.)
I found it kind of fascinating to musically reflect on where I was as a person back in ’87. I have my doubts, however, that if I were attempting to create a musical autobiography today I would reuse even one of the songs I recorded 21 years ago. What I’d probably do now in 2008 is just fill a tape from beginning to end with Simon & Garfunkel’s “I AM A ROCK” and be done with it.
Ya know, call me crazy, but I’m starting to think that maybe Marty knew me even better than I knew myself. But Marty is GONE while I Rock ON. (And a rock feels no pain.)
~ Stephen T. McCarthy
.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
SPEAK LIKE A GOOD AMERICAN, DOGGONE IT!
.
As soon as I woke up this morning, I glanced back at my alarm clock and it read: 8:48 AM. My first thought was: "That’s exactly what time it SHOULD be."
Let me tell you, it is a rare occurrence when I wake up with such a positive attitude, and those few times when it happens, I spend the rest of the day just waiting for two shoes to drop.
While I’ve been waiting, one of my old drinking buddies, Cranium, e-mailed me a bit about Political Correctness which I thought was pretty funny. I’ve decided to post it here (with just a few adjustments to it made by Yours Truly).
Due to its subject matter, ordinarily I would post something like this on my Blog titled XTREMELY UN-P.C. AND UNREPENTANT. In this case, however, I’ve decided to post it here instead because… well… because… Look, man, I ain’t got no reason. I don’t need no reason. I don’t have to show you any stinking reason!
OK, here’s how to say it correctly in The Land Of The Free And The Home Of The Brave (or, The Land Of The Petrified And The Home Of The Tongue-Tied) . . .
Due to the climate of political correctness now pervading America, Kentuckians, Tennesseeans and West Virginians will no longer be referred to as “HILLBILLIES.” You must now refer to them as “APPALACHIAN-AMERICANS.” And furthermore . . .
HOW TO SPEAK ABOUT WOMEN AND BE POLITICALLY CORRECT:
1. She is not a “BABE” or a “CHICK” - She is a . . .
“BREASTED AMERICAN.”
2. She is not “EASY” - She is . . .
“HORIZONTALLY ACCESSIBLE.”
3. She is not a “DUMB BLONDE” - She is a . . .
“LIGHT-HAIRED DETOUR OFF THE INFORMATION SUPERHIGHWAY.”
4. She has not “BEEN AROUND” - She is a . . .
“PREVIOUSLY-ENJOYED COMPANION.”
5. She does not “NAG” you - She becomes . . .
“VERBALLY REPETITIVE.”
6. She is not a “TWO-BIT HOOKER” - She is a . . .
“LOW COST PROVIDER.”
Well, Womenfolk, as always, it is not REALLY all about you. And so let’s now learn . . .
HOW TO SPEAK ABOUT MEN AND BE POLITICALLY CORRECT:
1. He does not have a “BEER GUT” - He has developed a . . .
“LIQUID GRAIN STORAGE FACILITY.”
2. He is not a “BAD DANCER” - He is . . .
“OVERLY CAUCASIAN.”
3. He does not “GET LOST ALL THE TIME” – He . . .
“INVESTIGATES ALTERNATIVE DESTINATIONS.”
4. He is not “BALDING” - He is in . . .
“FOLLICLE REGRESSION.”
5. He does not act like a “TOTAL A$$” - He develops a case of . . .
“RECTAL-CRANIAL INVERSION.”
6. It's not the plumber’s “CRACK” you see hanging out of his pants – It is . . .
“REAR CLEAVAGE”
Thaaaaat’s right! We plumbers demand respect from now on.
Oh! Wait! I’ve never been a plumber. Never mind; go ahead and call it what you will.
Gotta run! The first shoe just kicked me in the “Rear Cleavage” and the other shoe will drop soon.
~ Stephen T. McCarthy
.
As soon as I woke up this morning, I glanced back at my alarm clock and it read: 8:48 AM. My first thought was: "That’s exactly what time it SHOULD be."
Let me tell you, it is a rare occurrence when I wake up with such a positive attitude, and those few times when it happens, I spend the rest of the day just waiting for two shoes to drop.
While I’ve been waiting, one of my old drinking buddies, Cranium, e-mailed me a bit about Political Correctness which I thought was pretty funny. I’ve decided to post it here (with just a few adjustments to it made by Yours Truly).
Due to its subject matter, ordinarily I would post something like this on my Blog titled XTREMELY UN-P.C. AND UNREPENTANT. In this case, however, I’ve decided to post it here instead because… well… because… Look, man, I ain’t got no reason. I don’t need no reason. I don’t have to show you any stinking reason!
OK, here’s how to say it correctly in The Land Of The Free And The Home Of The Brave (or, The Land Of The Petrified And The Home Of The Tongue-Tied) . . .
Due to the climate of political correctness now pervading America, Kentuckians, Tennesseeans and West Virginians will no longer be referred to as “HILLBILLIES.” You must now refer to them as “APPALACHIAN-AMERICANS.” And furthermore . . .
HOW TO SPEAK ABOUT WOMEN AND BE POLITICALLY CORRECT:
1. She is not a “BABE” or a “CHICK” - She is a . . .
“BREASTED AMERICAN.”
2. She is not “EASY” - She is . . .
“HORIZONTALLY ACCESSIBLE.”
3. She is not a “DUMB BLONDE” - She is a . . .
“LIGHT-HAIRED DETOUR OFF THE INFORMATION SUPERHIGHWAY.”
4. She has not “BEEN AROUND” - She is a . . .
“PREVIOUSLY-ENJOYED COMPANION.”
5. She does not “NAG” you - She becomes . . .
“VERBALLY REPETITIVE.”
6. She is not a “TWO-BIT HOOKER” - She is a . . .
“LOW COST PROVIDER.”
Well, Womenfolk, as always, it is not REALLY all about you. And so let’s now learn . . .
HOW TO SPEAK ABOUT MEN AND BE POLITICALLY CORRECT:
1. He does not have a “BEER GUT” - He has developed a . . .
“LIQUID GRAIN STORAGE FACILITY.”
2. He is not a “BAD DANCER” - He is . . .
“OVERLY CAUCASIAN.”
3. He does not “GET LOST ALL THE TIME” – He . . .
“INVESTIGATES ALTERNATIVE DESTINATIONS.”
4. He is not “BALDING” - He is in . . .
“FOLLICLE REGRESSION.”
5. He does not act like a “TOTAL A$$” - He develops a case of . . .
“RECTAL-CRANIAL INVERSION.”
6. It's not the plumber’s “CRACK” you see hanging out of his pants – It is . . .
“REAR CLEAVAGE”
Thaaaaat’s right! We plumbers demand respect from now on.
Oh! Wait! I’ve never been a plumber. Never mind; go ahead and call it what you will.
Gotta run! The first shoe just kicked me in the “Rear Cleavage” and the other shoe will drop soon.
~ Stephen T. McCarthy
.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
A FREUDIAN Hair And The Field Goal Kicker's SLIP
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Dreams have always been a kind of specialty of mine. Since early childhood, I have been dreaming wildly and vividly (with dreamless stretches from time to time). I also seem to have a knack for interpreting my dreams. Whether or not my interpretations are valid or just the result of a pretty good imagination is open to debate, although I know without a doubt that I have received answers to life issues while in the dream state. (I once even had a dream that interpreted for me the dream I’d had the previous night!) And “Lucid Dreaming” is not something completely unexperienced by me.
