So Low Tech

Last Saturday after completing a bare minimum of the necessary chores, Kristin and I wandered down to Leadbetters. A friend was playing the afternoon gig with no microphone, no amps, just he and a guitar.

Nick's Guitar in it's infancy

The friend playing was Nick Trossbach. Besides being a musician, Nick is a luthier who made the guitar he used. Nick gave impetus to this musing. I extend him my thanks. Catch Nick when you have the opportunity; you won't be disappointed.

His performance transported me to a simpler age.  For a couple of hours, the guitar resonated music, hands clapped the beat, voices joined in harmony.

I understand the need for amplification and  appreciate the depth and texture electronics give to instruments. But the sound of unadulterated music touched an atavistic chord in my soul.

Music is in our DNA. Some anthropologists believe that producing melodious sounds predated speech. Perhaps music precipitated the spoken word. Before hollowed log drums and bone flutes, man stomped and clapped...a primal hambone.

 Digression Break: Hambone, also known as a Juba dance, came to this country through West African slaves. It's an a cappella form of dance in which hand-clapping, thigh-slapping,  and foot-stomping produce the rhythm. The style became a crowd favorite at county fairs and minstrel shows. Levon Helm's first performance was doing a hambone at a fair in Arkansas as a youth. This led to his love of percussion. Back to our regularly scheduled blog:

Saturday's interlude brought to mind friends and family sitting around a bonfire, or a front porch,playing and singing for fun. That has always been one of my favorite settings. Stop by my stoop in Fells Point one weekend morning when the weather is nice, and you'll see what I mean.  As ever BB

"To stand up on a stage alone with an acoustic guitar requires bravery bordering on heroism. Bordering on insanity." - Richard Thompson

Time Flies

like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana. - Grouch Marx

June approaches, the summer solstice nears as does another natal anniversary. This one brings me within one year of the six decade mark. Birthdays never held much sway for me, but never did I think I would reach this plateau. 

At my birth, Dwight Eisenhower was president, the Lone Ranger’s last radio episode aired, the first Fender Stratacaster appeared, the H-Bomb was tested on Bikini Atoll, Bill Haley & the Comets recorded “Rock Around the Clock. Television’s glowing cathode ray was my nightlight; nascent rock n’ roll my lullaby. 

  

This big, blue marble and I have gone through some changes. Strange waters have flown under that bridge. 

Years ago overexertion from physical activities caused sore muscles - lugging a refrigerator up five fights of stairs, a grueling pick up basketball or football game, carrying a keg through a snowstorm. Now I wake up with pains attributed to "sleeping funny". Sleeping? Really? The creator's sense of humor manifests itself in my corporeal planned obsolescence. 

A familiar adage says, "You are only as old has you feel." My corollary adage is, "You are only as old as you feel those first 15 minutes after waking up." That puts me closer to the century mark. The day's initial moments involve clearing stuffed nasal passages, working out kinks in the neck, shoulders and lower back. That's if it's a good day.

Unnatural sounds emerge as I struggle to unblock airways, stretch out muscles and joints to greet the dawn. The noises accompanying my morning ablutions are frightening. 

Of course these are all physical symptoms of aging. Mentally...well to be honest, I try not to delve too much into that. Regular readers of these ramblings have a cursory glimpse of  my mental morass. Discretion, decorum and dread of indictment preclude me from disclosing a more realistic peek into my psyche.

Maturity, more accurately, aging has not affected my consciousness. Like Peter Pan, I have never grown up. Something inside of me has kept the wonder, curiosity and mischievousness of childhood alive. I consider it a blessing; others probably consider it something quite different. As ever - BB

"So come with me, where dreams are born, and time is never planned. Just think of happy things, and your heart will fly on wings, forever, in Never Never Land!" - from Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie

 



 

 

Boiled Hippo

Sounds yummy!

This week, your eclectic essayist ventured to The Discovery City, Columbus, Ohio. How does the strange title allude to this trip? Air travel, of course! I do not eschew obfuscation.

My business visit to Ohio's capital necessitated a plane ride. Despite hurtling 30,000 feet above terra firma in excess of 500mph in a cylindrical conveyance which does not accommodate my size, I don't mind flying. I just need a book to distract from the innate horror of plummeting to a fiery demise.

