title: Wuthering: Swansong of the classic Hackett era

text:
W&W was Steve Hackett's last outing with Genesis and is usually considered by purists to be the last great collection from the band prior to their morphing into a 1980s pop group.

`Wuthering' is certainly a fine album showcasing the four-piece band now delivering beautifully crafted songs with confidence and flair, and you have to say that the transition from the Gabriel era was here demonstrably complete. Peter is not really missed, yet the band retains its essential English lyrical quirkiness and the complex musical arrangements are better than ever. Tony Banks shines as musician and composer, Phil Collins proves he was a great singer for Genesis during this period, and the incomparable Steve Hackett adds touches of delicate virtuosity which, from `Then there were Three' are sorely missed. Not quite up to the superb `A Trick of The Tail' but not far behind, W&W is in the same groove.

The sound production on the original 1976 vinyl album was quite honestly not really that great, with some instruments and the vocal tracks weak and `tinny'. For my money the Definitive re-mix of this album still has the edge; fans of the later SACD mix make a strong case but to my ear, the sound is overall too compressed with the drums and bass in particular sounding `muddy'. So, consider seeking out a copy of the Definitive release if you can find one.


title: Wilburys on top: a discrete supergroup delivers a timeless classic

text:
This transatlantic supergroup of George Harrison, Bob Dylan, Roy Orbison, Jeff Lynne and Tom Petty recorded 20 or so storming rock numbers between 1988 and 1990. The motive of the project was to basically have a rollicking good time, the five superstars going by pseudonyms (as various members of the `Wilbury' family) and pictured on the album cover wearing dark glasses, with all the songs credited collectively to `The Traveling Wilburys'.

`Volume 1' contains most of the best material with each `Wilbury' taking turns at the mike. The collection is full of highlights, notably the opener `Handle with Care' sung by Harrison and Orbison, `Dirty Work' with hilarious & quirky lyrics by Dylan, and the star track `Not Alone any More' which showcases one of Roy Orbison's career-best vocal deliveries.<br /><br />Roy Orbison died prior to the completion of the follow-up album (`Volume 3' - there is no `Volume 2') and George Harrison, of course, is also no longer with us. This album retains its perennial popularity and never seems to age; it has a lightness of touch and a party-rock feel, doesn't take itself too seriously but is nevertheless great, great music of the folk-rock-blues genre. It's almost impossible not to like even if this kind of music is not to your usual taste, and unconditionally recommended.


title: Forever Fabulous, Arthur Lee's classic work of genius continues to shine 40 years on

text:
This beautiful, seminal piece of work from 1967 is one of the very best examples of 1960s artistry: quintessential psychedelia with a hard edge, wry and humorous with a hint of cynicism, musically fabulous and totally original. From a quiet start in 1967 the reputation of `Forever Changes' has grown with the years by word-of-mouth to now be included in just about everyone's top 10 best albums of all time. The clever mix of instrumentation includes acoustic guitars juxtaposed with sensitively deployed brass and a small string orchestra; high tenor-register vocal leads from Arthur Lee and Bryan MacLean articulating the most haunting and ambitious lyrical writing with clean, hard electric guitar occasionally cutting through, offering a unique listening experience never forgotten.

So much deserving praise has been heaped on `Forever Changes' that it's difficult to offer any valuable new perspective. It's a definitive classic, as fresh and listenable in 2011 as it was in 1967. The songs are clever, memorable and repeat-listenable and the song titles - `Alone Again or...', `Maybe the People would be the Times or Between Clark and Hilldale', `Andmoreagain' and `The Good Humor Man he sees everything like this' - are eccentric and delightful. Whilst representative of the 1960s `West Coast Sound' (i.e. The Byrds, Jefferson Airplane etc.) FC is at the same time unlike anything else before or since. It's touched with genius.

Arthur Lee returned to performing this material on a revival tour in 2002, to great acclaim throughout America, Europe and Australia - prior to his death in 2006 from acute myeloid leukaemia at age 61 following years of aggressive medical treatment which in the end only postponed the inevitable. A DVD of one of the star performances from this tour, with Lee in his late 50s fronting a new, younger band channelling the original `Forever Changes', is also worth checking out and much better than you might expect 35 years on from the original (cue Van Morrison's recent revival of the equally mould-breaking and contemporaneous `Astral Weeks').

If you're of a younger generation and are interested in exploring the music of the 1960s, `Forever Changes' should definitely be on your top 10 shopping list and needs to be present in any moderately serious music collection. Just listen to it once, and you'll instantly understand what all the fuss is about. No-one in recent years has recorded anything so imaginative, daring or enduringly beautiful as FC and it's doubtful that the commercially-driven and play-it-safe-formula-worshipping music industry of the 21st century would ever allow space for such mould-breaking originality and excellence to shine.


title: S&G at their very best

text:
This is one of two or three `greatest hits' type albums featuring the best work of Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel from their seminal period of musical co-operation in the late 1960s to mid-70s.