The Bible tells us that God can speak to us in our dreams (for example, see Genesis chapter 41), although certainly not all dreams are messages from God (see the 23rd chapter of Jeremiah). But with this in mind, from 1995 through mid-2001, I kept a Dream Journal in which I recorded my dreams and interpretations (when I felt I had one that fit). On the first page of my notebook, I typed, “My Biggest Dream: To become so wealthy that I can afford to get drunk in an airport bar.” Of course, today, I would settle for just being able to afford to fill my gas tank. Anyway, I had a doozie of a dream last night and it went like this . . .
My Pa (who passed away in 1996), my brother Napoleon, and someone else (my sister, I believe), and I drove to a (unknown) friend’s house to watch Super Bowl XLIII, which was between the Chicago Bears and the Minnesota Vikings. Obviously, this Super Bowl match-up would be impossible since both teams are in the same Conference (and even in the same Division within that Conference). In the dream, I was rooting for the Minnesota Vikings and I was absolutely sure that they would win the game.
In reality, I wear a neatly cropped goatee, and in the dream, I went into the bathroom and tried to use a toenail clipper to trim one hair in my goatee that seemed just a tad longer than the rest. But when I attempted to cut off the end of this one hair, it actually pulled the hair out further from my chin, thus lengthening it instead. I tried again with the same result. Over and over again I attempted to cut this hair with the toenail clipper and each time it pulled the hair out yet further until the hair was now at least a foot long, probably longer. I started to panic, fearing that I might actually pull my guts out with this hair. Finally, with one great effort, employing all of my strength, I managed to clip the hair off. I then went back to watching the Super Bowl.
Late in the game, with the score tied 7 to 7, the Bears brought out their field goal unit. A real big deal was made of this because it was to be the first time in history that a woman would play in an NFL game. You see, the Bears field goal kicker was Carol Burnett. Uh… yeah, THAT Carol Burnett.
It was a very short kick and Carol managed to knock the football through the uprights, but instead of receiving three points for the field goal, the Bears were given only two points. I’m not sure why one point was deducted from the usual amount; maybe it had something to do with the shortness of the kick, or the fact that Carol Burnett is a woman, or maybe because she recently died. (Oh, wait, that was Harvey Korman who died, wasn’t it?) Well, easy kick, a death in the family, or a glass ceiling in the NFL, for whatever reason, the Bears got just two points and the score was now Bears 9, Vikings 7.
With very little time left in the game, the Vikings drove down the field, and then with only seconds remaining on the clock, they completed a short pass in the end zone to win the game 13 to 9.
Leaving our host’s house after the game, we had to walk across a big empty field in order to get to my brother’s car. And when we climbed into Napoleon’s big, old, four-door sedan, we discovered that it had rained and the floorboards were massive pools of water, but we just plunged our feet into the ponds and Napoleon headed the car for home. On the way, my Pa mentioned that he had been impressed by the good behavior of the Chicago Bears’ fans. (If you didn’t already know this was a dream, my Pa’s remark would surely have given it away!)
Getting out of the car at home, I mentioned to my brother that if Super Bowl XLIII had been reality instead of a dream, I would have been rooting for the Bears and not the Vikings. (This, by the way, is a bald-faced LIE! Although I do not like the Minnesota Vikings, I would, under all circumstances - excepting when they had Randy Moss - root for them over the Chicago Bears.)
Believe it or not, I do understand where a couple of the elements from this patchwork quilt of a dream came from: Yesterday, I was wearing my Super Bowl XLII baseball cap (it was a Christmas gift from a friend who gave it to me because the game was played here in Phoenix). And while I was in a fast food burrito joint yesterday for lunch, a teenage boy came in wearing a Cleveland Browns T-shirt. (Yeah, I know! I thought the same thing: “The Browns?! I didn’t know anybody outside of Cleveland supported the Browns!”) But this got me to thinking about how I don’t really mind the Browns and would root for them over a majority of other teams in the NFL. I was also thinking about The Dawg Pound – a section in Cleveland’s stadium where the fans bark like dogs at the opposing team’s players. So, I get the dream’s football association.
If it was indeed my sister who joined us boys to watch the game on television, this would seem to mimic what occurred on the field of play, where Carol Burnett was the sole woman surrounded by men.
But I don’t think there’s much else to be made of this dream and I’m not going to give it any more consideration. I mean, as Sigmund Freud supposedly said, “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.” And sometimes a really long hair is just a really long hair, and sometimes a woman’s leg is only worth two points. I’m inclined to think that this dream had less to do with what was going on in my subconscious and more to do with what was going on in my stomach: maybe it was that pint of Ben & Jerry’s “Vermonty Python” ice cream I ate shortly before going to bed last night. At any rate, I’m not going to attempt to analyze this dream further, but just take comfort in the fact that Da Vikings beat Da Bears.
Hmmm… I just now noticed that I need to clip my toenails. Seriously! I’m sitting here at this computer barefooted. Ha! Life is too funny!
~ Stephen T. McCarthy
.
Dreams have always been a kind of specialty of mine. Since early childhood, I have been dreaming wildly and vividly (with dreamless stretches from time to time). I also seem to have a knack for interpreting my dreams. Whether or not my interpretations are valid or just the result of a pretty good imagination is open to debate, although I know without a doubt that I have received answers to life issues while in the dream state. (I once even had a dream that interpreted for me the dream I’d had the previous night!) And “Lucid Dreaming” is not something completely unexperienced by me.
The Bible tells us that God can speak to us in our dreams (for example, see Genesis chapter 41), although certainly not all dreams are messages from God (see the 23rd chapter of Jeremiah). But with this in mind, from 1995 through mid-2001, I kept a Dream Journal in which I recorded my dreams and interpretations (when I felt I had one that fit). On the first page of my notebook, I typed, “My Biggest Dream: To become so wealthy that I can afford to get drunk in an airport bar.” Of course, today, I would settle for just being able to afford to fill my gas tank. Anyway, I had a doozie of a dream last night and it went like this . . .
My Pa (who passed away in 1996), my brother Napoleon, and someone else (my sister, I believe), and I drove to a (unknown) friend’s house to watch Super Bowl XLIII, which was between the Chicago Bears and the Minnesota Vikings. Obviously, this Super Bowl match-up would be impossible since both teams are in the same Conference (and even in the same Division within that Conference). In the dream, I was rooting for the Minnesota Vikings and I was absolutely sure that they would win the game.
In reality, I wear a neatly cropped goatee, and in the dream, I went into the bathroom and tried to use a toenail clipper to trim one hair in my goatee that seemed just a tad longer than the rest. But when I attempted to cut off the end of this one hair, it actually pulled the hair out further from my chin, thus lengthening it instead. I tried again with the same result. Over and over again I attempted to cut this hair with the toenail clipper and each time it pulled the hair out yet further until the hair was now at least a foot long, probably longer. I started to panic, fearing that I might actually pull my guts out with this hair. Finally, with one great effort, employing all of my strength, I managed to clip the hair off. I then went back to watching the Super Bowl.
Late in the game, with the score tied 7 to 7, the Bears brought out their field goal unit. A real big deal was made of this because it was to be the first time in history that a woman would play in an NFL game. You see, the Bears field goal kicker was Carol Burnett. Uh… yeah, THAT Carol Burnett.
It was a very short kick and Carol managed to knock the football through the uprights, but instead of receiving three points for the field goal, the Bears were given only two points. I’m not sure why one point was deducted from the usual amount; maybe it had something to do with the shortness of the kick, or the fact that Carol Burnett is a woman, or maybe because she recently died. (Oh, wait, that was Harvey Korman who died, wasn’t it?) Well, easy kick, a death in the family, or a glass ceiling in the NFL, for whatever reason, the Bears got just two points and the score was now Bears 9, Vikings 7.
