December 4, 2014 One of my favorite images, a photo I took while living in NYC, hangs in a place where I see it every single morning. The close-up of the iconic circular inlaid mosaic memorial to John Lennon reads simply “Imagine.”
It’s my guiding light, reminding me to aspire to and have faith in those things that are not yet real. It also reminds me to cherish every single second of every day … that unspeakable tragedy can happen when our backs are turned. That somewhere, hidden in the shadows,just out of sight is the boogey-man … the monster under the bed … with the power to change lives in a finger snap.
But this is not about the bad stuff. Yet.
Last weekend I sat on the second row of a seated show at Cat’s Cradle and had to hug myself several times throughout a show because it was that moving. On stage were Emily Frantz and Andrew Marlin (aka Watchouse aka Mandolin Orange). There’s something about their voices alone and together that channel Gram Parsons and Emmy Lou. A seamless blending of two voices that become a whole new one.
Eons ago, while spending a few hours (and who in town hasn’t?) at Cameron’s hunting and gathering for Christmas, a plastic Jesus on wheels kept yelling “save me” from his place of honor near the register. Who can resist that? In homage to The Goldcoast Singers/Billy Idol’s “Plastic Jesus,” he ended up on my dashboard.
On a car ride with my Dad, no doubt to another funeral in Yadkin County, he couldn’t take his eyes off the extra passenger on the dash. He finally reached over and pulled it off asking “can I have this?” So PJ went to live with Dad for about 10 years, to be reclaimed while going through Dad’s stuff when he moved permanently to heaven.
PJ joined my tiny family of California Raisins, Barbie, Trolls, Jimi, Janis, Gene Simmons, Obama, RGB, Game of Thrones, et. al. I didn’t realize he was missing from the fold when I found him in a drawer a few months ago and left him out on the counter in the guest bathroom – coincidentally next to a photo I took of John Lennon’s Strawberry Fields garden in NYC while living there circa ’95-’97.
Felt like a bit of synergy happening right there in the bathroom UNTIL … one night before Christmas, I noticed he was facing the photograph. Yelled “hey, honey, did you move Jesus?” Took a few back-and-forths before Honey finally got it. “No, why would I move Jesus?” There are three of us in this house, and the third is short with paws. I know I didn’t move it and we hadn’t had anybody over. Out of respect for whatever plan the universe has, he’s still there. Now while using the convenience in that bathroom, I sing the words under my breath “I don’t care if it rains or freezes … “
1965. “Let Me Be” was my personal defiantly angsty anthem. Revisited The Turtles first album, “It Ain’t Me Babe” in celebration of Mark Volman. While listening, dove back into some band/song history to learned that “Let Me Be” was written by P.F. Sloan (The New Christy Minstrels), who also penned “Eve of Destruction,” which the band originally turned down as a single.
To be continued …
You can’t read about a song without listening to it, so skidded down that road. Barry McGuire went into the studio with “Eve of Destruction” writer P.F Sloan (acoustic guitar), Hal Blaine (drums), and Larry Knechtel (bass) to record a rough mix and hurried through the vocals. Apparently, the mix got into the hands of a DJ and there it was. Man, oh, man, we could be singing “E of D” right now in this minute, this hour, this day ….
Thanks, Mark Volman, P.F. Sloan, and Barry McGuire for being on the soundtrack of my wild and unruly life. And then there’s that whole “Mother’s of Invention” bit that’s fodder for another day.
Last night, we finally carved out some collective “us” time to sit down to watch “A Complete Unknown.” No point in adding further to either the accolades or criticisms; I loved it. Not at all disappointed that Dylan remains an enigma as that’s where he belongs. It wasn’t long before the movie wasn’t the only thing streaming, I didn’t even try to stop my tears as I sang along softly, sometimes louder. Lindsay was sweet enough to let me, even singing himself sometimes. It was more than just reliving my colorful and musical youth. The ache in my heart and soul came from a time full of social and political rebellion when anything and everything seemed possible contrasting starkly and painfully with the reality of our country today.
We sang loud through the credits. Did some serious Googling on the history behind a few of the characters. Wondered out loud why no mention of Arlo. Discovered Bobby Neuwirth (road manager) was one of the co-writers of “Mercedes Benz” with Janis and Michael McClure, and also introduced Janis to Kris. Seeing magic happen when Al Kooper, who was just in the studio as a guest, ended up playing Hammond on “Like a Rolling Stone.” Today, I dug out The 30th Anniversary Concert Celebration cd’s (recorded 10/16/92) amazed to realize that show was 34 years ago. AND just had to listen again to “Diamonds & Rust.”