This is what you get:

1. I am a rock

2. Homeward Bound

3. America

4. 59th Bridge Street Song (Feeling Groovy)

5. Wednesday Morning 3am

6. El Condor Pasa

7. At the Zoo

8. Scarborough Fair (Canticle)

9. The Boxer

10. Sound of Silence

11. Mrs. Robinson

12. Keep the Customer satisfied

13. Song for the asking

14. Hazy shade of Winter

15. Cecilia

16. Old Friends (Bookend theme)

17. Bridge over troubled Water

So - most of their best work, missing only perhaps `So long Frank Lloyd Wright' and a couple of other numbers. With the possible exception of `At the Zoo' and `Hazy Shade of Winter' most of these pieces were hit singles, and of course you will recognise `Sound of Silence' and `Mrs. Robinson' from the 1967 movie `The Graduate.'

The sound quality is excellent: rich, deep, with good tonal separation and clarity, similar to the original vinyl releases - without the crackles and pops as the stylus travelled over the scratches.

It's great value if you can get a good copy, contains more material than either the `Bridge over troubled Water' album or the later-released `Greatest Hits.' It offers you the essence of S&G at their best. If you don't know their music that well and want an album of these seminal, classic, timeless pieces on one disk, you couldn't do better.


title: RECEIVED

text: CD IN EXCELLENT CONDITION - CASE BROKEN AT ONE HINGE AND CANNOT CLOSE IT


title: Five Stars

text: Nobody sings hymns better than Tennessee Ernie Ford.


title: Sky VBS Music CD

text: Group's Sky VBS music cd has 10 great songs that children will enjoy listening to and includes a few that you might already be familiar with. The cd has renditions of the hymns I'll Fly Away and Christ Arose. It also has renditions of a couple of Chris Tomlin's tunes, Our God and Indescribable. It is a great cd for building Christian faith in kids' hearts.


title: Great gospel

text: Love to hear John Starnes sing.  One of the best.


title: GREAT HARMONY STILL EXISTS....

text: DAILEY AND VINCENT ,TOGETHER WITH THEIR BAND MEMBERS AND SINGERS HAVE MANAGED TO CREATE THE WONDERFUL HARMONIC SOUNDS OF THE STALER BROTHERS.THIS IS AN INCREDIBLE FEAT,CONSIDERING THE RANGE THE S/B'S HAD FROM JIMMY,WAY UP AT THE TOP OF ANY TENOR'S RANGE ,DOWN TO HAROLD'S BOOMING BASS VOICE...BUT,THEY HAVE DONE IT ...THE CD IS TERIFIC...IF YOU LIKE HARMONY...THIS IS A MUST BUY...GET IT AT ANY CRACKER BARREL RESTAURANT NATIONWIDE.I GOT MINE ONLINE,BUT YOU HAVE TO LOOK AROUD...ANYWAY,BUYING IT AT CRACKER BARREL GIVES YOU AN EXCUSE TO EAT SOME TERRIFIC HOMEMADE FOOD TOO...ENJOY BOTH !!!!!!


title: When Mister Chubby Checker Saved The Whole Wide World

text:
What did Peter Paul Markin, hard scrabble out of  suburban Boston Adamsville, Massachusetts, eighteen and girl crazy, Joshua Lawrence Breslin, nineteen, and girl crazy too out of Olde Saco up in rural Maine and Johnny (Blaze) Bachman, also nineteen out of Avon, Connecticut, ditto on the girl crazy, have in common in great fear 1960 night. No, not fear that they would not live long enough to see the world (crooked metaphor for figuring out what to do about girl crazies) what with the red scare cold war world champing down on them. They figured they would get by. Nix too on trying to get dough together to take a leap into that good hitchhiking on the road night. That would come, come six ways to Sunday. And you are totally off base if you thought they had worries about the "what if" of college (if these restless boys decided to go rather than hit that search for the blue-pink great American West night (or some night) road.

No, what they had in common, girl 101 in common, desperately girl 101 in common, was that, try might or main, they all had two left feet. Hey, they couldn't dance, okay. And couldn't dance in the 1960 hot summer wind a-blowing night meant, meant, sitting home alone by the old midnight telephone, the no ring telephone. Or hanging out with compadre also ran guys who couldn't dance come Friday or Saturday night school or church hop (quaint) in front of respectively North Adamsville, Olde Saco, and Avon Central High or some low rent diner putting quarters in the jukebox wishing their lives away.

A shame too, particularly for Johnny Blaze, an Adonis blonde, blue-eyed figure out of Jack Kerouac's be-bop Denver All-American boy Neal Cassady, a pin- ball wizard who could put an car engine back together blind-folded (and did one sleepy Avon night just to show his corner boys his stuff)  or while reading Marcel Proust (not done since they knew not of the Frenchman, or of remembrances ) with a souped-up Dodge just waiting for some desperate chicken run to prove his metal, a few bucks and, well, stuck with some lonely corner boys in similar condition.

But just that year just that exact 1960 year if you couldn't dance, couldn't bop the bop, do lang do lang, sha na na your way around the floor then boss car, dough, or Adonis looks put you on cheap street, way down on cheap street with busted, inconsequential dreams. The edge, no question.1958 or 1959 and Johnny would have been a girl magnet and home free. Every night with whomever he wanted down on that Long Island Sound, bopping the night away (metaphor for, hell, you know, the deed). 1960 though Mister Lonely heart.