With very little time left in the game, the Vikings drove down the field, and then with only seconds remaining on the clock, they completed a short pass in the end zone to win the game 13 to 9.
Leaving our host’s house after the game, we had to walk across a big empty field in order to get to my brother’s car. And when we climbed into Napoleon’s big, old, four-door sedan, we discovered that it had rained and the floorboards were massive pools of water, but we just plunged our feet into the ponds and Napoleon headed the car for home. On the way, my Pa mentioned that he had been impressed by the good behavior of the Chicago Bears’ fans. (If you didn’t already know this was a dream, my Pa’s remark would surely have given it away!)
Getting out of the car at home, I mentioned to my brother that if Super Bowl XLIII had been reality instead of a dream, I would have been rooting for the Bears and not the Vikings. (This, by the way, is a bald-faced LIE! Although I do not like the Minnesota Vikings, I would, under all circumstances - excepting when they had Randy Moss - root for them over the Chicago Bears.)
Believe it or not, I do understand where a couple of the elements from this patchwork quilt of a dream came from: Yesterday, I was wearing my Super Bowl XLII baseball cap (it was a Christmas gift from a friend who gave it to me because the game was played here in Phoenix). And while I was in a fast food burrito joint yesterday for lunch, a teenage boy came in wearing a Cleveland Browns T-shirt. (Yeah, I know! I thought the same thing: “The Browns?! I didn’t know anybody outside of Cleveland supported the Browns!”) But this got me to thinking about how I don’t really mind the Browns and would root for them over a majority of other teams in the NFL. I was also thinking about The Dawg Pound – a section in Cleveland’s stadium where the fans bark like dogs at the opposing team’s players. So, I get the dream’s football association.
If it was indeed my sister who joined us boys to watch the game on television, this would seem to mimic what occurred on the field of play, where Carol Burnett was the sole woman surrounded by men.
But I don’t think there’s much else to be made of this dream and I’m not going to give it any more consideration. I mean, as Sigmund Freud supposedly said, “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.” And sometimes a really long hair is just a really long hair, and sometimes a woman’s leg is only worth two points. I’m inclined to think that this dream had less to do with what was going on in my subconscious and more to do with what was going on in my stomach: maybe it was that pint of Ben & Jerry’s “Vermonty Python” ice cream I ate shortly before going to bed last night. At any rate, I’m not going to attempt to analyze this dream further, but just take comfort in the fact that Da Vikings beat Da Bears.
Hmmm… I just now noticed that I need to clip my toenails. Seriously! I’m sitting here at this computer barefooted. Ha! Life is too funny!
~ Stephen T. McCarthy
.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
HELL HATH NO FURY LIKE MAHALIA IN HEAVEN
.
[*This Blog Bit is dedicated to BR’ER MARC, his wife JENNIFER, and their little baby, PARKER, whom I know God Loves very much.*]
As is so often the case in my many other interests as well, when it comes to music, I tend to go through phases: I’ll play one artist almost exclusively until I have thoroughly worn him, her or them out, and then I’ll move on to a different musician, but eventually I’ll come back again full circle in time. I once went on a Western movie kick that lasted over two years – I viewed almost nothing but Westerns until I had seen almost everything that was then available on VHS. This may sound a bit insane, but reflect on the notion that saturation really teaches well and drives home a subject, and consider that when you go to see the general practitioner, it might cost you about $15. but when you go to see a specialist, that gets doubled to $30. (that is if you happen to have medical insurance). What I’m saying is that lots of people know a little bit about a lot of things, but the person who knows a lot about one thing is usually more famous and more well-paid.
This trait of mine is even evident in my eating habits. You know how little kids often eat one thing on their plate entirely before moving on to the next item? Side dishes, of course, are meant to complement the entree and are intended to be enjoyed intermittently with it. Well, I never quite got the hang of that and I still tend to exhaust one dish before moving on. Oh sure, if you go to dinner with me you’ll see that I take a bite of the rice and then a forkful of the refried beans at first, just to give you the impression that I too am a real grownup person (I wouldn’t want you to get the idea that I’m weird or anything), but watch closely and before long you’ll notice that I’ve moved on to the cheese enchiladas and consumed them fully before revisiting those side dishes. I still eat like a little kid. A psychologist might label this as obsessive-compulsive, but I prefer to think I have great “focus.” My slogan is: “I have such powerful focus that it’s almost a mental illness.”
[*Cough!-Cough!*]
[An aside: If you think this is bad, you should have seen my brother Napoleon eat when he was a kid! He ate the way he did everything else: like the Tasmanian Devil after gulping down a case and a half of Red Bull energy drinks! When Ma told him, “Wipe your face!” he did it literally - he’d pass the napkin over his entire face several times in a circular motion. You’d think that would pretty well cover it, wouldn’t you? Well, it still didn’t address the bits of corn, hot dog bun and mashed potatoes clinging to his hair! She should have told him, “Wipe your face and hair!”]
Anyway, my most recent musical phase has me playing MAHALIA JACKSON tunes over and over again (and over again – Man, do I have great focus!) Mahalia Jackson, if you don’t know, reigned as the very aptly nicknamed “Queen Of Gospel Music” in the 1950s and ‘60s. Will Friedwald tells us that into the ‘50s, Mahalia “was perceived as a rebellious upstart by the more conservative Black churches”, but now, so many prominent singers of the day in Popular, Jazz, Urban Contemporary, Rock and Country music utilize so many of the techniques employed by Mahalia, that she has stylistically influenced hundreds of artists (Aretha Franklin among them) and she is recognized by many as having been the world’s greatest Gospel singer. I’m not one to argue with that assessment. (And no, contrary to popular belief, Jackson Browne is not related to Mahalia Jackson.)
I discovered Mahalia Jackson’s music shortly after coming to Christ - or after He came and got me, I should say: While I was alone in an apartment in a somewhat run-down Los Angeles neighborhood on the afternoon of April 6th, 1994, Jesus - to my great surprise - Baptized me with The Holy Spirit, using my own tears for the water. (It’s a long and soggy story, so I’ll spare you the details.) Like most people when they first encounter the reality of Christ and their “Salvation”, I was on fire for quite awhile, and I began filling my mind and my surroundings with reminders of my new spiritual vision. Therefore, I sought out some of that old-time Gospel music that I already knew I liked. (I mean, heck, “Down By The Riverside” had always been my favorite song in Disneyland’s America Sings attraction. Henrietta Hen – or whatever her name was – really belted out that Gospel number, and The Frog Five – or whatever their name was – laid down the deepest, croakingest bass I’d ever heard!)
In a small Christian gift shop in Westwood Village, I bought my first Mahalia albums: two two-disc sets titled “Gospels, Spirituals, & Hymns” Volumes 1 and 2. I dug her immediately; this was exactly the sort of music I was seeking. But the first Mahalia recording that I absolutely flipped over was “ELIJAH ROCK” (it’s a lot like “Jingle Bell Rock” except it’s sung by a Black woman instead of a White man, it has nothing whatsoever to do with jingling bells or Christmas, it has an entirely different pace, rhythm, and instrumentation, and it sounds completely different from “Jingle Bell Rock.” Otherwise, it’s the same song.)
