Secret History: 1968

Ahh, the Summer of Love ('67, in case you missed it) has by now ushered in the Age of Aquarius, and at the beginning of 1968, it's clear that everything is going to be just great. (No wonder I prefer music to real life.)

Let's start off with a couple of records that were really released in late 1967, but didn't make their mark until 1968:

First, there's Bob Dylan's "John Wesley Harding". I was going to ignore Dylan, but I really like this record. Now if he would only take harmonica lessons and I could forget Hendrix's version of "All Along the Watchtower", I'd say it was love.

And then there's The Who Sell Out, which is just my all time favorite album. Now when you buy it, you're going to listen to it once and say, what the hell? Will you please put it on again? And again? At some point, you're going to realize that the Tommy references are pre-Tommy references, the commercials are hilarious, and the ballads are as beautiful as any Pete Townsend ever wrote. And who doesn't like Heinz baked beans?

The Byrds kept pretty busy. When they weren't busy killing each other, they were making their two best albums. First, there's "The Notorious Byrd Brothers", which is an artful suite of tunes, the most famous of which – but not the best, mind you - may be Carole King's "Going Back". Then there's "Sweetheart of the Rodeo" which takes on country music, with great enthusiasm and respect, thanks to Gram Parsons. This is truly one of the highlights of the decade. Greatest American Band of the Sixties, you say? Hard to argue with you, sir.

And although I'll admit that "Moondance" has more soul, Van Morrison's
"Astral Weeks" is (warning: bs phrase approaching) full of jazzy poetic mystery.
It is also where
I first wondered
if Van was out of his mind. At first I was taken aback by all the growling, scatting and general weirdness. But it's clearly Van at his most hypnotic.

The Zombies scored early in the decade with a couple of great singles ("She's Not There" and "Tell Her No"), but then struggled for years for a follow up hit. "Odyssey and Oracle" was their last shot, but it came a little too late. "Time of the Season", didn't become a hit until 1970, two years after they called it quits. They deserved better, because this is a wonderful record. "Care of Cell #44" is brilliant, and a couple of others ("Hung Up on a Dream", "Brief Candles") are as good as anything else the sixties served up.

The Kinks could always be counted upon to create a brilliant side of music every year or so. And side one of "Village Green Preservation Society" is
one of their best ever. Side two was always their Achilles heel, and here they do wander off a bit to the village green. But that's the Kinks for you. But definitely worthwhile nonetheless.

And if you're as sick of "Bridge Over Troubled Water" as I am, you might want to try "Bookends" by Simon and Garfunkel. Besides "Mrs. Robinson", it's got "Fakin' It" and "America". Not too shabby, although I still maintain that Art Garfunkel is the luckiest man alive. At least Ringo can drum.

Spirit boasted
great
musicianship and excellent songwriting, if not the most electrifying singing. Maybe that's why their first record went by the wayside. They would later become more famous for "I Got a Line On You" and "Nature's Way", but this record is very fine. Check out the acoustic guitar of "Taurus", which Led Zeppelin "borrowed" for "Stairway to Heaven".


 
The Weirdness:

While the Beatles were telling us that All You Need Is Love, some people were having none of it. Frank Zappa being one of them, he felt the need to make his own heartwarming philosophical statement – "We're Only In it for the Money". Now I always found Frank to be a bit overrated. I always felt like I was supposed to like his stuff. Well, any record that calls out both the cops and the hippies appeals to the misanthrope (curmudgeon?) in me, and this is one record for which I'm happy to make the effort.

Back when Peter Rowan and David Grisman were hippies, they formed Earth Opera, whose first record sounded dated before they finished recording it. Slow, weird, and with weak singing. But there are tunes here. I think.


 
In sum, people were so inspired by all this great music that 1968 will always be remembered for its racial brotherhood, a curious dearth of assassinations, and peace in Vietnam.

Fire in the Garden

My son asked me early this year what band I would most want to see in concert.  I had a hard time thinking of anyone worth taking the trouble for.  Of course, “trouble” used to mean waiting hours on a line during work or school hours.  Now it means going on line and finding the exact seats you want, so there aren’t any excuses, except for the astronomical prices.  Green Day were relatively reasonable ($50 for good seats) compared to the outrageous (over a hundred) for the Black Eyed Peas. 

So what are my objections to concerts?