It wasn't like Peter Paul, Josh or mad monk Johnny hadn't tried, hadn't watched about sixty-six, or was it six hundred and sixty-six episodes of American Bandstand, hadn't  given serious thought to going to Miss So-and-So's Dance School, or anything like that. (Josh even, under a veil of national security cold war treason death penalty secrecy, had his younger sister, his younger sister for god's sake, try to teach him but two left feet are two left feet.) Nor was the goal to be able to sweet and low slow dance, some fox trot or waltz last dance school Could This Be Magic dance. Or intricate jitterbug moves, but just be in synch dance with a partner, a female partner without looking like a chicken for two minutes and some change. Nada, nothing. There was a little hope when in 1958 the Stroll came breezing through for a minute but after a couple of times the girls would pair off by themselves, by themselves if you can believe that, rather than run the gauntlet with our three young heroes. Sad story, sad ending to the boy meets girl world historic saga.

Then came Chubby Checker, then came the Twist, and you do it like this, and two left (or right) feet didn't matter because all you had to do was gyrate and be on the same dance floor and our young Adonis boys sure as hell knew how to gyrate. Hail King Chubby, hail.


title: Josh Breslin Comes Of Age In The Age Of The Byrds' "Eight Miles High"

text:
"Josh, are you coming with me to the Sea `n' Surf Club over in Old Orchard Beach Friday night so we can dance and have some fun? They have got the Ramrods playing and I want to hear their cover of Eight Miles High again," Lola LaBlanc whispered in Josh Breslin's ear one Wednesday afternoon, one Olde Saco high school afternoon. Of course one Lola LaBlanc (French-Canadian, like Josh on his mother's, and like half the town before the mills starting heading south), whom one Josh Breslin had more than a passing interest in, especially some variant of the whispered "have some fun" interest in, did not explain in any way how two, not twenty-one looking sixteen (almost seventeen, okay, but still young) teenagers, were going to get into the security conscious Sea `n' Surf Club in order to have that fun.

Have fun without IDs, without connections, without anything except maybe Lola's rather nice shape (and toothy smile). But there were a million Lola shapes around when you thought about it and the guys at the door probably had more, uh, "dates" (or promises of dates) than they could possible use. Nevertheless Josh said simply, "Yes", and left it at that, at Lola that. Because when Lola wanted something, although heaven and hell might tumble to the ground, she was going to get it. So, Josh, no stranger to previous Lola "have fun," figured to take the ride.

Of course in the year 1966 Lola wants, hell, any teenager ready to break out of the bounds of knee -jerk grind high school wants, included copping some dope to insure Friday night fun. The usual drill was that Lola would score some weed from some Portland connection (or maybe a Kittery across from the Portsmouth shipyard Navy sailor connection), they would get a little high and Lola would be ready to drive those guys at the front door of the club crazy, crazy enough to let her pass. Of course, the part Josh didn't know (or want to know) was that whispered promise of a "date" to grease the way.

Moreover when Lola got dressed up to the nines, something tight and sexy, put on some misty ancient primordial drive fragrance and rubbed right up against a guy, well, that was Lola wants in a nutshell. But using her magic to get into see The Ramrods with all kinds of tight and sexy dressed to the nines competition from real twenty-one year old women with a little more experience in the wants satisfied department was going to be a different proposition.

Josh could never figure why, every once in a while, Lola came up to him and whispered in his ear, and forced him to say yes to anything she asked for. Maybe it was for old time's sake since they had been middle school sweethearts and although it had not lasted long once both realized that this was not a match made in heaven (or what passes for middle school understanding of such a situation). But maybe it was just Lola trying to keep her hooks into small hokey town Olde Saco's kind of first "hippie" to see what was what on that scene.

That is how it had had happened the first time they had gone to see The Ramrods in Old Orchard, had gotten high as kites on some weed Josh had scored in Boston one weekend (and grapevine Lola had heard about and whispered in his ear), they had bopped the dance, and afterward gone to "watch the submarine races" at the beach (a localism but you can figure it out, boy, girl, high, dope high, hot, and kind of loose, get it. And no submarines seen anywhere in the area since about 1942, get it).

Come Friday night and Josh picks up Lola in his father's old Buick (no problem since Lola never was a car magnet girl). After doing the normal come in and get her, say hi to the folks, they finally got under way to Old Orchard. Along the way Lola casually stated, "Josh, I didn't get weed for us tonight, tonight I have some good mescaline. I have never tried it but my sailor boy says it's mild, mild compared to LSD, and is just great for grooving on music, especially for The Ramrods. I got a couple of extra tabs for the guys at the door. We are going to do it up before we go, okay?"  Josh, feinting sophistication in matters of drugs said "Sure" although he had never tried anything more heavy than weed. Take the ride, he thought.

Like I said what Lola wants Lola gets and Josh and she take their tabs. Moreover the new trick, mescaline, got them into the club without any problems (although Josh thought he heard a date go with it but that was just Lola). About a half hour later Josh is "grooving" (and Lola too) as The Ramrods start their version of the yellow brick road magical mystery tour with a ripping set, featuring Eight Miles High. Josh (and as later described to him by Lola) is nothing but flash colors, strobe light visions, and distorted shapes.