“ELIJAH ROCK” with its tremendously powerful piano vamp played throughout by Mildred Falls in her very unique style just floored me. God, was Mildred great! Listen to what she does on Mahalia’s “I’M GOING TO LIVE THE LIFE I SING ABOUT IN MY SONG.” (And no, I wasn’t using God’s Name in vain just now: I was REALLY celebrating the gift He gave her.) Back in ’94, I would listen to “ELIJAH ROCK” through headphones cranked up to “eleven” (yeah, my headphones went up to eleven!) and I’d just groove along!
“Satan is a liar and a conjurer too; If you don’t mind out, he’ll conjure you! … You can call my Rock in the morning; call Him late at night; He’s always with me and all my battles He fights. When I’m in trouble, I can call Him on the line; He put a telephone in my heart and I can call God anytime!”
Man, that’s great stuffs!
I used to think about how much fun it would be to own a radio station and to dictate the playlist. I told myself that the first song my station (KSTM) would spin to inaugurate our place in the airwaves would be Mahalia’s “ELIJAH ROCK” – Oh, but wouldn’t that send the message that THIS radio station was going to do things its own way! (How wonderful would it be to have a radio station that might play Mahalia Jackson, followed by The Beach Boys, followed by Howlin’ Wolf, followed by Waylon Jennings, then Louis Prima, Tom Petty, Astrud Gilberto, and the theme from the Pink Panther movies, with a few early Bill Cosby skits thrown in every once in awhile just for laughs? Maybe we’d even spin a few Benny Hill songs if we can slip ‘em past the F.C.C. Don’t tell me KSTM wouldn’t be programmed into your radio’s preset buttons! Heck, we might even do an occasional Dr. Seuss reading.)
Another Mahalia song that burrowed deep into my heart in those early days was “KEEP YOUR HAND ON THE PLOW.” This fast-paced exhortation to keep on keepin’ on even through the dark nights of the soul often strengthened me during some of the tougher times, and it served to admonish me when I sometimes slipped in my spiritual walk. I just love the way Mahalia sings “Heard the voice of Jesus say, Come unto Me, I am the way.”
Hold on! Hold on!
Keep your hand on the plow. Hold on!
Heard the voice of Jesus say,
“Come unto Me, I am the way.”
Keep your hand on the plow. Hold on!
When my way get dark as night,
Know The Lord will be my light.
Keep your hand on the plow. Hold on!
You can talk about me as much as you please;
The more you talk, I’m gonna stay on my knees.
Keep your hand on the plow. Hold on!
When I get to Heaven, gonna sing and shout;
Be nobody there to put me out.
Keep your hand on the plow. Hold on!
Know my robe gonna fit me well;
Tried it on at the gates of hell.
Keep your hand on the plow. Hold on!
Hold on! Hold on!
Keep your hand on the plow. Hold on!
Hokie-Smokes! Listen to the way Bunny Shawker slaps them drums around at the end. That’s one funky bunny! If this song doesn’t fill you with spiritual determination, nothing will.
Where does one begin when writing about Mahalia’s music? I have to make mention of the way she rhythmically warns us that “Everybody talkin’ ‘bout Heaven ain’t goin’ there” in “WALK OVER GOD’S HEAVEN.” (That’s a Biblical fact – you should look it up.) Check out the range and tones she displays in “A SATISFIED MIND.” And how about Mahalia’s unrestrained enthusiasm in “GREAT GETTIN’ UP MORNING”? Or the old-time Gospel arrangement of “WALK IN JERUSALEM” with The Frog Five (or whoever that is) laying down that grooving vocal bass line during the chorus. Love it, man, love it! And you gotta recognize Mahalia’s signature tune “I WILL MOVE ON UP A LITTLE HIGHER” as the great stuffs it surely is. Oh, sheesh! There are simply too many tremendous Mahalia songs and too much too say about them, but that’s what we would expect from the woman who, according to Dr. Horace Clarence Boyer, “became the first and still greatest superstar of the music that has come to be known as Gospel.” Dr. Boyer also informs us that Mahalia sang “TAKE MY HAND, PRECIOUS LORD” at Martin Luther King Junior’s funeral. And hers was a truly heartfelt rendition of “I FOUND THE ANSWER.”
I found the answer: I like to pray
With faith to guide me, I found my Way…
I was weak and weary, and I had gone astray
Walkin’ in the darkness, I could not find the Way
But then a Light came shining…
Keep your Bible with you; Read it every day
Always count your blessings; always stop and pray.
In “SEARCH ME, LORD” Mahalia sang: “While I’m singing, I’m holy.” Amen, Sister. You surely were!
On an internet discussion board related to female Jazz vocalists, a woman asked me on October 3, 2006, “Do you have a favorite Mahalia number?” And I replied: Yes, I most certainly do. It's “HOW I GOT OVER.”
In my opinion, “HOW I GOT OVER” is the very pinnacle of Mahalia’s art and probably the most remarkable vocal performance ever recorded! As I listen carefully to the way that piece builds in intensity until it reaches that emotional peak, and the sporadic handclaps that seem almost involuntary to me, it strikes me that The Holy Spirit is animating Mahalia. Interestingly, she does not clap in time with the song, as if the Spirit inspiring her to clap follows Divine musical charts that we mere mortals are not privy to. And as the handclaps become more frequent and The Spirit moves her, it’s as though Mahalia the human being has mostly disappeared into the song and Mahalia is no longer singing the song but The Holy Spirit is singing Mahalia!
“You know, all night long, God kept His angels watching over me. And early this morning, early this morning, God told His angels, God said ‘Touch her in My Name.’ God said ‘Touch her in My Name.’ I rose this morning, I rose this morning. I feel like shouting, I feel like shouting, I feel like SHOUTING!”
And when Mahalia sings “I feel like SHOUTING!” it almost makes my throat feel raw! And then comes that rousing conclusion, by which time Mahalia has all but disappeared in order to make room for The Holy Spirit:
“I just got to thank God, I just got to thank Him. Thank God for being soooOOOoooo goooOOOOOoood – God’s been good to me, yeah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!”
This is simply nothing less than the apex of Joy and Gratitude in song! [*Just typing this while hearing Mahalia only in my mind, I still get goose bumps.*]
I’ll level with you, even this rock-hearted, Old School “Old Testament Guy” has felt the eyes get watery more than once while listening intently to this extraordinary Mahalia performance. And on one occasion (circa 1996), while listening to “HOW I GOT OVER” on a Walkman, I felt The Holy Spirit moving so powerfully through me that – I kid you not! – I sincerely believe that I could have laid hands on any wheelchair-bound person in the world at that very moment and they would have walked away. It was one of the most startling spiritual experiences of my young...
[*Cough!-Cough!*]
...life!
Van Morrison is only one of many musical performers who have publicly cited Mahalia Jackson as being one of the major influences on them. In his great song “GIVE ME MY RAPTURE”, he sings “Let me sing all day and never get tired” – a line he undoubtedly first heard sung by Mahalia in “HOW I GOT OVER.”
My friend “The Great L.C.” owns 8,000 compact discs (and that doesn’t count his vinyl L.P. collection which is growing again weekly). But the man of 8,000 CDs, has one favorite musical performer in particular: Todd Rundgren. And of Rundgren’s many albums, The Great L.C.’s favorite is “Nearly Human” which concludes with a long Gospel flavored number titled “I LOVE MY LIFE.” At the very end of that song, if you listen closely, you can hear one woman from that rafter-shaking Gospel choir (which oddly includes Clarence Clemons of Springsteen’s E Street Band fame) yell out, “Gettin’ Over!” Obviously, her participation in this high-energy Gospel shout reminded her of Jackson’s version of “HOW I GOT OVER” and she was inspired to pay tribute to The Queen!
