Merry Christmas

My Friends I have been lax these past months. Much water has passed under the bridge, but I have thought of you often. I will begin anew with my musings and doggerel in 2015. For now, please enjoy this Walt Kelly, POGO classic. Have a very Merry Christmas and to all a good night. as ever BB

 

"But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—

'Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!'" - Clement Clarke Moore

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=46u50qJY0GM

Another That Guy

Mayhaps your remember a post from days past about "that guy". I'm not only a fan of old movies, but an inveterate credits reader. Because of that, I know the names of a plethora of character actors. Few know know their names, but most know their faces.

Last night, I channel surfed onto Lawrence Tierney's first starring role in the movie, Dillinger. He went on to be a film noir stalwart in movies like, Born to Kill, Shakedown, The Hoodlum and the homicidal hitchhiker in The Devil Thumbs a Ride.  I wonder if John Waters would have written his latest book, Carsick, if he had seen this before sticking his thumb out in Baltimore heading to San Francisco.

 Normally, catching a movie with one of my "that guys" would not be impetus for a musing. But in the intro to the movie, Robert Osborne mentioned that Tierney got himself into as much trouble off-the-screen as his characters did on-the-screen.

The tough son of an Irish-American New York cop, Tierney enjoyed his libations, frequented seedy bars and didn't take any guff.  In the 40s and 50s, he was arrested numerous times for brawls. So much so, that his career suffered because studios didn't want the bad publicity that hounded him. This behavior continued well into his 50s, after his career had waned. In 1973 at 54, he was stabbed during a fight in a Manhattan bar. Two years later he was questioned by the New York police after a 24-year-old woman's apparent suicide. He told the cops he..."had just got there, and she just went out the window."

Intrigued, I began some research of my own. Amazingly, I found out that his career continued later in life. His look had changed with age. Despite being listed as Lawrence Tierney in the credits,  I never make the connection with the film noir actor. For the Tarantino fans, he is the master mind, Joe, who put the gang together in Reservoir Dogs. For Sienfeld fans, he played Elaine's father.

That is the kind of trivia that become encoded into my cerebral matter. As ever - BB

"All right ramblers, let's get rambling!" - Lawrence Tierney as Joe Cabot in Reservoir Dogs

Garage Sale

 My last blog entry was mid-March. This hiatus is due to a myriad of factors: some personal, some
family, some societal and some mental coalescing into a block of Brobdingnagian proportions. Left behind is a aggregation of snippets that never came to fruition.

I have collected them here, a literary garage sale so to speak. Okay, not an original idea, Ken Kesey

did the same thing in the early 70s with a collection of pieces he had previously written. As C.S. Lewis said, "...no man who worries about originality will ever by original..." Hopefully cleaning out the recesses of my mind's attic will allow for a complete thought to emanate into a complete blog.

So here is a collection of the starts and stops formed over the last few months.

Friends - over the years I have noticed that I put my friends in circles bounded by geography, time and circumstances: work friends, friends from childhood, college(s) there were several, fellow musicians, drinking buddies, etc. Like a Venn diagram some cross into other groups. What amazed me most about this realization was that I remembered what a Venn diagram was.

Music - reviewing my collection of music, I realize that I prefer the early works of most of the bands/musicians I enjoy. There's something about their music before they become popular that separates the early stuff from later work. I don't know if it's a rawness, a feeling of exploration, a naivete, but usually the initial stuff is my favorite.

 Contrarianism - I have always heard the different drummer ala Thoreau. In my family everyone hated the black jelly beans. They became my favorite. When arena rock bands ruled the airways, I listened exclusively to Chicago blues and be-bop jazz. Most guys' first date place is the movies. I'd take the mademoiselle du jour to the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Invariably, they'd want to see the Impressionists. I'd feign confusion about where to go, though I knew the museum like the back of my hand, end up at the Abstract and Dada collections.