Groovy. Too groovy to stay in the hot, hepped up club after a while. So like couples have done ten thousand times before in ten thousand locales they went down to the beach to cool off.  Cool off watching submarine races (I don't have to explain that again, right) but mostly giggling, and goofing. And that, my friends, is how one Josh Breslin and one Lola LaBlanc came of age in the 1960s psychedelic high night.


title: From The Big Muddy

text:
Recently I explained (and went mea culpa on and on about it) in a review of Elvis56 (no need for last names, right), his and our, my generation of' 68 , break-out red scare cold war 1950s be-bop doo wop rock and roll creation time, that I listened to (and preferred) black -centered blues at that young age time. Reason:  I was able via "magic" midnight airways to get a blues program, The Big Bopper Show, out of Chicago late at night, late weekend nights, on my transistor radio. (As I pointed out in that previously cited review for those too young, or those who have forgotten, look up that ancient communications transistor radio reference on Wikipedia. Basically though it was a small compact battery-driven unit that had the virtue, the very big virtue, it could be taken up into one's bedroom, placed close to young ears and one's parents would be blissfully unaware of the "subversion" until, well, until the big break-out came in 1956 and then they were caught flat-footed. At least at first.)

 Now The Big Bopper Show (no relationship, as far as I know, to the rock performer who crashed out in a famous rock history plane crash with Buddy Holly, et. al), was mainly about rhythm and blues with the likes of Big Joe Turner and Ike Turner (pre-Tina) holding forth and about that post-World War II emerging big city, big Midwestern city, up river, up Mississippi River, black migrations to jobs and  freedom, well, a little freedom anyway out of the Jim Crow South. Those electrified blues, taking country urban, were wailed by the likes of Muddy Waters (and his various famous band combinations) and Howlin' Wolf (ditto on the bands).

However, intermingled with those genres was roots, black roots, Africa roots, Mother Earth primordial roots music, country blues, mainly from homeland Delta slave farms (pre-and post -slavery abolition) with some `Bama, Carolina Piedmont, Cajun swamp music mixed in. And that is where the performer under review here, Mississippi Fred McDowell, comes in, comes in almost accidentally. See the Big Bopper would play something like
Kokomo Blues or 61 Highway, serious classic blues, by various artists, electric and country, and more likely than not when twelve -string time came it was Brother Mc Dowell whose recording was being used.

But here is the real revelation about black roots music, our Mother Africa transposed, disposed, reposed roots. In the early 1960s, after a bout with serious rock and roll (now called the classic age of rock, ouch) with the likes of Jerry Lee Lewis and Chuck Berry, that genre turned to dust (for a while) with the vanilla-ization (nice, huh) of rock. You know Fabian, Ricky Nelson, Booby (oops) Bobby Darren, Vee, all the Bobbys, okay.  I turned away from rock and headed back to roots, or what I thought was roots, with the folk revival minute of the early 1960s (Baez-Dylan-Von Ronk-Paxton-Ochs, et. al time).
Who do you think, among others, got "discovered" (really re-discovered) in that minute? Yes, Brother McDowell.  And later in an effort to put paid to those discoveries when rock "discovered" it blues roots who do you think got his famous classic song "You Gotta Move" covered? Yes. By whom? The Rolling Stones. Like somebody said the roots, the roots is the toots. Let another generation "discover" that fact.


title: A New World A-Borning, part 4

text:
North Adamsville teenage hometown mucks break-out, crying to be broken out of, desperately crying to be broken out of, aided and abetted by break-out musical sensibilities where the message and the messenger were at one. And who were trying to break out of, desperately trying to break-out of the piddle paddle language and the paddle piddle beaten note formulae that had been solid gold guaranteed to thrill, thrill to the marrow, every red-blooded generation of '68 parent. The kids, well, the kids fell asleep, fell transistor blazing asleep in the cool night dreaming of adventure car hop hostesses, james dean shadow boys, and seaside lore pillowed back seat fogged window noche siestas.

Only at that moment, just that confused and unformed moment, break-out worthy or not, maybe unformed or not, others were trail-blazing after all we were, truth, clueless as to how far that music would take us, and how many acid-etched Dixie cup magic elixirs would have to be consumed before the music died, died of old age, old age at five or ten, and hubris, queen of the downfall night. And we danced, hampton beach surf danced, high building new york city tenement danced, iowa cornfield danced,  some tulsa good night two-step danced, rockymountainhigh danced, taos caverns ancient flame shadow ghost-danced, and slipped in oblivion big sur danced, and danced, and died of old age and hubris at five or ten.

That break-out by the way, maybe not so much the physical break-out as getting mentally de-rutted,  you know  box out get ahead, go ahead, don't make many waves, maybe a couple of faux waves for laughs, nothing serious and not taken so, just kid's stuff done since kids eternity, get schooled, get married, get white picket fence housed, make fewer waves, have two point three kids, make fewer waves, have them do likewise and fade into that tepid splash apologetic wave  of some long ago, ancient battered to smithereens clam shell stone cold night at Adamsville beach edge. So, yes, maybe not physical far break-out but far psychic break-out from small town, really small neighborhood, irish neighborhood, and ever those don't air your dirty linen in public grapevine tap-tapping before the larcenies, adulteries, christ, using the lord's name in vain, and you know what and whose lord, and worst, not church-going non-scared sacred heart parish show-ups that had the "shawlies" in a stew, gone done.

Gone, strangely gone, that  minute anyway gone, as well was last year's beat, really faux-beat style- which played to the rubes (and inflamed the "shawlies") AND fit very nicely, very nicely indeed, with midnight Harvard Square journey haunts, but that was last year, and big cloud puff  imitation james dean shadow  teen angst and alienation was the style. So gone also, like I said, this minute gone, were those all-weather, all-season (ya, summer too) brown-checkered flannel shirts, those mandatory, Frankie Larkin mandatory, king hell king of the schoolboy beat, ah faux-beat night, black chinos, uncuffed, of course, and those hades-bent work boots, clodhoppers really, although not gone, gone gone, those midnight sunglasses to protect against angst, alienation and barbs.