And heck, it’s not just musicians and bloggers who have been mesmerized by The Queen Of Gospel: BO KNOWS MAHALIA, too. (If you’re younger than about 30, that last sentence didn’t make a lick of sense to you.)
Back in 1995 and 1996, I used to attend Sunday services and group classes at a particular spiritual center here in Phoenix. That’s where I acquired the nickname “The Old Testament Guy” because I didn’t go in for all of that feel-good, New Age, namby-pamby, handholding rub-a-dub-dub. At one point, while a regular at this center, I made a cassette compilation tape of spiritual music that I especially enjoyed for a woman I had become friendly with in our Tuesday night Search For God study group. The tape included, of course, Mahalia’s “HOW I GOT OVER.” My friend later reported back to me that she enjoyed every tune on the tape “except for that one with the woman shouting.” What the--! My jaw fell open, the sky in my mind grew dark, “lightnings, thunderings and voices”, and fearing for her soul, I benevolently warned her that she’d better repent immediately and get right with God or I’d see her in hell! Uhm… well… that didn’t come out quite right… but you know what I mean.
Despite the fact that I’ve been listening to Mahalia Jackson for nearly a decade and a half, strangely, it wasn’t until this most recent OWDQ (Obsession Wid Da Queen) that I suddenly realized two of my most treasured Mahalia songs, “ELIJAH ROCK” and “HOW I GOT OVER”, were recorded live before the same Stockholm, Sweden audience on April 14, 1961. This presents two outrageously delicious possibilities to consider: 1) If these two tracks are any indication, this might well have been the greatest live performance ever given. 2) Since these two tracks exist, it’s quite possible (even quite likely) that the entire show was recorded. Perhaps then the tape of this full concert is lying forgotten in a Columbia Records music vault somewhere and is just waiting to be discovered and released to the world. What a mother lode of riches THAT find would be: the greatest live Gospel performance in history now available for the first time in its entirety! Color me “preordering!”
Meanwhile, I’m trying hard to be a “good boy” because I’d like to go to Heaven if for no other reason than to have the opportunity to hear Mahalia live and in person singing and never getting tired: “Ladies and gentlemen, The Cloud Nine Last Supper Club now proudly presents… Mahalia Jackson, Mildred Falls and The Frog Five!” [*Standing ovation on a dangerously shaking cumulus.*]
I think the coolest liner notes I’ve ever found in a music album were penned by researcher/writer David Ritz for the collection titled “MAHALIA JACKSON: 16 MOST REQUESTED SONGS.” Here’s some of what he has to say:
The evening still haunts my imagination. I still smell the humid summer breeze, still see the enormous Texas sky turning shocking pink. The sun sets in a theatrical blaze as I sit in this minor league baseball park across the river from downtown Dallas. It is 1959 and I’m 16, a recent transplant from New York, here to see Mahalia Jackson. I’m curious. The roadhouse Texas blues has challenged my singular view of jazz – especially the hard bop of Monk and Miles – as the world’s only worthwhile music. But I’m still somewhat skeptical. I’m not looking or a revival meeting; I’m simply hungry for emotional music that sticks to the ribs. I watch the crowd file in. Three or four thousand people are dressed in church-going outfits, the men in flashy suits, the women in technicolor dresses, many in fancy hats of felt and straw. In a city where segregation still rules, there is no separate seating tonight. Except for myself and a handful of others, the audience is black. What to expect?
She is wearing white. Her dress is a mass of cascading white ruffles and white lace; the high white hat upon her beehive hairdo looks like a crown. She has a regal bearing about her. She stands in the center of the infield in the very spot where the pitcher’s mound has been removed. Seated at a grand piano placed next to Mahalia is a woman whose name, I’d later learn, is Mildred Falls. “Been singing all over the world,” says Mahalia. “Been singing in fancy concert halls where even kings and queens have come to hear what all the shoutin’ is about. I like that, but I like this more. This is like being home, this is singing to the folks who knew me way back when.” The crowd loves the shared loyalty. They’re on their feet, waving and applauding wildly, even before she sings a note. When Mildred strikes the first chord, anticipation is high; I lean forward in my seat. When Mahalia opens her mouth to sing, there’s an explosion of spirit that has me tingling, when suddenly an ugly electric buzz breaks the mood and kills the sound. Mahalia is miffed. She strikes the microphone with the palm of her hand. Nothing. She strikes it again. Still no sound. I’m uneasy. Will the concert be cancelled?
For a moment, she stands there, hands on her ample hips. She shakes her head and then smiles, shouting for all to hear, “They had singin’ way before electricity. And they gonna have singin’ after all the electricity in the world blows itself up. And we gonna have singin’ tonight, oh yes we are!” And with that she throws down the microphone and the microphone stand to the ground. She claps her hands, Mildred strikes another mighty chord, and Mahalia raises her head to the open sky, her voice coming through with such thunderous determination and exquisite clarity that the excited crowd will not be seated, will not stop waving and cheering as she sings “How I Got Over” and “Come On Children, Let’s Sing” and “Gonna Live The Life I Sing About In My Song.” As the excitement builds, Mahalia lifts her long dress an inch or two above her ankles and does a happy dance, skipping like a little girl; she waves her hand back to the celebrants waving at her; she declares “We’re having church tonight!”; she rocks to Mildred’s rhythms, rocks the ball park so hard the old wooden seats seem to sing; on slow hymns she extends her notes so long the earth stops turning, the star-filled sky twinking in appreciation. There is no doubt – not in my mind or the minds of Mahalia or Mildred or the jubilant congregation – that the God who has created the miracle of music is moving through this ballpark. As the strength of her voice grows, the fire of her conviction spreads and burns, even when the performance has ended, even as I write these words some forty years later.
Mahalia is mythic. … Her technique is surely astonishing, but it is her emotional directness – her eagerness to give all she’s got, to infuse her song with so much of herself until every melody is somehow Mahaliaized – that insures her immortality. From her biographers, memoirists and own autobiography (“Moving On Up”), we sense her personality was as dynamic and unpredictable as her singing style. … She was a childless mother who adored children and her role as matriarch of the family of gospel music. She could be difficult and distant, salty and sweet, volatile, gracious, unreasonable and strongwilled. Author Jules Schewerin quotes her telling off a producer, “How come, mister, you think you can tell me about that old song, when it was born in my mouth?” …
The old songs in this collection are magnificent. The range of material and settings give us a good glimpse into the depth of her life-affirming artistry. Covering 1954 to 1967, five years before her passing, these are shining samples from the period when Mahalia reigned supreme. There’s a generous offering of the rock-steady yet sensitive accompaniment of the great Mildred Falls. I especially love how they interact on “How I Got Over,” how Mahalia gives thanks for “old time religion” and “for giving me vision”, how she carries on, barely able to contain the thrill of gratitude and the force of righteous syncopation. … There’s a consistency about Mahalia – she’s consistently surprising – that makes me love her more with every listening.
Years ago, I was listening to a famous interpreter of African American music. “For all its glory,” he said, “gospel music is basically sublimated sexuality.” The idea stuck with me – and also disturbed me. It took me decades to realize that the very opposite may be true, that rhythm-and-blues may be basically sublimated spirituality. Personally, I don’t believe Mahalia Jackson was sublimated anything. She turned the feeling of earthly blues into heavenly song. She flipped over the coin that once read despair and now reads hope. I read her literally. I believe her totally. I receive her in the same spirit that washed over me as a teenager in Dallas. I may have come to scoff, but I stayed to pray.”
-- David Ritz; Los Angeles, 1996.