For this journey I chose, And the Hippos Were Boiled in Their Tanks. Written in 1945 by William S. Burroughs and Jack Kerouac, it predates their Beat Generation notoriety. Rejected by publishers in the 40s, the book was not printed until 2008.

The co-authors alternated writing chapters. Imitating a pot-boiler detective story, Hippos lacks Kerouac's spontaneous rhythm and Burrough's non-liner, cut-up technique. While reviewers saw the book as flat, I enjoyed this peek at two emerging talents. The book shows glimpses of Burrough's sardonic humor and Kerouac's impromptu prose.

The story is based on Lucien Carr's murder of David Kammerer. Carr was a student at Columbia University introduced to the Beat's inner circle by Allen Ginsberg. Kammerer was older and had been infatuated with Carr for years.

Sensitivity did not seem to be an issue when the two tried to sell the book in the 40s. But later, their friendship of Carr, who served his time and landed a respectable job with the Associated Press, kept the book under the floorboards. Yet the tell-tale beat of its notoriety sounded for over sixty years. Carr died in 2005 and Hippo saw light of day in 2008.

Many view the title as the book's most interesting feature. The gory, bizarre, enigmatic visual captivates. Burrough's claimed phrase came from a radio report of a circus fire. He believed it made a perfect title for a book. Kerouac agreed it was a radio report, but of a fire in a London Zoo. In later interviews he said an Egyptian zoo.

After my trek to the Buckeye State, my favorite part of the book were the double-takes I received from people who espied the title as I read. As ever- BB

“I began to get a feeling (...) of being the only sane man in a nut house. It doesn't make you feel superior but depressed and scared, because there is nobody you can contact.” - William Burroughs, And the Hippos Were Boiled in Their Tanks

The First Earth Day

Philadelphia hosted a large celebration that original Earth Day, Wednesday, April 22, 1970. All area schools closed, but not Bishop Eustace Preparatory School. The principal said Eustace would remain open on Earth Day with random attendance checks throughout the day. Absence would result in suspension.

My rebellious spirit awakened. The next day in homeroom, I stood up and announced I would not be in school April 22. To my surprise several of my classmates stood up and proclaimed the same.

That evening I told my tale at the dinner table expecting parental pride at my principled defiance...not quite.  Dad resignedly shook his head with the "what is wrong with this kid; thank God he's not the only child" look.  Mom's concern centered on a suspension on my permanent record. Later anger replaced concern as the mother's grapevine indicted me as ringleader.

Wednesday, we took the train to Philly and began the five mile walk to the Belmont Plateau. I wasn't sure of the best route, but it soon became apparent. We joined the growing throng marching to Fairmount Park. The picture above shows the crowd which closed West River Drive.

Never had I experienced such a mass of humanity, a migration of Biblical proportion. Once there, I wandered around the sea of people feeling part of a true synergy.

We had thought of neither food nor drink. The April sun and long walk left me parched and sunburned. No vendors existed as corporate merchandising mania had not yet manifested itself at such events. The Fellowship House and Philadelphia Ethical Society had set up an area with hoses supplying fresh water.

After a long line, I reached the hose, drank thirstily, and wished I had something to hold water. A hippie girl in a peasant blouse and cut-offs noticed me and offered her last sip of wine. I drank and handed it back to her. As if reading my mind, she shook her head, giving me the jug. I thanked her. She smiled, touched her lips with two fingers, put her fingers to my lips and twirled away. She never uttered a word. I remember thinking, why can't more people be like this.

My original thought was to carry water for personal use. That girl triggered an epiphany. I spent most of that Elysian afternoon taking water to thirsty people in the crowd. A teenaged Gunga Din, I would refill the jug and return to the multitude. Thankful wayfarers proffered food, wine and other sundry items, my first karmic experience.

The speakers included Sen. Ed Muskie, poet Allan Ginsberg and  Ira Einhorn, aka The Unicorn. That's him flashing the peace sign to the crowd in the picture to the left.

The Unicorn, Philly's own hippie, presented a composed, tranquil aura. Eight years later, he'd become famous for killing his girlfriend, absconding to Europe and remaining on the run for over 20 years. Tis another tale.

Performing in Fairmount Park that day were several local bands and national acts. To be honest, my impetus for going was the music. In 1970, rock and roll held more sway on this fifteen-year-old Sophomore than the ecological welfare of our planet.