When I moved in with Kristin, she was curious about my music collection. I played for here my Sun Ra CDs. Her reaction was blunt. Weeks later, I turned her on to Booker T. & the MGs (who she was not familiar with - that's what you get for growing up in the 80s), Allen Toussaint and Professor Longhair.  Her look was priceless! "You had music like this and played that other stuff?" She's still
with me, so the antithetical attitude works...sometimes. - as ever BB

"Contrariwise, if it was so, it might be; and if it were so, it would be; but as it isn't, it ain't. That's logic." - Lewis Carroll ( Dashiell Hammett quoted this bit by Tweedle-Dee when asked to name communists in Hollywood by the U.S. Senate)

The Sound of Philadelphia

This blog isn't about the song, TSOP, by MFSB, the Philadelphia International Records hit that became the theme song for Soul Train.
The original scope encompassed the rich musical history of the City of Brotherly Love. However that story proved too vast for a simple musing. So rather than an in-depth study of the many facets of the city's sound, I settled on three characters who represent to me the eclectic, exciting energy of the Philly music scene.  

 An unknown star in the city's musical constellation is Dennis Sandole. A guitarist, pianist and composition wizard, he did musical arrangements for MGM studios in Hollywood during the 30s and 40s. Moving back to South Philly in the late 40s, he taught theory and composition to such jazz luminaries as John Coltrane, Stanley Clarke and Michael Brecker. Dennis had the allure of an absent-minded professor, albeit one who enjoyed more liquor than was good for him.

I met Sandole in the 1970. He was teaching a friend of mine, Pat Mahon. Pat was in high school, but a guitar prodigy. He urged Pat to get a better guitar, and took him on a tour of Philadelphia pawn shops. The result was the 1957 Gibson ES-175 which I now own.

Through Sandole, I became aware of Rufus Harley. The southern exodus of the 40's brought Rufus and his family to North Philadelphia. He studied music taking up the sax and trumpet. Harley became fascinated with the bag pipes watching the Black Watch perform in JFK's funeral procession. He combed pawn shops until he found a set and taught himself how to play. 

In the 80s, I saw him several times at a little club in Cape May, NJ called The Shire. The first time I met him, we literally bumped into each other at the bar. I introduced myself and told him that Dennis Sandole turned me on to his music. A gracious gentleman, he sat with me during a break talking about music and Philly. He never failed to stop and say hello each time I saw him.

My favorite story of his was about living in the Germantown section of town working on his bagpipe riffs late into the evening. Inevitably, someone called the cops. Rufus saw them coming and hid his instrument in the closet. The police asked if he'd been playing the bagpipes. He looked at them innocently and asked, "Do I look Irish to you?" They left.  I still remember his sheepish grin while telling that story.

Walking up 9th street through the Italian Market you'll
find an unassuming bookstore. On the outside wall is a small plaque commemorating local punk music legend, Mikey Wild.

He performed solo and fronted the bands, Hard Ons and The Magic Lantern. His songs included I Was A Punk Before You Were A Punk, Punk and  I Hate New York.  Branded mentally handicapped as a child, Wild became an icon in Philadelphia's underground music scene. You could find him hanging out on South Street or 9th Street selling his art and cassettes of his music. The cost varied from $2 to $5 to a slice of pizza.

These unique individuals are no longer with us. Their stories illustrate Philadelphia's fertile musical soil that nurtures unique talent. As ever - BB


"We're going hoppin'We're going hoppin' today/Where things are poppin/The Philadelphia way/We're gonna drop in/On all the music they play on the bandstand, bandstand" - Bandstand Boogie music 1954 by Les Elgart, lyrics 1975 by Barry Manilow

Day For A Daydream

While this blog has nothing to do with the Lovin' Spoonful, I cannot resist a musical trivia interlude. Riding high in popularity after several big hits, this jug band turned rock & roll superstars fell from counterculture grace in May 1966. Their Canadian guitar player was busted for pot outside of San Francisco. The police threatened to pull his green card. The record company applied pressure and he "dropped a dime" on his dealer. The underground press had a field day defiling them. I have read that this led to the group's demise. In reality, a change in the generation's musical taste and style was more to blame than that incident.