If either of my Blog readers are interested in acquiring some prime Gospel music, they will do no better than The Queen Of Gospel herself, Mahalia Jackson. Along with The Queen, you’ll be getting the distinctive piano stylings of her friend and musical sidekick, Mildred Falls. Mahalia and Mildred: Sistahs got some serious soul! This ain’t that wimpy, whiny, feminized white bread crying crap that passes for Gospel music these days; this is the real stuffs: rip-yer-heart-out and hand-it-to-ya musical praise. If you dig The King Of Rock ‘N’ Roll’s Gospel recordings, then Mahalia might be too real, too raw, and too macho for you. If you think Bono, Mick, and Madonna really get on down with their bad selves, then you’d better stick with them skinny White folks soz you don’t get yer soul dislocated by The Queen. But if you ain’t a-skeered of real deep, muscular music that goes the full twelve rounds In The Name Of God and pulls no punches ‘til the final bell rings, then (whether you’re a he or a she) you just might have the stones for Mahalia.
Do I dig Mahalia? Hail “Yeah!” Does a bear bolero in the woods? … Does a fox foxtrot in the forest? … Does a piglet polka in a mud pit? Does a snake samba through the sage? Does a whale waltz in the water? Does a roe rumba on the range? Does a doe do-si-do in the— OH, ALRIGHT! Sheesh, I was only havin’ a little fun. Kill-joys! … Crummy kill-joys.
~ Stephen T. McCarthy
.
[*This Blog Bit is dedicated to BR’ER MARC, his wife JENNIFER, and their little baby, PARKER, whom I know God Loves very much.*]
As is so often the case in my many other interests as well, when it comes to music, I tend to go through phases: I’ll play one artist almost exclusively until I have thoroughly worn him, her or them out, and then I’ll move on to a different musician, but eventually I’ll come back again full circle in time. I once went on a Western movie kick that lasted over two years – I viewed almost nothing but Westerns until I had seen almost everything that was then available on VHS. This may sound a bit insane, but reflect on the notion that saturation really teaches well and drives home a subject, and consider that when you go to see the general practitioner, it might cost you about $15. but when you go to see a specialist, that gets doubled to $30. (that is if you happen to have medical insurance). What I’m saying is that lots of people know a little bit about a lot of things, but the person who knows a lot about one thing is usually more famous and more well-paid.
This trait of mine is even evident in my eating habits. You know how little kids often eat one thing on their plate entirely before moving on to the next item? Side dishes, of course, are meant to complement the entree and are intended to be enjoyed intermittently with it. Well, I never quite got the hang of that and I still tend to exhaust one dish before moving on. Oh sure, if you go to dinner with me you’ll see that I take a bite of the rice and then a forkful of the refried beans at first, just to give you the impression that I too am a real grownup person (I wouldn’t want you to get the idea that I’m weird or anything), but watch closely and before long you’ll notice that I’ve moved on to the cheese enchiladas and consumed them fully before revisiting those side dishes. I still eat like a little kid. A psychologist might label this as obsessive-compulsive, but I prefer to think I have great “focus.” My slogan is: “I have such powerful focus that it’s almost a mental illness.”
[*Cough!-Cough!*]
[An aside: If you think this is bad, you should have seen my brother Napoleon eat when he was a kid! He ate the way he did everything else: like the Tasmanian Devil after gulping down a case and a half of Red Bull energy drinks! When Ma told him, “Wipe your face!” he did it literally - he’d pass the napkin over his entire face several times in a circular motion. You’d think that would pretty well cover it, wouldn’t you? Well, it still didn’t address the bits of corn, hot dog bun and mashed potatoes clinging to his hair! She should have told him, “Wipe your face and hair!”]
Anyway, my most recent musical phase has me playing MAHALIA JACKSON tunes over and over again (and over again – Man, do I have great focus!) Mahalia Jackson, if you don’t know, reigned as the very aptly nicknamed “Queen Of Gospel Music” in the 1950s and ‘60s. Will Friedwald tells us that into the ‘50s, Mahalia “was perceived as a rebellious upstart by the more conservative Black churches”, but now, so many prominent singers of the day in Popular, Jazz, Urban Contemporary, Rock and Country music utilize so many of the techniques employed by Mahalia, that she has stylistically influenced hundreds of artists (Aretha Franklin among them) and she is recognized by many as having been the world’s greatest Gospel singer. I’m not one to argue with that assessment. (And no, contrary to popular belief, Jackson Browne is not related to Mahalia Jackson.)
I discovered Mahalia Jackson’s music shortly after coming to Christ - or after He came and got me, I should say: While I was alone in an apartment in a somewhat run-down Los Angeles neighborhood on the afternoon of April 6th, 1994, Jesus - to my great surprise - Baptized me with The Holy Spirit, using my own tears for the water. (It’s a long and soggy story, so I’ll spare you the details.) Like most people when they first encounter the reality of Christ and their “Salvation”, I was on fire for quite awhile, and I began filling my mind and my surroundings with reminders of my new spiritual vision. Therefore, I sought out some of that old-time Gospel music that I already knew I liked. (I mean, heck, “Down By The Riverside” had always been my favorite song in Disneyland’s America Sings attraction. Henrietta Hen – or whatever her name was – really belted out that Gospel number, and The Frog Five – or whatever their name was – laid down the deepest, croakingest bass I’d ever heard!)
In a small Christian gift shop in Westwood Village, I bought my first Mahalia albums: two two-disc sets titled “Gospels, Spirituals, & Hymns” Volumes 1 and 2. I dug her immediately; this was exactly the sort of music I was seeking. But the first Mahalia recording that I absolutely flipped over was “ELIJAH ROCK” (it’s a lot like “Jingle Bell Rock” except it’s sung by a Black woman instead of a White man, it has nothing whatsoever to do with jingling bells or Christmas, it has an entirely different pace, rhythm, and instrumentation, and it sounds completely different from “Jingle Bell Rock.” Otherwise, it’s the same song.)
“ELIJAH ROCK” with its tremendously powerful piano vamp played throughout by Mildred Falls in her very unique style just floored me. God, was Mildred great! Listen to what she does on Mahalia’s “I’M GOING TO LIVE THE LIFE I SING ABOUT IN MY SONG.” (And no, I wasn’t using God’s Name in vain just now: I was REALLY celebrating the gift He gave her.) Back in ’94, I would listen to “ELIJAH ROCK” through headphones cranked up to “eleven” (yeah, my headphones went up to eleven!) and I’d just groove along!
“Satan is a liar and a conjurer too; If you don’t mind out, he’ll conjure you! … You can call my Rock in the morning; call Him late at night; He’s always with me and all my battles He fights. When I’m in trouble, I can call Him on the line; He put a telephone in my heart and I can call God anytime!”
Man, that’s great stuffs!
I used to think about how much fun it would be to own a radio station and to dictate the playlist. I told myself that the first song my station (KSTM) would spin to inaugurate our place in the airwaves would be Mahalia’s “ELIJAH ROCK” – Oh, but wouldn’t that send the message that THIS radio station was going to do things its own way! (How wonderful would it be to have a radio station that might play Mahalia Jackson, followed by The Beach Boys, followed by Howlin’ Wolf, followed by Waylon Jennings, then Louis Prima, Tom Petty, Astrud Gilberto, and the theme from the Pink Panther movies, with a few early Bill Cosby skits thrown in every once in awhile just for laughs? Maybe we’d even spin a few Benny Hill songs if we can slip ‘em past the F.C.C. Don’t tell me KSTM wouldn’t be programmed into your radio’s preset buttons! Heck, we might even do an occasional Dr. Seuss reading.)