New age aborning new look. New minute look, so be forewarned. Multi-colored schoolboy jock, okay, okay, faux-jock, jacket worn, raider red and black, black and red, some combination reflecting old time glories, or promises of glory, won by default for long running service and not for glory, not for glory but for slows, but keep that between us, plaid shirt, all the possible shades of plaid if they exist purchased in the bargain center, pre-Wal-Mart night by frugal Ma but for once she hit it right, slacks, with cuffs, thank you, and loafers (sans pennies). Ya, strictly a college guy and no more mister nobody from nowhere but a guy who fit in, and he did, all the girls, all the blue-eyed, blond eight-million people weary Long Island transplants, all the dark-eyed senoritas tired of their own backwater small town grapevine whispers, all the Philly somebodies from somewhere out of a John O'Hara high society novel, were crazy to "check out" this specimen, this talk all night rap, rap irish boyo.  And most importantly, most importantly for this boyos, check out or not, they were all not North Adamsville and shames, hidden desires and blunt candid-less-ness Irish girls.

New inner look too, cool, not beat cool but joe college cool, disaffected, looking off to far reaches and not suffering fools gladly cool, learned at Humphrey Bogart's knee and perfected by some cat on a hot tin roof Paul Newman puffing madly to forget lost dreams of youth but who knew, although the newspapers were full of warning, hell we were going to live forever, cigarette, Winston or Marlboro, filtered, natch, just in case, just in case we were not going to live forever, not by mortality but by bomb boom boom in the cold war night. Yes, cool man jack cigarette, hanging from off the lip at some jagged angle, drawn deeply in and circles and smoke dreams created. More, amused girls also puffing to prove some equality, and some reflected man cool in that sexed-up, sex- maddened free time.

And get this, a cup of coffee, if coffee was the drink, black, black against all advise, black since late schoolboy Hayes-Bickford Harvard Square drowses searching for that next word, and the next break-out, literary, political, hell, even social, in hand, a glad hand either way, look right, look left, a gentle nod, a hard stare, a gentle snarl if such a thing is possible beyond the page. But mainly a look, a look of cool distain, of remove, of next please in the never-ending look game. Soon wearied of, very wearied, although not of looks, and glances.

One's act, fitfully, artlessly but rightly was thereafter moved onto Boston fresh streets, and a little fame. Joe College minute gone, vanished like so much train smoke, and bad dreams. Dressed in blue flannel shirt, blue denim, moccasins and midnight, eternal midnight sunglasses, and dressed, ah, in freedom but no one saw that. Finally, that one minute, no not fifteen, not fifteen at all, and not necessarily of the fame game, local fame, always local fame but fame. And then the music stopped, the crowds thinned out, the hardened Long Island transplants kept looking at guys in multi-colored jackets (although not always red and black), the Philly girls turned inward to their own crowd and began to dream of stockbroker mansions and riviera suntans, and the dark-eyed senoritas only knew of one night remembrances, and lust.  Then sunk in the abyss of non-fame, non- recognition and not seen snarls, gentle or otherwise.  A tough life lesson learned, very tough. And not yet twenty.

And all this very big build-up to "sell" this compilation to those who want to know what music drove us on, how the music and the break-out meshed and how, frankly, we kept this side of paradise before the veil came down and we, one by one, got further schooled, got white picket fence housed and were satisfied, just a little too satisfied, to watch tepid apologetic waves hit the stone cold shore. But also for just one minute knew deep down in our collective spines, as crowded like sardines we listened to some local mix and match rock group, who knows, maybe ready to break out big and we were there that night and had only paid a dollar to see them but mainly we were there, what it was like for women and men to play rock and roll music for keeps. Ya.


title: A New World A-Borning, part 2

text:
North Adamsville teenage hometown mucks break-out, crying to be broken out of, desperately crying to be broken out of, aided and abetted by break-out musical sensibilities where the message and the messenger were at one. And who were trying to break out of, desperately trying to break-out of the piddle paddle language and the paddle piddle beaten note formulae that had been solid gold guaranteed to thrill, thrill to the marrow, every red-blooded generation of '68 parent. The kids, well, the kids fell asleep, fell transistor blazing asleep in the cool night dreaming of adventure car hop hostesses, james dean shadow boys, and seaside lore pillowed back seat fogged window noche siestas.

Only at that moment, just that confused and unformed moment, break-out worthy or not, maybe unformed or not, others were trail-blazing after all we were, truth, clueless as to how far that music would take us, and how many acid-etched Dixie cup magic elixirs would have to be consumed before the music died, died of old age, old age at five or ten, and hubris, queen of the downfall night. And we danced, hampton beach surf danced, high building new york city tenement danced, iowa cornfield danced,  some tulsa good night two-step danced, rockymountainhigh danced, taos caverns ancient flame shadow ghost-danced, and slipped in oblivion big sur danced, and danced, and died of old age and hubris at five or ten.