Now back to our regularly scheduled blog:
The intelligence and popularity of Albert Einstein transformed his last name into a synonym for genius. I have read much on Einstein, but recently focused on his proclivity for thought experiments. He would become fixated on an object or action triggering contemplation of mathematical equations. His theory of relativity which led to the space time continuum, began as a thought experiment riding on a bus watching the town clock recede in the distance.

 The phrase, thought experiment, struck a chord. As long as I remember, I have been an inveterate daydreamer. So, a daydream of space time dilation being relative to the velocity of the observer graduates to the prestige of a thought experiment. But, zoning out during Father Louis' Latin class thinking of battling evil forces on some faraway planet is absentminded woolgathering.  An elitist point of view n'est-ce pas?

Ever a language sleuth, I investigated this troubling term. First coined in Germany, Gedenkenexperiment,  is thinking through a hypothesis to a possible conclusion. It postulates a theory. Actual experimentation is required to make it a certainty. 

Einstein's bus ride, Newton's falling apple, Galileo's balls, (two things: 1- get your mind out of the gutter, 2 - despite popular belief, his dropping balls from the Leaning Tower was a thought experiment, not a physical one) all musings that reshaped our knowledge of the physical world in which we live. 

Somehow my musings have never succeeded to such stature. Who knows, in the future one of my daydreams will transform into the more grandiose status of thought experiment. Maybe the one in which I become an actual contributing member of the society transcending the world's petty problems generating peace and understanding among all peoples. Nah, make it the one where I ride a triceratops across the plains of Alpha Centauri leading an army of  minions against the forces of my arch enemy. As ever - BB

"I was trying to daydream, but my mind kept wandering." - Steven Wright

Moment

...a very brief period in time.


Moments form hours which form days which form years. Years link into the protracted chain of time. The chain lengthens...a temporal scorekeeper against which we measure our peregrinations. What does it all mean?

I have spent much of my life pondering that question. When I believe I have the answer, its will-o-the-wisp verity dissipates into the miasma of melancholy. Does an answer's elusiveness denote its unattainableness?

I am now 129 days from six decades on this plane, an impetus for reflection. I view my life as a repository of moments.

I am about six years old. My father rushes into my room because he heard me retching violently.  I had decided to be a sword swallower and was attempting to swallow a wooden dowel. I'll never forget his reaction when I told him what I was doing.

My father putting stitches in my head. This is an amalgamation memory as most of my youth was spent either getting head injuries, my father sewing up same, or removing said stitches. 

The Saturday morning I took the SAT test for college admissions. A girl across from me gives me the stink-eye for humming the Final Jeopardy tune a little too loudly. 

Walking around Siena College in an altered state. Several figures in cloaks with cowls over their heads walk towards the private golf course adjacent to the college. I follow them. They meet others of the same ilk, form a circle and begin chanting. I'm not sure how long I watched. Time was amorphous. Eventually I  wander back to campus. To this day I don't know if it was real or an hallucination.

Hitchhiking at an on ramp to the New York Thruway outside of Buffalo, NY in a hellacious snowstorm. A state trooper pulls up to inform me that the Thruway is closed from there to Rochester. I wander into a diner and nurse a cup of coffee wondering where to go.

Bringing home Hans, the Great Dane, and my mother's face when she realized Great Danes weren't those cute little wiener dogs. Mom never was good at identifying breeds.

Crisp fall predawn hours sitting on the boardwalk in Atlantic City waiting for sunrise.  Sharing a bottle of champagne with a friend as we discussed mortality and roulette.

Sitting at Max's Taphouse during Snowmaggedon 2010, watching the snow fall in the Square. A figure in a parka, boots and shorts carries a guitar towards Leadbetters.