Well as a notorious cheapskate, I like to get my money’s worth.  I want a long show.  I described one of my first major disappointments (Eric Clapton) in a previous post.  Springsteen puts on a nice long show - you can practically take a lunch break during it.  And there are some where a nap is more appropriate.  By contrast, when I caught Elvis Costello in 1978 the big worry was that he was only playing for a little over an hour.  Well, those were the most furious 75 minutes I ever spent in a concert, and by the end I felt he gave us everything he had.

And the volume.  I’m all for loudness, but sometimes it’s not called for, and it can take a geezer like me a few seconds to even figure out what song I’m hearing.  The details - some of which I treasure - can get lost.  I guess I’m an album person.

And I can NEVER make out what anyone is saying.  When the singer has some clever patter between songs, and everyone laughs, I can usually be found asking my friends what was said.

But the real reason why I’m not willing to say that the show was great is because I’m a god damned perfectionist, pain in the ass, killjoy, buzzkill, Mother Superior, no fun at all, sit while everyone else stands and dances lameass.  While at a show, I’m constantly on guard for the thing that’s going to ruin everything for me.  I remember going to a Little Feat concert in 1978 and being so afraid of missing a SINGLE SECOND (I hadn’t seen them before), that I had gone to the bathroom three times before the show even started.

Then there’s the standing.  I used to not stand at shows, and learned how ridiculous that was.  I can recall shows where I’d rage against the people who sat in the front row, but still felt that they had to STAND UP.  What do you mean you can’t see?  You’ve got the best seats in the house!

And I’m always looking out for the basketball team/group of assholes that’s going to take its seats right in front of us just as the show is about to start. 

I won’t even tell you the evil thoughts that go through my head when people would scream or yell during the quiet songs.  Or when some jerk off yells for a song that you know they’re going to play.

Then I remembered the Arcade Fire.  Now that’s one band I’d love to see.  Word had it that when they  played it was with an abandon few other bands could match.  And sure enough, a few weeks later I found out that they would be playing locally.  And Spoon - Metacritic’s Artist of the Decade - would open for them!  Mrs. Jaybee and my son Michael were very happy to hear I got the tickets and I was pretty pleased with myself.

But then of course I begin to remember all of the things that make shows less than spectacular for me and my enthusiasm waned.  So much so, that before it actually begins I tell Mrs. Jaybee that this may turn out to be the “Inception” of concerts.

The show was opened by Owen Pallet, who used to work with the Arcade Fire.  He’s out on his own now, playing violin and using tape loops to “build” a performance right in front of you.  He would start by playing a motif on his violin that he would then sample (Geezer alert: sampling is the recording of a piece of music, legitimately or otherwise, for use in your own performance or recording).  He would play the “loop” (Young person alert: “loop” comes from tape loop, which was what you got when you recorded a sound or a piece of music and then spliced the tape in the form of a ring or “loop” so that when played, the sound would play over and over again.) repeatedly, and then play something else over it.  He would then sample that, and continue to add layer upon layer to it, sometimes with the violin and sometimes by singing.  There were some magical moments that only listening to a new artist can provide, then it wandered and sagged a bit in the middle, and then finally rallied at the end.  Overall, a very good performance by a new young artist.

Then came Spoon, whose 2002 album “Kill the Moonlight” is one of the best records I’ve gotten this year.  And even though they only played one song that I knew, they rocked really hard, and weren’t the least bit fazed by either the big venue or the headliners.  Britt Daniels appeared to be having the time of his life.  An excellent set.  So, what’s my next Spoon album going to be?...

Now it’s after ten, my wife and I are beat, so I tell her I’m afraid this is going to be the Inception of concerts, and on comes Arcade Fire.  Their first record was one of my favorites from last decade, their second, after an initial disappointment,  just kept growing on me.  They just came out with a there new record two days before the show, and we were still trying to absorb it.  (More on that record at another time). 

So, how were they, you ask?  Well, I sang at the top of my lungs through most of it, along with 15,000 other people.  That’s pretty rare given what a snob I am.  And some moments were, as my son put it, epic.  Like “Laika”, “Haiti”, “No Cars Go”, “Lies”, “Wake Up” and a new one “Sprawl II”.

But was it great?  I don’t know.  But I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a great show.  Okay, Springsteen in 1978 was great, and several others have come close.  But I think it’s an overused word and have resolved to only use it when I mean it.  So maybe the answer is no.