Another Mahalia song that burrowed deep into my heart in those early days was “KEEP YOUR HAND ON THE PLOW.” This fast-paced exhortation to keep on keepin’ on even through the dark nights of the soul often strengthened me during some of the tougher times, and it served to admonish me when I sometimes slipped in my spiritual walk. I just love the way Mahalia sings “Heard the voice of Jesus say, Come unto Me, I am the way.”
Hold on! Hold on!
Keep your hand on the plow. Hold on!
Heard the voice of Jesus say,
“Come unto Me, I am the way.”
Keep your hand on the plow. Hold on!
When my way get dark as night,
Know The Lord will be my light.
Keep your hand on the plow. Hold on!
You can talk about me as much as you please;
The more you talk, I’m gonna stay on my knees.
Keep your hand on the plow. Hold on!
When I get to Heaven, gonna sing and shout;
Be nobody there to put me out.
Keep your hand on the plow. Hold on!
Know my robe gonna fit me well;
Tried it on at the gates of hell.
Keep your hand on the plow. Hold on!
Hold on! Hold on!
Keep your hand on the plow. Hold on!
Hokie-Smokes! Listen to the way Bunny Shawker slaps them drums around at the end. That’s one funky bunny! If this song doesn’t fill you with spiritual determination, nothing will.
Where does one begin when writing about Mahalia’s music? I have to make mention of the way she rhythmically warns us that “Everybody talkin’ ‘bout Heaven ain’t goin’ there” in “WALK OVER GOD’S HEAVEN.” (That’s a Biblical fact – you should look it up.) Check out the range and tones she displays in “A SATISFIED MIND.” And how about Mahalia’s unrestrained enthusiasm in “GREAT GETTIN’ UP MORNING”? Or the old-time Gospel arrangement of “WALK IN JERUSALEM” with The Frog Five (or whoever that is) laying down that grooving vocal bass line during the chorus. Love it, man, love it! And you gotta recognize Mahalia’s signature tune “I WILL MOVE ON UP A LITTLE HIGHER” as the great stuffs it surely is. Oh, sheesh! There are simply too many tremendous Mahalia songs and too much too say about them, but that’s what we would expect from the woman who, according to Dr. Horace Clarence Boyer, “became the first and still greatest superstar of the music that has come to be known as Gospel.” Dr. Boyer also informs us that Mahalia sang “TAKE MY HAND, PRECIOUS LORD” at Martin Luther King Junior’s funeral. And hers was a truly heartfelt rendition of “I FOUND THE ANSWER.”
I found the answer: I like to pray
With faith to guide me, I found my Way…
I was weak and weary, and I had gone astray
Walkin’ in the darkness, I could not find the Way
But then a Light came shining…
Keep your Bible with you; Read it every day
Always count your blessings; always stop and pray.
In “SEARCH ME, LORD” Mahalia sang: “While I’m singing, I’m holy.” Amen, Sister. You surely were!
On an internet discussion board related to female Jazz vocalists, a woman asked me on October 3, 2006, “Do you have a favorite Mahalia number?” And I replied: Yes, I most certainly do. It's “HOW I GOT OVER.”
In my opinion, “HOW I GOT OVER” is the very pinnacle of Mahalia’s art and probably the most remarkable vocal performance ever recorded! As I listen carefully to the way that piece builds in intensity until it reaches that emotional peak, and the sporadic handclaps that seem almost involuntary to me, it strikes me that The Holy Spirit is animating Mahalia. Interestingly, she does not clap in time with the song, as if the Spirit inspiring her to clap follows Divine musical charts that we mere mortals are not privy to. And as the handclaps become more frequent and The Spirit moves her, it’s as though Mahalia the human being has mostly disappeared into the song and Mahalia is no longer singing the song but The Holy Spirit is singing Mahalia!
“You know, all night long, God kept His angels watching over me. And early this morning, early this morning, God told His angels, God said ‘Touch her in My Name.’ God said ‘Touch her in My Name.’ I rose this morning, I rose this morning. I feel like shouting, I feel like shouting, I feel like SHOUTING!”
And when Mahalia sings “I feel like SHOUTING!” it almost makes my throat feel raw! And then comes that rousing conclusion, by which time Mahalia has all but disappeared in order to make room for The Holy Spirit:
“I just got to thank God, I just got to thank Him. Thank God for being soooOOOoooo goooOOOOOoood – God’s been good to me, yeah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!”
This is simply nothing less than the apex of Joy and Gratitude in song! [*Just typing this while hearing Mahalia only in my mind, I still get goose bumps.*]
I’ll level with you, even this rock-hearted, Old School “Old Testament Guy” has felt the eyes get watery more than once while listening intently to this extraordinary Mahalia performance. And on one occasion (circa 1996), while listening to “HOW I GOT OVER” on a Walkman, I felt The Holy Spirit moving so powerfully through me that – I kid you not! – I sincerely believe that I could have laid hands on any wheelchair-bound person in the world at that very moment and they would have walked away. It was one of the most startling spiritual experiences of my young...
[*Cough!-Cough!*]
...life!
Van Morrison is only one of many musical performers who have publicly cited Mahalia Jackson as being one of the major influences on them. In his great song “GIVE ME MY RAPTURE”, he sings “Let me sing all day and never get tired” – a line he undoubtedly first heard sung by Mahalia in “HOW I GOT OVER.”
My friend “The Great L.C.” owns 8,000 compact discs (and that doesn’t count his vinyl L.P. collection which is growing again weekly). But the man of 8,000 CDs, has one favorite musical performer in particular: Todd Rundgren. And of Rundgren’s many albums, The Great L.C.’s favorite is “Nearly Human” which concludes with a long Gospel flavored number titled “I LOVE MY LIFE.” At the very end of that song, if you listen closely, you can hear one woman from that rafter-shaking Gospel choir (which oddly includes Clarence Clemons of Springsteen’s E Street Band fame) yell out, “Gettin’ Over!” Obviously, her participation in this high-energy Gospel shout reminded her of Jackson’s version of “HOW I GOT OVER” and she was inspired to pay tribute to The Queen!
And heck, it’s not just musicians and bloggers who have been mesmerized by The Queen Of Gospel: BO KNOWS MAHALIA, too. (If you’re younger than about 30, that last sentence didn’t make a lick of sense to you.)
Back in 1995 and 1996, I used to attend Sunday services and group classes at a particular spiritual center here in Phoenix. That’s where I acquired the nickname “The Old Testament Guy” because I didn’t go in for all of that feel-good, New Age, namby-pamby, handholding rub-a-dub-dub. At one point, while a regular at this center, I made a cassette compilation tape of spiritual music that I especially enjoyed for a woman I had become friendly with in our Tuesday night Search For God study group. The tape included, of course, Mahalia’s “HOW I GOT OVER.” My friend later reported back to me that she enjoyed every tune on the tape “except for that one with the woman shouting.” What the--! My jaw fell open, the sky in my mind grew dark, “lightnings, thunderings and voices”, and fearing for her soul, I benevolently warned her that she’d better repent immediately and get right with God or I’d see her in hell! Uhm… well… that didn’t come out quite right… but you know what I mean.