The wise fool learned a lesson that April day. I left Belmont Plateau with an idyllic empathy for this big, blue marble and my fellow passengers. The 43 years since have eroded much of that feeling. However, when I remember the touch of that hippie girl's fingers on my lips, my mind's eye sees her silently dancing away, that empathy returns. Res Ipsa Loquitor  as ever - BB

"Come on people now/Smile on your brother /Everybody get together /Try and love one another right now" Get Together - Chet Powers

Vato Loco Numero Uno

That would be Oscar Zeta Acosta - lawyer, activist, writer and bull-goose looney. Acosta was the true life Dr. Gonzo of Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas fame. He met Hunter S. Thompson in 1967. Oscar's involvement in the Chicano Moratorium March and the killing of journalist Ruben Salazar led to Thompson's article, Strange Rumblings in Aztlan.

What is not mentioned in Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas is that Acosta accompanied Thompson to discuss southern California's racial tensions and Salazar's killing privately, away from LA. The picture to the right is the only one of them together in Las Vegas during that epic adventure. I love that he's wearing gloves. Discretion means not leaving fingerprints. You just never know.

Oscar's partnership with Hunter is not the focus of this rambling. His life, even without the "fear & loathing" association, enthralls me. Before his mysterious disappearance in 1974, he wrote two books: The Autobiography of a Brown Buffalo and The Revolt of the Cockroach People.

The first describes his upbringing as a bright, young Mexican-American enamored by the American Dream, and yet simultaneously repelled by America's violent, racially prejudicial underpinnings. It contains his first meeting with Hunter in an Aspen Bar. The second tells of Acosta's connection with the Chicano Moratorium and the radical Brown Berets. Both reads that I highly recommend.

In 1970, Acosta ran for sheriff in LA. While he only garnered 100,000 votes, his notoriety and flamboyance attracted attention to the Chicano cause.

Fitting that this iconoclast known by most from Hunter Thompson's caricaturisation, and believed by many to be only a figment of his imagination, enigmatically evaporated into the ether. The Brown Buffalo was last heard from in May of 1974. In his short 39 years, this meteoric mutant, stomped on the terra - to use Lord Buckley's phrase. He truly was the Number One Crazy Dude! As ever BB

"One of God's own prototypes. A high-powered mutant of some kind never even considered for mass production. Too weird to live, and too rare to die." - Hunter S. Thompson from his eulogy of Oscar Z. Acosta, The Banshee Screams for Buffalo Meat

Dja Ever Have...

a song stuck in your head that won't go away? This morning it was Trouble from The Music Man. That starts with T, which rhymes with P, which stands for pestering the crap out of me!

Tis one of my favorites though. I remember seeing it at the old Camden County Theater in the Round with Gig Young as Harold Hill. My mother loved musicals; my father - not so much. So whenever a road show would come around, he'd stay home and Mom would drag young Billy along with her. That could explain my love of musicals. But not my enjoyment of Gilbert & Sullivan operettas. Like many, she didn't like those either.

During my first attempt at college, I fed my thespian appetite acting in Siena's "Little Theater." The director loved operetta. After performing in several, I fell under its Victorian spell. Some say I'm a contrarian and like it because no one else does. My appreciation of jazz paragon, Sun Ra, gets the same explanation. Pshaw say I, but enough digression, back to the subject at hand. Or back to the heavy-handed treatment of the subject.

Meredith Wilson wrote The Music Man basing many of the characters from people in his home town of Mason City, Iowa. However, that is a landlocked city in the north central part of the state. In the play, the opening scene occurs on a train going from Rock Island, Illinois into Iowa. That makes the most obvious River City, Davenport, Iowa located on the Mississippi directly across from Rock Island. Living in Davenport for four years, I attest to the natives' belief that they are the town in the play.

Aside from a story about a con man and catchy songs, including several in barbershop quartet style*, this musical attracts me because it's neato trivia:  

• Music Man won the Tony for Best Musical beating out West Side Story.  
• In the 1980 revival starring Dick Van Dyke, the lisping boy, Winthrope, was played by a young Christian Slater. 
• Many false trivia facts concern Ron Howard in that part. I have heard that he played Winthrope on Broadway (false) and that the movie was his first acting job (false). By the time the movie was made, 1962, he was a two-year veteran of The Andy Griffith Show. It was his first film role.
• The song, Till There Was You, from the play was recorded in 1963 on Meet the Beatles (With the Beatles in the UK). Wilson's widow later stated that the estate made more money from the royalty rights of the Beatles' recording than it did from the play itself. 