Why?  Maybe because some of the newer, mellower songs don’t quite fit into the typical ecstatic roar the Arcade Fire are known for.  What is a brave move for a third album isn’t necessarily a good idea when planning a show.  By contrast, “Laika” from the first album is kind of a crazy song, which was why it was so great in the show.  “Haiti” is a little more mellow, but they upped the ante for the show and Régine Chassagne really wailed on it.  

And even if the new songs turn out to be great, I need a little more time to take them in.  I can’t always appreciate them when they’re being played for the first time, especially at a show.  It’s a  mistake to release an album either shortly before or during a tour, but it’s one a lot of performers make.  Instead, they should put the album out, let it simmer in public for a while, and then tour.  But I really envy the people who are going to see them a few weeks from now. 

Maybe it was the distracting videos (which I guess is why they were there?).  Maybe they should have just trusted that their own frantic behavior during and between songs would be enough to keep us interested.

As to the show itself, I want to love every second of it, so every song that isn’t transcendent is a wasted opportunity.  For instance, why did they do “Crown of Love” - a perfectly good song, but a bit of a plodder - a strange choice for an otherwise ecstatic ritual?  Why not the faster/louder, “Anti Christ Television Blues”, or, if they felt they had to slow it down, what about or “Neighborhood #4 (7 Kettles)”?, or “Une Annee Sans Lumiere” with it’s fast windup?

But enough nitpicking.  There were more than enough wonderful moments at this show.  I think the real reason for my less than ecstatic reaction is that I’m fifty three years old, and that I came to the show after a long day at work, and that AF didn’t even come on until 10:15pm, which is when I am about to crash. 

What I’m saying is that I was TIRED, and the fact that I enjoyed it as much as I did is a real tribute to the band.

So I guess what I’m saying AF, is that it’s not you, it’s me.

I Guess I'm Dumb

It’s rare when Mrs. Jaybee can convince me to go out to an actual movie. I usually plead “we’ll see it when it comes out on DVD” and take a pass.  And when she succeeds, she’s usually sorry.  Today was no exception.

She’d gone to see “Inception” last week, but the theater’s sound and picture went on the fritz near the end, so she wasn’t even sure she got the whole thing.  We found it playing nearby in IMAX and she asked if I was interested.  Having nothing better to do, and having dragged her to MoMA the day before, I figured I owed her, and decided to go.

But it was a hot day filled with the Jaybees bickering.  By the time we got there and the previews started I was already talking back to the screen.  (“Julia Roberts finding fulfillment?  Not with my twelve bucks.”)  Then, during the opening scene, a couple who had just arrived (You’re familiar with them, I’m sure.) simply had to sit in our row.  But have a chat first.

So it’s possible that I wasn’t in the right frame of mind for fully appreciate the movie...

First, I must say that “Inception” is a good movie.  Not great.  But good.  However, Mrs. Jaybee is having none of this.  I must explain myself:

The trouble with “Inception” is that director Christopher Nolan confuses quantity with quality.  He keeps throwing things at you, and while it’s admirable to some extent, it’s mostly information and not ideas, so after a while, I can’t help but think enough already.  Oh, there are a few ideas here, but before you get a chance to really savor them, he’s off piling on more information.  I guess he’s just smarter than me. 

It’s one of those rare times when a book or a miniseries would have served the material better.  If the ideas are interesting enough, you can enjoy them as the information steadily comes at you.  I guess Christopher Nolan wanted to pack the movie with enough to make it hold up to multiple viewings.  Yet, this is where “Inception” fails its most important test.  While watching a movie, I sometimes ask myself if I’d ever want to see it again.  In other words, am I enjoying this movie or just enduring it?  I’m afraid that in this case, it was the latter.  So those multiple viewings may not ever happen.

I have to admit that I temporarily felt the same way about “The Dark Knight”.  But that was only because the material was so dark that it could be hard to take.  And once it came to TV and I could enjoy Heath Ledger’s performance again, I found that I could, and in fact had to, watch it all the way through.  Sadly, there are no comparable performances in “Inception”.

Which brings me to Leo.  I don’t know about you, but I’m getting tired of seeing him play the haunted husband/father.  It reminds me too much of the devoted dad Robin Williams loved to play (“Mrs. Doubtfire”, “The World According to Garp”, etc.).  For once I’d like to see him play an arrogant jerk who’s more or less got it together.  I’m tired of liking him.  I’d like to dislike him some time.

Ellen Page plays the brilliant young student who nonetheless ends up spending most of her time standing around with her mouth open wondering what’s going on.  (Just kidding.  That was me.)  Actually she’s really sharp and has a crucial role.  But she does end up being Juno without the sense of humor.