That break-out by the way, maybe not so much the physical break-out as getting mentally de-rutted,  you know  box out get ahead, go ahead, don't make many waves, maybe a couple of faux waves for laughs, nothing serious and not taken so, just kid's stuff done since kids eternity, get schooled, get married, get white picket fence housed, make fewer waves, have two point three kids, make fewer waves, have them do likewise and fade into that tepid splash apologetic wave  of some long ago, ancient battered to smithereens clam shell stone cold night at Adamsville beach edge. So, yes, maybe not physical far break-out but far psychic break-out from small town, really small neighborhood, irish neighborhood, and ever those don't air your dirty linen in public grapevine tap-tapping before the larcenies, adulteries, christ, using the lord's name in vain, and you know what and whose lord, and worst, not church-going non-scared sacred heart parish show-ups that had the "shawlies" in a stew, gone done.

Gone, strangely gone, that  minute anyway gone, as well was last year's beat, really faux-beat style- which played to the rubes (and inflamed the "shawlies") AND fit very nicely, very nicely indeed, with midnight Harvard Square journey haunts, but that was last year, and big cloud puff  imitation james dean shadow  teen angst and alienation was the style. So gone also, like I said, this minute gone, were those all-weather, all-season (ya, summer too) brown-checkered flannel shirts, those mandatory, Frankie Larkin mandatory, king hell king of the schoolboy beat, ah faux-beat night, black chinos, uncuffed, of course, and those hades-bent work boots, clodhoppers really, although not gone, gone gone, those midnight sunglasses to protect against angst, alienation and barbs.

New age aborning new look. New minute look, so be forewarned. Multi-colored schoolboy jock, okay, okay, faux-jock, jacket worn, raider red and black, black and red, some combination reflecting old time glories, or promises of glory, won by default for long running service and not for glory, not for glory but for slows, but keep that between us, plaid shirt, all the possible shades of plaid if they exist purchased in the bargain center, pre-Wal-Mart night by frugal Ma but for once she hit it right, slacks, with cuffs, thank you, and loafers (sans pennies). Ya, strictly a college guy and no more mister nobody from nowhere but a guy who fit in, and he did, all the girls, all the blue-eyed, blond eight-million people weary Long Island transplants, all the dark-eyed senoritas tired of their own backwater small town grapevine whispers, all the Philly somebodies from somewhere out of a John O'Hara high society novel, were crazy to "check out" this specimen, this talk all night rap, rap irish boyo.  And most importantly, most importantly for this boyos, check out or not, they were all not North Adamsville and shames, hidden desires and blunt candid-less-ness Irish girls.

New inner look too, cool, not beat cool but joe college cool, disaffected, looking off to far reaches and not suffering fools gladly cool, learned at Humphrey Bogart's knee and perfected by some cat on a hot tin roof Paul Newman puffing madly to forget lost dreams of youth but who knew, although the newspapers were full of warning, hell we were going to live forever, cigarette, Winston or Marlboro, filtered, natch, just in case, just in case we were not going to live forever, not by mortality but by bomb boom boom in the cold war night. Yes, cool man jack cigarette, hanging from off the lip at some jagged angle, drawn deeply in and circles and smoke dreams created. More, amused girls also puffing to prove some equality, and some reflected man cool in that sexed-up, sex- maddened free time.

And get this, a cup of coffee, if coffee was the drink, black, black against all advise, black since late schoolboy Hayes-Bickford Harvard Square drowses searching for that next word, and the next break-out, literary, political, hell, even social, in hand, a glad hand either way, look right, look left, a gentle nod, a hard stare, a gentle snarl if such a thing is possible beyond the page. But mainly a look, a look of cool distain, of remove, of next please in the never-ending look game. Soon wearied of, very wearied, although not of looks, and glances.

One's act, fitfully, artlessly but rightly was thereafter moved onto Boston fresh streets, and a little fame. Joe College minute gone, vanished like so much train smoke, and bad dreams. Dressed in blue flannel shirt, blue denim, moccasins and midnight, eternal midnight sunglasses, and dressed, ah, in freedom but no one saw that. Finally, that one minute, no not fifteen, not fifteen at all, and not necessarily of the fame game, local fame, always local fame but fame. And then the music stopped, the crowds thinned out, the hardened Long Island transplants kept looking at guys in multi-colored jackets (although not always red and black), the Philly girls turned inward to their own crowd and began to dream of stockbroker mansions and riviera suntans, and the dark-eyed senoritas only knew of one night remembrances, and lust.  Then sunk in the abyss of non-fame, non- recognition and not seen snarls, gentle or otherwise.  A tough life lesson learned, very tough. And not yet twenty.

And all this very big build-up to "sell" this compilation to those who want to know what music drove us on, how the music and the break-out meshed and how, frankly, we kept this side of paradise before the veil came down and we, one by one, got further schooled, got white picket fence housed and were satisfied, just a little too satisfied, to watch tepid apologetic waves hit the stone cold shore. But also for just one minute knew deep down in our collective spines, and the experiences were collective from shared acid-etched magic elixirs at Big Sur, Big Apple and Big Fillamore to New Mexico Digger farms raising dusty crops for stews to caravans roaming ghost-vision caverns sharing, sharing whatever, to bad karma Grant Park, Chicago death house break-outs trying to free out, what it was like for women and men to play rock and roll music for keeps. Ya.


title: A New World A-Borning, part 1

text:
North Adamsville teenage hometown mucks break-out, crying to be broken out of, desperately crying to be broken out of, aided and abetted by break-out musical sensibilities where the message and the messenger were at one. And who were trying to break out of, desperately trying to break-out of the piddle paddle language and the paddle piddle beaten note formulae that had been solid gold guaranteed to thrill, thrill to the marrow, every red-blooded generation of '68 parent. The kids, well, the kids fell asleep, fell transistor blazing asleep in the cool night dreaming of adventure car hop hostesses, james dean shadow boys, and seaside lore pillowed back seat fogged window noche siestas.