And that pretty much says it all for 64 of my 74 years with Bob.
… with love to Santorini after experiencing thousands of earthquakes over the last 10 days.
Following a “Shirley Valentine” fantasy of needing to get away far enough that I was mostly unreachable, 10 days in Santorini presented itself in a serendipitous lunch with a friend. Booked all online with help & follow-up from one of the staff at The Loucas Hotel, flew overnight to Athens with two friends who were meeting a boat to sail around the islands for 10 days while I went on to Santorini. Checking into the hotel in Fira, I asked to meet the employee who had been so helpful as I had brought him/her (their name was ambiguous) a gift basket as thanks. A woman walked out of the back office, laughed out loud, and speaking perfect English said “oh, my God, that’s from A Southern Season!” She saw my speechless surprise and added “I’m from Carrboro, but I’ve been here for about 10 years.” She had come with a boyfriend and loved it so much she never left.
Off-season felt like the place was almost all mine. For 10 magical days I roamed, blissful in my aloneness. Couples felt sorry for me, I could see it in their faces as they whispered and speculated, some even invited me to join them. I never did. I rode a Vespa, crashed a wedding, sternly scolded with a serious finger wag by a Greek Orthodox priest for crossing my legs in a church, dined alone, ate tomatoes & feta for breakfast, ordered stuffed calamari where ever I could find it, drank Ouzo and Assyrtiko at every opportunity, sunned on the black sands of Kamari Beach, made friends with cats & dogs in Oia, ended every day with a piece of baklava, and let the two waiters at the hotel fawn and make do over their mysterious woman traveling alone. AND loving it!
Spent a full day reading, napping and drinking Ginger Ale to recover from food-poisoning lolling on a lounge chair on an outcropping off the caldera that felt like I was suspended in the air. NOT planned, but necessary forcing me to stop, look, and listen – to stay in the moment. I lay there – read a few pages, stared at the view, read, stared, read, stared – letting everything around heal me, even the music coming from the open doors above. One piece was so beautiful that I asked the waiter “Who was that? It captured every feeling I’m having right now?” “Oh, this? This Giánnis.” Before he half-bowed and left. Yanni? Really? I hid my snicker, having never been a fan, but somehow it was perfect, an instant recall of listening to Pavarotti when I was in Italy. It fits. It’s theirs. It’s all part of it. And now all that’s mine.
Hey, Mona, hey hey hey hey, Mona, I’m gonna tell you, Mona, what I wanna do I’m gonna build my house next door to you Can I make love to you once in a while? Ah, baby, we could go kissing through the vine When I come out on the front You’ll listen to my heart goin’ bumpity bump
The other side of midnight. Circa spring 1969. Raise your hand if you have a “party at a house in the country” story. Mine’s got a big porch and yard littered with old broken sofas, a few car backseats, threadbare stuffed chairs with stories of their own, hair long and undisciplined, bellbottoms, bare feet, lots of hazy, swirling smoke, beer, cheap wine, and loud music. Vinyl with all the snap-crackle-pops. Some cool guy, a waiter at Harry’s, stood by the turntable ready to drop the needle. You might even have been there.
I felt each lick, chord, and beat zoom all the way out through my toes only to turn around and rocket back up again. And with that, Quicksilver Messenger Service snatched me and pointed a long slender finger down album rock highway. No turning back. 3-4 minute radio songs would never quite satisfy again. The Record Bar on Henderson Street regularly relieved me of whatever money I had. As Quicksilver Messenger Service and Happy Trails slipped into a bag, all my nerve endings were “goin’ bumpity bump.” The way they always did when new music was going home with me. Still does.
John Cipollina. Lord. Yeah, I’d have given him some free love. And that was just before Nicky Hopkins joined the band. Happy Trails to you!
My dear old friend, Jerry Swift, former owner of The Ritz music hall in Memphis and with whom I shared raucous musical memories, misadventures, and shenanigans in the mid-to-late 70’s, challenged me to post a slice-of-my-life story. Jerry, you were one of the early stars and co-horts to my colorful life, this one’s for you:
Late 1977. After coming off the road with Captain Beefheart in support of Shiny Beast, I met up with Harry, Don’s manager, for a thank-goodness-the-tour-is-over weekend in New Orleans. My second visit to this sexy, provocative, mysterious city oozing with sounds, flavors, notes & chords, and voodoo, for God’s sake. Harry, his friends, and I headed out that night in the direction of music, pulling up to a block already lined with people. Bypassing the line, Harry back-slapping all the doormen & bouncers on the way past. Sliding into Tipitina’s, a vibrant energy thrummed, expectation I’d rarely experienced in a small venue (exceptions Alex Cooley’s, The Ritz, Cafe Wha, Agora Ballroom, Bottom Line).