I also have to add (possible spoiler alert!) that the morality of the mission is hardly ever questioned, even though it’s point is to help one corporation gain a competitive advantage over another.  Curiously amoral.

In its attempt to overwhelm the viewer’s resistance with information overload it reminded me of nothing so much as an episode of “Murder She Wrote”.  You remember that show, don’t you?  They always made sure to have a dozen guest stars as possible suspects.   And enough weapons, rooms and motivations to put Clue to shame.  Did you EVER, EVEN ONCE, figure out who the murderer was?  Of course not.  And even if you somehow guessed the murderer, did you even understand Jessica Fletcher’s explanation at the end?  Weren’t you just too freaking bored and exhausted to care?

A great movie can give you a limited amount of information to work with.  But if it’s engaging enough, it will fully occupy you not only during the initial viewing, but many more times as well.   In the interest of full disclosure, I must add how much fun it was to watch “Memento” - an earlier Christopher Nolan film - backwards the second time around, just to make sure I knew what the hell happened.  Why?  Because I cared about the characters.

As for me and Mrs. Jaybee, we continued our bickering after the movie.  What really pissed her off was that, as we were leaving the theater and she asked what I thought the ending meant, my response was “I don’t care.”  I wasn’t trying to be nasty (I swear, honey).  I really meant it.  Amidst all the noise and information, I didn’t feel anything.

“Inception” has some good ideas that it proceeds to endlessly complicate.  That’s not inspiration.  That’s math.

My My, Hey Hey…We’re the Monkees!

 
My previous post might have seemed implausible to some. After all, Lawrence Welk was notorious for serving warm beer, but it is based on a true story, which goes (something) like this:

If memory serves, "Meet the Monkees" was only the second album of non-Irish music ever to play on our Victrola. Even my poor Dad, who only the year before declared that a Beatles album would "never enter this house", couldn't have imagined what a slippery slope we were now on.

My brother and I revered the album - record and cover both - as much as our months-old, but already battered copy of "Revolver". But it would only be a matter of days before Mickey, Davey, Peter and Mike would be sporting crude Dastardly Dan-like moustaches on the front cover. My sister eventually confessed to this desecration. I can only imagine what inter-sibling trifle was being avenged - her monstrous crime all out of proportion to the offense I'm sure.

Turning the cover over to the back, I see that it's now the record company's turn to show its contempt for us. (One would have to explore the Bobby Sherman and Partridge Family oeuvres to find more egregious examples of this.) I finally notice that the title is a direct rip-off of "Meet the Beatles". Then there are the credits:

Mike Nesmith    - Plays Guitar and Sings

Peter Tork    - Plays Guitar and Sings (like we kids didn't know a guitar from a bass!)

David Jones     - Plays Guitar (yeah, right) and Sings. (What no maracas or tambourine?)

Mickey Dolenz - Plays Drums and Sings. At least they didn't say it was a guitar.

And what about those instruments? It should come as no surprise by now that the Monkees themselves didn't actually play them. But lest you think that I mock them for this, I know that they were hardly the only ones. Even the Who and Kinks occasionally used Jimmy Page and Nicky Hopkins (see the great Kinks song "Session Man"). So, why, then, do I draw the line at the Partridge Family, Osmond Brothers, etc. you ask? Because they, uh, SUCKED*.

So who did the playing? Well, amongst the dozens of studio pros, there's Glen Campbell on guitar. Connoisseurs of album credits would also recognize Hal Blaine, Jim Gordon and Larry Knechtel on drums, and Larry Taylor on bass. These guys have played with everybody from Frank Sinatra to Jackson Browne. They are good.

Anyway, let's keep reading. The boys hailed from Manchester, England, Dallas, Texas, Washington, DC and LA. In a savvy marketing move, there was not a whiff of New York ethnicity to be found.


 
At this rate, it's a wonder that I ever actually heard the record, but by now I've finally put it on. And amid the snap crackle and pop, the magic words come back to me…

Here we come, walking down the street

Sounds a little ominous, but don't worry ladies and gentlemen! It's not the Stones.

We get the funniest looks from everyone we meet

It's probably Mike Nesmith's pioneering wool hat in hot weather look.

Hey hey we're the Monkees, people say we monkey around

Well at least they got the bad joke out of the way early.

But we're too busy singing, to put anybody down.