Only at that moment, just that confused and unformed moment, break-out worthy or not, maybe unformed or not, others were trail-blazing after all we were, truth, clueless as to how far that music would take us, and how many acid-etched Dixie cup magic elixirs would have to be consumed before the music died, died of old age, old age at five or ten, and hubris, queen of the downfall night. And we danced, hampton beach surf danced, high building new york city tenement danced, iowa cornfield danced,  some tulsa good night two-step danced, rockymountainhigh danced, taos caverns ancient flame shadow ghost-danced, and slipped in oblivion big sur danced, and danced, and died of old age and hubris at five or ten.

That break-out by the way, maybe not so much the physical break-out as getting mentally de-rutted,  you know  box out get ahead, go ahead, don't make many waves, maybe a couple of faux waves for laughs, nothing serious and not taken so, just kid's stuff done since kids eternity, get schooled, get married, get white picket fence housed, make fewer waves, have two point three kids, make fewer waves, have them do likewise and fade into that tepid splash apologetic wave  of some long ago, ancient battered to smithereens clam shell stone cold night at Adamsville beach edge. So, yes, maybe not physical far break-out but far psychic break-out from small town, really small neighborhood, irish neighborhood, and ever those don't air your dirty linen in public grapevine tap-tapping before the larcenies, adulteries, christ, using the lord's name in vain, and you know what and whose lord, and worst, not church-going non-scared sacred heart parish show-ups that had the "shawlies" in a stew, gone done.

Gone, strangely gone, that  minute anyway gone, as well was last year's beat, really faux-beat style- which played to the rubes (and inflamed the "shawlies") AND fit very nicely, very nicely indeed, with midnight Harvard Square journey haunts, but that was last year, and big cloud puff  imitation james dean shadow  teen angst and alienation was the style. So gone also, like I said, this minute gone, were those all-weather, all-season (ya, summer too) brown-checkered flannel shirts, those mandatory, Frankie Larkin mandatory, king hell king of the schoolboy beat, ah faux-beat night, black chinos, uncuffed, of course, and those hades-bent work boots, clodhoppers really, although not gone, gone gone, those midnight sunglasses to protect against angst, alienation and barbs.

New age aborning new look. New minute look, so be forewarned. Multi-colored schoolboy jock, okay, okay, faux-jock, jacket worn, raider red and black, black and red, some combination reflecting old time glories, or promises of glory, won by default for long running service and not for glory, not for glory but for slows, but keep that between us, plaid shirt, all the possible shades of plaid if they exist purchased in the bargain center, pre-Wal-Mart night by frugal Ma but for once she hit it right, slacks, with cuffs, thank you, and loafers (sans pennies). Ya, strictly a college guy and no more mister nobody from nowhere but a guy who fit in, and he did, all the girls, all the blue-eyed, blond eight-million people weary Long Island transplants, all the dark-eyed senoritas tired of their own backwater small town grapevine whispers, all the Philly somebodies from somewhere out of a John O'Hara high society novel, were crazy to "check out" this specimen, this talk all night rap, rap irish boyo.  And most importantly, most importantly for this boyos, check out or not, they were all not North Adamsville and shames, hidden desires and blunt candid-less-ness Irish girls.

New inner look too, cool, not beat cool but joe college cool, disaffected, looking off to far reaches and not suffering fools gladly cool, learned at Humphrey Bogart's knee and perfected by some cat on a hot tin roof Paul Newman puffing madly to forget lost dreams of youth but who knew, although the newspapers were full of warning, hell we were going to live forever, cigarette, Winston or Marlboro, filtered, natch, just in case, just in case we were not going to live forever, not by mortality but by bomb boom boom in the cold war night. Yes, cool man jack cigarette, hanging from off the lip at some jagged angle, drawn deeply in and circles and smoke dreams created. More, amused girls also puffing to prove some equality, and some reflected man cool in that sexed-up, sex- maddened free time.

And get this, a cup of coffee, if coffee was the drink, black, black against all advise, black since late schoolboy Hayes-Bickford Harvard Square drowses searching for that next word, and the next break-out, literary, political, hell, even social, in hand, a glad hand either way, look right, look left, a gentle nod, a hard stare, a gentle snarl if such a thing is possible beyond the page. But mainly a look, a look of cool distain, of remove, of next please in the never-ending look game. Soon wearied of, very wearied, although not of looks, and glances.