Harry, being Harry, scored us a table up front. Shots of Jack raised and tossed back. Lights dimmed. Music started. Wild Tchoupitoulas danced their way onto the stage, feathers flying, feet stompin’ full of rhythm-from-a-dozen-cultures. I was clear blown out of my chair and on my feet moving parts of my body I didn’t know even moved, barely noticing as the stage filled with Neville after Neville and a few guests – including Harry with his harp. I did a double-take, surprised – but not really – to see his empty chair beside me.
Harry was a man of a million stories, each better than the last. Former manager of The Meters, learned harp from Charlie Musselwhite and Sunnyland Slim, and on and on. But Harry’s a story for another day. As is Van Vliet – I still have the rapidograph set he bought me in some art store somewhere between Atlanta and Birmingham.
On the way home, well past 2am, Harry asks “will you be really disappointed if we don’t bum around the city today? Aaron asked if I’d come lay some harp tracks down on their album.” Disappointed? Not hardly. Driving across the Pontchartrain late morning, full of excitement and possibilities, sun glittering on the water ’til we finally drove into Studio in the Country in Bogalusa. It would be a day and night that deeply imprinted. The musical process with all players in the same room. No overdubs that day. Jack Nitzsche, manic beyond description, behind the board. Channeling mentor Phil Spector. Jack, brilliant, yet frequent-crazy-town-resident, orchestrator of Ike & Tina’s “River Deep, Mountain High.” That day birthed moments I wept with emotion. Laughed so hard I snorted. Felt my heart beat faster at magic as it happened. I couldn’t stop staring at Aaron’s birthmark. I tried not to, I really did.
A revered right-place, right-time memory. Magically up-close, immersive, and personal. “Life’s been good to me so far.”
November 1978. Captain Beefheart & His Magic Band.
Driving between Atlanta & New Orleans on the tour bus, Don and I discovered our deep collected fascination with art supply stores. With a word from Don, the driver tracked down a store. No simple feat in those days prior to Google and the internet. You had to find a phone book. Yeah, I’m that old.
It was an endless and joyful treasure hunt. We’d separate and conquer opposite sides of the store and then excitedly raise our arms high, prize discovery in hand.
At one of those nameless, long-forgotten stores, he bought me a set of Rapidograh pens and two bottles of ink – one black, one white – and a stack of rough paper in bold dark colors. Back on the bus, he skilled me in filling the pens and making that first tentative mark on the expensive paper.
I still have the pens and a few of the sheets of paper.
Moving house recently, I rabbit-holed down a few lost hours sorting through my old portfolio and setting aside artwork, photos, and other memorabilia for framing. This one has long begged for a frame. Oh, if I only still had even one of the few sketches the “Captain” gave me that he drew while on that bus ride through the South.
SHUFFLING ACROSS THE SOUTH Zig Zag Wanderer – Captain Beefheart & His Magic Band Debra Kadabra – Captain Beefheart & His Magic Band
Mid-60’s. Hendersonville NC. A small youth group from Binkley Church spent a few weeks at a migrant workers camp helping out at the day care center and small store.
While sorting donated clothes one day to hang in the store, I found a denim railroad jacket and bought it for about $2. It was well-worn, raggedy in places, and I loved every stitch of it.
Back home in Chapel Hill, my mother was horrified by the jacket and my insistence on wearing it everywhere. I ended up sleeping in it for months knowing full well that if Mom had a chance at getting the coat that it would end up in the trash.
I still had it in art school evidenced by this drawing (which I clearly romanticized by ignoring the tears and rips – it’s how I saw it), but I’m not sure what happened and where it ended up. It’s surely out there with the baby blue suede Frye boots that I lost somewhere on a road trip to see Fleetwod Mac.
The sweet memories often outlive the belongings. Such is life.
Yes, today’s the day. Those posts. You know the ones. Almost written. Half written. Today they’ll see the light of day. You’ll get lots of emails. Apologies for that. Stay with me.
So … Simmer2Sizzle. Why, you ask? And, ask you should. It’s a reflection, sometimes irreverent, on food, wine, music, love, sex and all those loco-motions that tickle your fancy, make you go bump in the night, and start out as a simmer and end up a full-tilt sizzle.
simmer2sizzle 