*Another guilty pleasure of mine. I still deny being a contrarian, but..."I enjoy being a girl. I flip when a fellow sends me flowers.."  Sorry, I also suffer from Flower Drum Song tourettes.

I've been asked where I get ideas for these musings. They come from many sources. Today, a song stuck in my head led my love of musicals, operetta, spurious claims of contrarianism,  reminisces of Iowa,  and Music Man trivia.

A mind is a terrible thing when wasted. - as ever BB

"You really ought to give Iowa a try.
Provided you are contrary..." - Iowa Stubborn  from The Music Man.

NJ Turnpike

A favorite pastime of mine is eavesdropping. Sometimes my busy-body bent has provided fodder for this blog.

Last weekend I overheard two parents discussing the challenging task of talking to their bairns about sex. Little did they know that the gentleman behind them at the deli counter was once a certified sex education instructor. Or, as my employer at the time, the diocese of Camden, called it "Becoming a Person Program."

During the 1976/77 & 77/78 school years, I taught elementary school at St. Rose of Lima in Newfield, NJ.  During my second year, New Jersey provided funding and books so Catholic schools could participate in the state's sex-ed program. Either I, or one of the nuns had to tackle this subject. The instruction fell on my shoulders.

I went to Trenton to receive my training and text books. I was told the books were appropriately edited. When I unloaded the books, I found out how. Those intended for the 7th and 8th graders contained a large gap. Some state minion had used a razor blade to excise the chapters on contraception and birth control. We must keep propagating and filling the Catholic coffers, so none of that now!

My "Becoming a Person" classes for the 5th grade focused on the male and female anatomy and the reproductive systems. 6th was conception and child birth. 7th and 8th were hygiene, responsibility and respect. Also for those not constrained by Catholic canons contraception.

I prepared my homeroom, 5th grade, for the first lesson. Having no graphic arts skill, I asked the only other lay teacher, who taught kindergarten, to draw a diagram of the uterus, fallopian tubes, etc. onto my blackboard. My classroom had the blackboard and my desk on the back wall. The desks faced me and behind them was the door to the hall. You will soon see the significance of this.

The aforementioned diagram has always reminded me of an interchange on the NJ Turnpike. I was only 22 at the time and my feet had not yet "taken root in the earth" to quote Bruce Springsteen. So before the young minds came into class, I started adding signs. "Lincoln Tunnel 2 miles", "Hazmat Depot Next Exit", "Slow Traffic Stay Right", etc.

As a typical teacher, I had a drawer full of confiscated toys. So I took a couple of matchbox cars to use as sperm representations. Using the appropriate car/traffic sounds, I described the spermatozoon's commute. I don't know if the class was instructive. Judging by the laughter, my truck driver impersonations, and sundry noises entertained those eager, young minds.

As one sperm was cutting of the other after passing on the right to enter the cervical canal, the class got very quiet. I knew what that meant. I turned from the blackboard to see the principal, Sister Augustine sternly standing mid-aisle. Entering the class to see what was causing the hilarity, she did not look kindly on my methodology.

As the year progressed, I had little difficulty with the lower two grades. The 7th and 8th graders were another story.  The onus with that group was containing their lewd wise-cracks. Refraining from laughing and exclaiming "Good One!" was my personal cross to bear.

That was my last year of teaching. I moved on by my own volition. Despite my off-beat style, I was well liked by the administration and the parents. My last "Becoming a Person" class  was with the 8th grade. I asked for questions. The one hand raised came from the chief class clown. I girded my loins as he stood up and asked, "So, Mr. Billings, what would be your advice concerning our future situations involving the opposite sex."

I looked at him, glanced around the room at those anxious, inquisitive faces and said, "Remember, it's all about chromosomes and genes. Keep your chromosomes in your jeans and you'll have nothing to worry about." As ever - BB

"...I was the cosmic kid in full costume dress. Well, my feet they finally took root in the earth but I got me a nice little place in the stars..." - Growing Up, Bruce Springsteen