 Playing guitar in a friend's aerie-like apartment in Fells Point. It's almost dawn, I'm tired, inebriated and hoarse from singing.  I should stop, but cannot. Camaraderie begs me to continue.

William Butler Yeats proposed a theory of cyclical history as
overlapping gyres. To me it's more kaleidoscopic. My life's vision is moments meshing and morphing into mandalas of remembrance. That could be the result of the numerous childhood head traumas, or too many hallucinogens.  As ever BB


"Faeries, come take me out of this dull world, 
For I would ride with you upon the wind,
Run on the top of the disheveled tide, 
And dance upon the mountains like a flame." - William Butler Yeats

MCMLXIV

The other night I watched the American Experience about the year 1964. Those pivotal 365 days affected everything from human rights, to the counter culture, to political activism.  I turned 10 that year. Because of my penchant for the history of that period, I know much of what the show described.  But, it got me thinking. How aware was I of those momentous events at that time?

LBJ signs Civil Rights Act of 1964

Not much, really. Television's cathode ray tube was my lodestone. The program aired two of LBJ's televised addresses to the nation. I remember them both vividly. Not because of their historic importance, but because they interrupted my favorite shows. I don't specifically remember which ones, but the disappointment kindled my dislike of politics. In later years, that dislike was exacerbated by dishonesty and demagoguery, but I diametrically digress.


What a year it was for TV. Bewitched, Jonny Quest, The Addam's Family, The Man from U.N.C.L.E., Gomer Pyle, U.S.M.C. and Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea debuted. Just to name a few. It was also the first year for Jeopardy. My love of the program grew from antics of Art Fleming to the current Alex Trebek iteration. Daytime Jeopardy ran through 1975. During my first attempt at college, I made sure the class schedule allowed me to watch it every day.

Two memories of 1964 are as lucid as if they happened last week - one joyous and one despairing. That year, the World's Fair opened in New York City.  Just 90 miles from my hometown, I visited it twice. Once with the entire family, the other was a trip with Christ the King's altar boys. What I remember most was the Unisphere, the brand new Mustang, and entering my birthday into a computer at the NCR pavilion. In a minute, a list of other events that occurred on that day in history printed. I can still feel the sense of wonder I experienced at the magnitude of the World's Fair.

Something personally significant occurred during that year. While I didn't not become aware of this event until years later, it had a profound effect on my psyche. On my birthday, June 17, 1964, Ken Kesey and his Merry Pranksters boarded the bus, Further, in La Honda, California on an epic journey East. Their explorations of inner space and the concept of your life as your art affect me to this day.

My most anguished memory of 1964 taught me the pitfalls of being a Philadelphia sports fan. The Phillies had a great team that year. With only 12 games left in the season, the Phillies had a 6 and a half game lead and were virtually assured a spot in the World Series. There was no litany of playoffs in those days. My Dad promised to take me to a World Series game; the tickets had already been printed. My 10-year-old heart soared with the anticipation of going to Connie Mack Stadium and seeing my team in the championship.

The Phillies lost 10 out of those 12 games and the St. Louis Cardinals went to the big dance. I was disconsolate. I don't remember how long I cried, but cry I did. That disappointment branded my soul with the mark of a true Philadelphia fan. No matter how good they look, or play, a Philadelphia team can snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.

That stigma lasts to the present. The day after the season opener in 2012, I went to the Italian Market in South Philly. The Phillies had won the game 1-0 against the Pirates. Walking along the produce vendors, I overheard two talking. One said, "We won the opener; they say we have a shot at another World Series." The other said, "We beat Pittsburgh by one lousy run. That's it, the season is over!"

With 161 games left, it was already written in the stars. I knew then and there that there would be no joy in Mudville for the Phils. The San Francisco Giants knocked the Phillies out of the playoffs and went on to win the championship. The engram of 1964 blazed in my brain once again. As ever - BB

"The 60s aren't over; they won't be over until the Fat Lady gets high." - Ken Kesey