Very passive aggressive and apolitical.

We're just trying to be friendly!

Isn't this what a drunk says when he's getting a little too friendly?

Come and watch and sing and play

Well, sing, anyway

We're the young generation

One of the more overused phrases of the time, it's less informational than it is marketing.

And we've got something to say.

Well, not really but that's okay. Don Kirshner meant something to sell, anyway

And that's pretty much it. "Visions of Johanna", it ain't. I shouldn't be making fun, but, God, it was so easy!


 
But now it's finally time to confront what I love about "Meet the Monkees". First, there's "Last Train to Clarksville", with its transcendent instrumental bridge, written by the Tommy Boyce and Bobby Hart, who did the bulk of the songs. Then there's the lovely "Take a Giant Step", by Carol King and Gerry Goffin, that builds to a great climax. And the almost hard rock "Saturday's Child", written by future Bread leader David Gates, which beat out "Lady Madonna" to the day naming idea by a year or so. And finally, "Tomorrow's Gonna Be Another Day" which actually has a bit of soul to it.

What I like about it: Davey Jones isn't awful yet. Even "I'll be True to You" has a nice bridge, and "I Want to Be Free" is purty any way you look at it. Mike Nesmith's two songs are raw and rootsy. (I even saw Yo La Tengo cover "Sweet Young Thing". God, you just can't stump those guys/gal.)

The rest is okay, or, let's face it, sucks, which on balance makes this record not bad at all. But Jaybee, anyone with enough money can put together the right people for a decent album, right? I agree. But we're not done yet.

The title of the second album, "More of the Monkees", practically screams unoriginality, but do you know what? It's still an excellent record. This time around, the songwriting is stronger. First, Neil Sedaka and Carole Bayer (later Sager) contribute "When Love Comes Knockin at Your Door", one of the few Davey Jones songs I can stomach, along with Neil Diamond's "Watch Out, Here Comes Tomorrow". (Maybe they should have kept looking for more Neils. They might have found Young. Can you imagine Davey singing "Down by the River"? Well, no, neither can I.) Mike Nesmith comes through with "Mary Mary", which ended up getting sampled by Run DMC(!) Peter gets snarky with "Auntie Grizelda" and Mickey's actually angry on "Steppin Stone". Carol King and Gerry Goffin hit it out of the park with "Sometime in the Morning." The guitar part anticipates the Who's Acid Queen/Cousin Kevin/Eyesight to the Blind by two years.

Oh yeah, and Neil Diamond provides "I'm a Believer". Of course, there's some crap, too. But the good stuff easily wins out.

By now the boys are feeling like they really do have something to say and the skill to say and play it. So their third album "Monkees Headquarters" has no studio hotshots there to make them sound good, and no Neil or Carol songs. So, by all measures, it should have been a disaster. But in some ways, it's the best one so far. Howzat? Well, Mike Nesmith is writing better than ever, and Peter and Mickey are getting into the act with "For Pete's Sake" and "Randy Scouse Git". And what it lacks in studio polish, it makes up for in enthusiasm. And for faux significance, "Zilch" precedes the Velvet Undergrounds' "Murder Mystery" by almost two years.

I will leave it to someone even less cool than I to tell us how the remaining records are. I tried watching "Head" recently, but just didn't get it, which makes it no worse than "Alice's Restaurant" or "Easy Rider", when you get down to it.

In the wildly distorted timeframe that is childhood, the Monkees "era" lasted barely a year. During that time, we played the records incessantly, watched the show religiously, and even imitated them, using curtain rods for guitars and pillows for drums. But by 1969, I'm twelve, and needing to be cool, so the Monkees were out. When friend Mike and I found an old 45 of "Daydream Believer", we decided to fling it around the street like a Frisbee until it broke into a million pieces. And yet that song is now on a very short list of records that, if I hear it on the radio, I absolutely will NOT change the station. I might not let you change it either.

When they finally broke up, Mike Nesmith went on to make tons of country records (and tons of money from his mom's white out). The other boys just kind of faded away.

Then time speeds up, and it's the mid-1980s. There's Davey Jones, looking a little worse for the wear as a guest on "The Uncle Floyd Show" (basically Joe Franklin for hipsters), in the middle of the night, clearly wondering what he'd gotten himself into.

Mrs. Jaybee reports seeing Mickey Dolenz in "Aida" (the Broadway musical, not the opera). And I caught him singing the national anthem at a baseball game. He always was their best singer.