Despite the fact that I’ve been listening to Mahalia Jackson for nearly a decade and a half, strangely, it wasn’t until this most recent OWDQ (Obsession Wid Da Queen) that I suddenly realized two of my most treasured Mahalia songs, “ELIJAH ROCK” and “HOW I GOT OVER”, were recorded live before the same Stockholm, Sweden audience on April 14, 1961. This presents two outrageously delicious possibilities to consider: 1) If these two tracks are any indication, this might well have been the greatest live performance ever given. 2) Since these two tracks exist, it’s quite possible (even quite likely) that the entire show was recorded. Perhaps then the tape of this full concert is lying forgotten in a Columbia Records music vault somewhere and is just waiting to be discovered and released to the world. What a mother lode of riches THAT find would be: the greatest live Gospel performance in history now available for the first time in its entirety! Color me “preordering!”
Meanwhile, I’m trying hard to be a “good boy” because I’d like to go to Heaven if for no other reason than to have the opportunity to hear Mahalia live and in person singing and never getting tired: “Ladies and gentlemen, The Cloud Nine Last Supper Club now proudly presents… Mahalia Jackson, Mildred Falls and The Frog Five!” [*Standing ovation on a dangerously shaking cumulus.*]
I think the coolest liner notes I’ve ever found in a music album were penned by researcher/writer David Ritz for the collection titled “MAHALIA JACKSON: 16 MOST REQUESTED SONGS.” Here’s some of what he has to say:
The evening still haunts my imagination. I still smell the humid summer breeze, still see the enormous Texas sky turning shocking pink. The sun sets in a theatrical blaze as I sit in this minor league baseball park across the river from downtown Dallas. It is 1959 and I’m 16, a recent transplant from New York, here to see Mahalia Jackson. I’m curious. The roadhouse Texas blues has challenged my singular view of jazz – especially the hard bop of Monk and Miles – as the world’s only worthwhile music. But I’m still somewhat skeptical. I’m not looking or a revival meeting; I’m simply hungry for emotional music that sticks to the ribs. I watch the crowd file in. Three or four thousand people are dressed in church-going outfits, the men in flashy suits, the women in technicolor dresses, many in fancy hats of felt and straw. In a city where segregation still rules, there is no separate seating tonight. Except for myself and a handful of others, the audience is black. What to expect?
She is wearing white. Her dress is a mass of cascading white ruffles and white lace; the high white hat upon her beehive hairdo looks like a crown. She has a regal bearing about her. She stands in the center of the infield in the very spot where the pitcher’s mound has been removed. Seated at a grand piano placed next to Mahalia is a woman whose name, I’d later learn, is Mildred Falls. “Been singing all over the world,” says Mahalia. “Been singing in fancy concert halls where even kings and queens have come to hear what all the shoutin’ is about. I like that, but I like this more. This is like being home, this is singing to the folks who knew me way back when.” The crowd loves the shared loyalty. They’re on their feet, waving and applauding wildly, even before she sings a note. When Mildred strikes the first chord, anticipation is high; I lean forward in my seat. When Mahalia opens her mouth to sing, there’s an explosion of spirit that has me tingling, when suddenly an ugly electric buzz breaks the mood and kills the sound. Mahalia is miffed. She strikes the microphone with the palm of her hand. Nothing. She strikes it again. Still no sound. I’m uneasy. Will the concert be cancelled?
For a moment, she stands there, hands on her ample hips. She shakes her head and then smiles, shouting for all to hear, “They had singin’ way before electricity. And they gonna have singin’ after all the electricity in the world blows itself up. And we gonna have singin’ tonight, oh yes we are!” And with that she throws down the microphone and the microphone stand to the ground. She claps her hands, Mildred strikes another mighty chord, and Mahalia raises her head to the open sky, her voice coming through with such thunderous determination and exquisite clarity that the excited crowd will not be seated, will not stop waving and cheering as she sings “How I Got Over” and “Come On Children, Let’s Sing” and “Gonna Live The Life I Sing About In My Song.” As the excitement builds, Mahalia lifts her long dress an inch or two above her ankles and does a happy dance, skipping like a little girl; she waves her hand back to the celebrants waving at her; she declares “We’re having church tonight!”; she rocks to Mildred’s rhythms, rocks the ball park so hard the old wooden seats seem to sing; on slow hymns she extends her notes so long the earth stops turning, the star-filled sky twinking in appreciation. There is no doubt – not in my mind or the minds of Mahalia or Mildred or the jubilant congregation – that the God who has created the miracle of music is moving through this ballpark. As the strength of her voice grows, the fire of her conviction spreads and burns, even when the performance has ended, even as I write these words some forty years later.
Mahalia is mythic. … Her technique is surely astonishing, but it is her emotional directness – her eagerness to give all she’s got, to infuse her song with so much of herself until every melody is somehow Mahaliaized – that insures her immortality. From her biographers, memoirists and own autobiography (“Moving On Up”), we sense her personality was as dynamic and unpredictable as her singing style. … She was a childless mother who adored children and her role as matriarch of the family of gospel music. She could be difficult and distant, salty and sweet, volatile, gracious, unreasonable and strongwilled. Author Jules Schewerin quotes her telling off a producer, “How come, mister, you think you can tell me about that old song, when it was born in my mouth?” …
The old songs in this collection are magnificent. The range of material and settings give us a good glimpse into the depth of her life-affirming artistry. Covering 1954 to 1967, five years before her passing, these are shining samples from the period when Mahalia reigned supreme. There’s a generous offering of the rock-steady yet sensitive accompaniment of the great Mildred Falls. I especially love how they interact on “How I Got Over,” how Mahalia gives thanks for “old time religion” and “for giving me vision”, how she carries on, barely able to contain the thrill of gratitude and the force of righteous syncopation. … There’s a consistency about Mahalia – she’s consistently surprising – that makes me love her more with every listening.
Years ago, I was listening to a famous interpreter of African American music. “For all its glory,” he said, “gospel music is basically sublimated sexuality.” The idea stuck with me – and also disturbed me. It took me decades to realize that the very opposite may be true, that rhythm-and-blues may be basically sublimated spirituality. Personally, I don’t believe Mahalia Jackson was sublimated anything. She turned the feeling of earthly blues into heavenly song. She flipped over the coin that once read despair and now reads hope. I read her literally. I believe her totally. I receive her in the same spirit that washed over me as a teenager in Dallas. I may have come to scoff, but I stayed to pray.”
-- David Ritz; Los Angeles, 1996.
If either of my Blog readers are interested in acquiring some prime Gospel music, they will do no better than The Queen Of Gospel herself, Mahalia Jackson. Along with The Queen, you’ll be getting the distinctive piano stylings of her friend and musical sidekick, Mildred Falls. Mahalia and Mildred: Sistahs got some serious soul! This ain’t that wimpy, whiny, feminized white bread crying crap that passes for Gospel music these days; this is the real stuffs: rip-yer-heart-out and hand-it-to-ya musical praise. If you dig The King Of Rock ‘N’ Roll’s Gospel recordings, then Mahalia might be too real, too raw, and too macho for you. If you think Bono, Mick, and Madonna really get on down with their bad selves, then you’d better stick with them skinny White folks soz you don’t get yer soul dislocated by The Queen. But if you ain’t a-skeered of real deep, muscular music that goes the full twelve rounds In The Name Of God and pulls no punches ‘til the final bell rings, then (whether you’re a he or a she) you just might have the stones for Mahalia.
Do I dig Mahalia? Hail “Yeah!” Does a bear bolero in the woods? … Does a fox foxtrot in the forest? … Does a piglet polka in a mud pit? Does a snake samba through the sage? Does a whale waltz in the water? Does a roe rumba on the range? Does a doe do-si-do in the— OH, ALRIGHT! Sheesh, I was only havin’ a little fun. Kill-joys! … Crummy kill-joys.
~ Stephen T. McCarthy
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