Mrs. Jaybee also reports that Peter Tork is not and has never been dead. God, they even ripped off their rumors from the Beatles.

There have been reunions of all sorts and combinations, sometimes even Mr. Nesmith comes down from the mountaintop to help out.

So laugh if you will, but now there's a weight off of my shoulders (monkee off my back? Ouch!). Can anyone seriously say that songs like "Last Train to Clarksville", "I'm a Believer", "Pleasant Valley Sunday" (one of the most intense songs ever) and "Daydream Believer" don't belong in the pantheon? Please. And I left a few of my other favorites out. If I kept going, you'd think I wasn't cool or something.

I hope you, dear reader appreciate how difficult this was for me. After all, I'm a mature adult who only listens to totally unique and non prefabricated music, by serious artistic geniuses who aren't in it for the money. Their music is of such high quality and artistic purity that the actual enjoyment of it is discouraged.

That, or the Bay City Rollers.


 

 
* Jaybee's wife say's that the Partridge Family does NOT suck. Yes dear. (Dear Reader, we'll talk later.)

The Confessions of St. Jaybee - Part One

 
The following is an excerpt from the classic tragedy "Confessions of St. Jaybee"

 
The scene: A dungeon deep beneath the Lawrence Welk studio.

Background: The Grand Musical Inquistor, looking a lot like Mr. Welk, is holding our hero Jaybee captive (Actually, he's offered him a comfy chair and a cold beer, so it hasn't occurred to Jaybee to leave just yet.)


 
The Grand Music Inquisitor (reading from a scroll): Jaybee, for the crime of "serious and repeated acts of bullsh*t about music", you are hereby sentenced to be forced to speak at least one musical truth per year. (Now looking at Jaybee) And let's face it, you're way behind. So, out with it.

Jaybee (Innocently sipping his beer):
I have nothing to hide.

GMI (gently, but mocking, nonetheless):
Of course
you do. Let me help you. It's about a certain band…

JB (Another sip, this time cautiously):
What band?

GMI:
Oh, you know! That famous one, named after a mammal, but misspelled.

JB (relieved):
Oh, the Beatles. What about 'em?

GMI:
No, no. Not an insect. A mammal. Besides, who would be embarrassed to admit that they loved the Beatles, (turning to the audience) except me perhaps?

JB (finishing his beer):
That's actually one of the few things I'm not embarrassed about

GMI:
Let's not even go there. Shall I name the band?

JB:
No, that won't be necessary. (Looking at the empty beer can.) Now that you've practically beaten it out of me.

GMI:
Always the macho man, eh, Jaybee? Well, get on with it.

JB:
Okay, I admit it. A long time ago, I used to… love…the Monkees. There, I said it.

GMI:
Now that wasn't too hard, was it?

JB:
Are we done? I have some albums to alphabetize. I'm trying to decide if Jethro Tull belongs under J or T…

GMI:
J, of course. (looking momentarily pacified, but then suddenly shaking himself out of it) Nice try, but we haven't gotten to the best part yet. Admitting that you once loved the Monkees is no big deal. Let's face it, everybody loved them… at one time or another.

JB (checking the beer can again, remembering that it's empty, suddenly filled with fear):
No, you're not going to make me say it!

GMI:
You must. You've broken too many laws. Only the unvarnished truth will satisfy the gods of music now!

JB:
All right! I'm ready to admit it.

GMI:
Admit what?

JB:
That I still do.

GMI:
Still do what, Jaybee?

JB: (realizing that another beer is not forthcoming) I STILL LOVE THE MONKEES!!!!

GMI: Wow
Jaybee, I can't believe you actually admitted it. What a girl.

Jaybee collapses. He has died of embarrassment.

GMI: (He
takes out a baton, and begins waving it): Anna one, anna two…

Jaybee's body begins its ascent to musical heaven*, borne by champagne bubbles.

                THE END

            (and yet, to be continued…)


 

 
* Or maybe Purgatory. It's up to his wife, who he's made sit through a lot a bad records.

Secret History: 1967

 
Well, this is the year when all that is good supposedly happened. Sgt. Pepper, Monterey Pop, Summer of Love, etc. I'll admit it: Sgt. Pepper is a very good album, but hardly my favorite. The Stones "Between the Buttons" is lighter and poppier than "Aftermath", and thus a bit less brilliant. Buffalo Springfield's second album, "Again" has several classics on it. You can even it pick it up in the cutout bin, if you don't feel like springing for the "Box Set". (That Neil Young's got quite the racket going for him, doesn't he?)

But you already know all that.

Cream's "Disreali Gears"? Eh. I'm just as likely to listen to "More of the Monkees", but more on that later.

The Moody Blues – "Days of Future Past"? Well, I guess this one's our fault. We all liked it a lot, and well, they just kept at it for years afterwards. It's not a bad record at all, just too many strings. (This was back when some people's idea of art was a classical music orchestra.) Do we really need to hear "Nights in White Satin" (Which at first I thought was Knights. Picture that why don't you?) again? Ah, but "Tuesday Afternoon"! That one'll always work on me.

As unfair as this sounds, I can't quite suppress a yawn. Not over the quality, mind you. It's just that we've all been over this already. So let's go deeper.


 
If ever there was a record that defines a cultural divide, it's "The Velvet Underground and Nico".  Yeah, I know Nico sounds a bit odd, and I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't love the more experimental at the end, but if you don't like what precedes it, please stop reading now. One of the greats. If you've ever wondered why people thought Lou Reed was a genius, start here.

If you were lucky, you could catch "You Set the Scene" on Saturday afternoons on FM radio. If you're luckier still you bought "Forever Changes". Love was
one of the first interracial rock groups, and is sometimes thought of as the West Coast Velvet Underground. That's because beneath the beautiful melodies and soaring strings, you get lyrics about the dark underside of the Summer of Love. But beautiful nonetheless.

Roger McGuinn is holding back a bit on The Byrds "Younger Than Yesterday", which is why I like "Fifth Dimension" a little better. And David Crosby contributes the hilariously bad "Mind Gardens", but he redeems himself with "Everybody's Been Burned", one of his best songs. Chris Hillman fills in the gap with several catchy tunes. It's not quite their best, but still damned good.

My copy of Jefferson Airplane's "Surrealistic Pillow" is on heavily scratched vinyl. But it's lighter on its feet than either "Volunteers" or "Bathing at Baxters". This might seem tame for a record that came out at the beginning of the psychedelic era, but it's tuneful and a delight.

With Moby Grape, it's more scratched vinyl. (I wish people would take better care of their records before giving them to me.) And yet the energy of this record is still shines through. I love the guitar riff that starts it all off, setting the mood immediately. The singing is great and songwriting isn't far behind. A tinge of country, but definitely rock. The classics are "Hey Grandma", "Indifference" and "Omaha", one of the most joyous rock and roll songs ever. "Listen my friends!..."

The Kinks "Something Else" is the kinkiest Kinks record ever, and almost as good as "Face to Face". Side one is a hard look at everyday English working class life. ("David Watts" is one of the best songs about class ever.) Side two is the Kinks at their strangest, with "Waterloo Sunset" as the finale.

Procol Harum's first album, "A Whiter Shade of Pale",
with
the title hit, the original "Conquistador" and a bunch of other excellent songs, may be their best. My vinyl copy is kind of woozy. The guy who punched the whole in the center must have been drunk that day. And because the sound quality on vinyl is poor, Robin Trower's guitar sometimes sounds like a kazoo. Hey, not your fault, man.

The obvious Jimi Hendrix album to own is "Are You Experienced?". Even if you're tired of the hits, the non-hits and the CD bonus tracks keep you coming back. But how about "Axis Bold As Love"? It doesn't burn as brilliantly, but it gives off a nice quiet glow. A great evening album.

Poor Richie Havens. Even in the sixties, they made you dress up for album photos.
Clearly taken prior to Woodstock, the cover shot of "Mixed Bag" shows him sporting
thick
glasses, a blazer and dress pants. He looks like he's attending private school. This is the record that provides the title for a very annoying radio program, but the record itself is very pretty and worthwhile.

And speaking of 60's folk, don't forget Nico's "Chelsea Girls", where you get a little bit of sixteen-year-old-Jackson-Browne-sensitivity, a Bob Dylan song where the singer actually hits the notes, Tim Hardin and the Velvet Underground all in one place. Quite the bargain I'd say.  But don't ask me.  Ask my wife, who, after a couple of plays, said "I can't believe how good this is."  (Hey, what that's supposed to mean, anyway?  Okay, I admit that I may have, on occasion, put her through some...questionable music.)



You won't hear these songs when your local radio station does a Top 1000 Songs of All Time holiday weekend special. But I'll bet you're so tired of the songs they do play that you won't be feeling nostalgic anyway. The records I mention above will remind you that there was more in the 1967 universe than our short term cultural memory can now imagine.

Brenda, or, For a Rocker

I first met Brenda back in 1981.  She was my girlfriend’s roommate and best friend. 

She usually wore denim, but I like to remember her wearing a leather jacket, because she always reminded me of Chrissie Hynde, even though they didn’t really look all that much alike.

But, like Chrissie, Brenda was a rocker.  Not a loud obnoxious poser, mind you.  Just someone who loved rock and roll, a cigarette and a beer.  She was actually quiet and unassuming.  But a rocker, nonetheless.

My friends could never figure her out.  But there was nothing to figure out.  Brenda was there for all to see and know.  She didn’t try to shove it in your face.  I thought she was just great.

Brenda was on the “other side” of the big musical debates of the day – punk vs. metal, Grateful Dead vs. Led Zeppelin, etc.  (Let’s not even touch politics.)  But, man, she could surprise you.  She bought “Purple Rain” before any of us – because she liked what she heard on the radio, and was honest enough to go with that.  I always admired that.

A few years ago, I got "Hank Williams Greatest Hits" as a Christmas present.  When I first put it on,  I braced myself for my wife's reaction.  But she just sang along.  It seems that Brenda would put it on when they were cleaning the apartment together.

Brenda took my poke at Led Zeppelin with good humor, even though I know it kind of pissed her off a little.  She was good like that.  Or she was just used to putting up with my  bullsh*t.

We hung out a lot, drinking, talking.  Then everybody started to get married.  Me and my girlfriend.  Brenda and her boyfriend.  When the kids came along, there would be the baptism or communion parties, but we saw less and less of each other.  And when she and her family moved upstate, and then to Pennsylvania, we’d go years without seeing each other.

One of my favorite memories of her was from September of 2005.  She came into town with her sister Mary (another rocker, and pretty f*cking fearless, I might add) and daughters Kelly - Brenda’s spitting image - and Shannon, one of the sweetest kids I ever met.  Kelly wanted to see the White Stripes, who were playing at a local outdoor venue.  The Shins, who we loved, were the opening act.  So what the hell, let’s all go.  We had a nice barbecue at the house, and then headed out to the stadium with - what else? - a cooler full of beer.

Brenda had just gotten over a bout of cancer, so although her outfit was the usual denim, her hair was a post-chemo crew cut.  She was by far the coolest looking person there, even though she was twenty years older than most of them.  Kelly got into the show while the rest of us hung out in the parking lot, or wandered around the boardwalk.  It was a beautiful fall evening at the beach with music, beer and old friends.  We even ran into my cousin the police captain doing crowd control.  I’ll never forget his What the hell are you doing here? expression.  Anyway, it was great night with too much beer drank by all concerned, so everybody slept over.

My wife had her own battle with cancer the year before, with more to come later, so we had the added dimension of post-war camaraderie.  Being all city kids, we were sharp enough to understand that we may have only been between world wars.  So I’d be lying if I said “little did we know”.  We knew very well indeed.  They would both have to fight their wars again. 

We last saw Brenda a month ago.  Nobody was kidding themselves about the situation – she was clearly near the end- and hospice arrangements were being made.  I’d like to say it was like a Hallmark movie but that would be a crock.  Real life is always there, staring you in the face.  But Brenda always just stared right back at it.

I tried to impress her kids with stories of her drummer ex-boyfriend, seeing Rocky Horror how many times, and going to local clubs to see some unknown punk band.  But it really wasn’t necessary.  They already knew she was cool.

Both of us being Irish, we aren’t very demonstrative with our emotions.  But when we left that day, we gave each other the strongest hug I can remember.  Even though she was wearing a heavy robe, I could still feel her bones.

Brenda died last Thursday. 

Now her kids, who also lost their father a few years ago, will carry on.  Sean, Kelly, Shannon – you are wonderful, intelligent, beautiful young people.  Go make your mom proud.  I know you will because you have a part of her in you.

Brenda wasn’t a celebrity.  She wasn’t rich or famous.  But she had class, which means she wouldn’t rate a mention on Access Hollywood.  I consider that a badge of honor.  She was just a friend (and a sister and a mother and…) who you could hang out with.  Brenda just was.

So, if you read this, goddamn it, you’re going to f*cking know she existed.

Love you, Brenda.  Rest in Peace.