One's act, fitfully, artlessly but rightly was thereafter moved onto Boston fresh streets, and a little fame. Joe College minute gone, vanished like so much train smoke, and bad dreams. Dressed in blue flannel shirt, blue denim, moccasins and midnight, eternal midnight sunglasses, and dressed, ah, in freedom but no one saw that. Finally, that one minute, no not fifteen, not fifteen at all, and not necessarily of the fame game, local fame, always local fame but fame. And then the music stopped, the crowds thinned out, the hardened Long Island transplants kept looking at guys in multi-colored jackets (although not always red and black), the Philly girls turned inward to their own crowd and began to dream of stockbroker mansions and riviera suntans, and the dark-eyed senoritas only knew of one night remembrances, and lust.  Then sunk in the abyss of non-fame, non- recognition and not seen snarls, gentle or otherwise.  A tough life lesson learned, very tough. And not yet twenty.

And all this very big build-up to "sell" this compilation to those who want to know what music drove us on, how the music and the break-out meshed and how, frankly, we kept this side of paradise before the veil came down and we, one by one, got further schooled, got white picket fence housed and were satisfied, just a little too satisfied, to watch tepid apologetic waves hit the stone cold shore. But also for just one minute knew deep down in our collective spines, and it was collective from Beatles-crazed British invasion teenage be-bopper throngs trying to storm heaven when they touched  down at some trembling New York airport to sweet-bitter summers of love rollicking in city commons to the great rural tribal gathering before the storm burst Woodstock Nation gluing to the Stones-etched Altamont flame-out crash and the ebb, what it was like for women and men to play rock and roll music for keeps. Ya.


title: When Jimmy Jack's Roared

text:
Scene brought to mind by the cover that graces this CD. Simple. A jukebox, a Wurlitzer jukebox gismo, bright lights inviting, all are welcome, standing alone in some off-hand corner ready to be played by the latest crowd of song-hungry nickel, dime and quarter carrying teens after they get out of a hard day of fighting boredom at school, in this case the hoary Olde Saco High School up in Maine (or down in Maine for the purists) or are getting ready to do the do on a Friday or Saturday night (in summer, any night) before heading to wilder visions out in the great snarl of the Atlantic Ocean wave machine that is the setting for more than one budding romance, teenage style, Maine ocean teenage style.

"No question, no question at all, Jimmy Jack's," answered Josh Breslin to the off-hand life and death question posed by Billy La Croix, king hell king or at least prince, given his age, a mere thirteen, of the be-bop-crazed young teen  night around Olde Saco, and maybe farther.

And the question posed by young Billy? Who has the best jukebox with the best and most up to date tunes around town? Of course, the question was a no-brainer, a real no-brainer, for real, because Billy just had to know the answer before he said it. See Billy is none other than the son of the owner of Jimmy Jack's Diner, the most popular hang-out for teens, young and old, in the whole southern coastal Maine area.

Perhaps an explanation is in order. First off, the Jimmy Jack's Diner we are referring to is the one on Main Street (really U.S. Route One but everybody calls it Main Street just to be in tune with the seven million other Main Streets that are really part of some state or federal road system and are just as forgettable in the dreary pass through towns of wayward America) down by the old long closed MacAdams Textile Mills, the one with the primo jukebox I just mentioned. The other Jimmy Jack's Diner, the one over on Atlantic Avenue  heading to the beach, is strictly for the early supper, two dinners for the price of  one before six, Monday through Thursday, discounts for seniors all day, every day, and  tourista in summer, place. With no jukebox, and with no need for such an object to draw the oldsters in.

Second, don't be fooled by the Jimmy Jack thing, like it was some wayward down home Alabama or Mississippi thing. That's a vanilla American thing that Billy's father, real name Jean Jacques LaCroix, picked out when everybody after World War II wanted to leave their heritage behind and drop hyphens.  Billy, Jimmy Jack, hell, even Josh Breslin on his mother`s side (nee Leblanc) are nothing but French-American from way back, not Parisian types though but from Canada, you know Quebec or Nova Scotia, places like that.

And don't get any idea, any idea at all that Billy LaCroix, or Jimmy Jack's Diner's jukebox, is filled up with hokey Cajun ancient Arcadian twos-step jolie blon memory accordion stuff. No Billy is not the king hell king of, maybe prince, given his age, of that kingdom but the, like I said before, be-bop teen night. That means rock, rock and rock for the squares, maybe a doo-wop tune or a weeper for the girls just to keep things interesting. And that has been true for a while.

Here's how it works.  Mr. LaCroix (although everybody calls him Jimmy Jack, except Mrs. LaCroix who still calls him some romanticky, smoochy, lovey-dovey, Jean Jacques, for some reason) figured out that with two diners in one town he wanted to cater to two different clienteles. You already know about the nursing home diner over on Atlantic Avenue for cheapos trying to impress nobody since everybody is already married. But the real Jimmy Jack's with jukebox in tow is now strictly for teen-agers, for those who want to be teenagers but can't because they are too old (or too young, maybe), and at night, especially weekend nights a little older crowd, a motorcycle and hot road crowd really for action but in need of early evening or late night (Jimmy Jack's is open 24/7) refreshments and a little hot music to get things going. And to check out, ya, check out the honeys who line up around the place to be checked out. But you figured that out already. I hope.

And this is where Billy comes in, although now that you know some stuff asking Josh that question about who had the best jukebox was nothing but pure vanity on his part. His part now that he is king, or prince or something. But what got Jimmy Jack pushing the teen scene business is from the time he met Stu Miller, the king hell king and not no prince either but a real king of the hot road night, the only serious night around Olde Saco. Stu came into Jimmy Jack's one day, one afternoon, from what I heard, for some coffee and. Business was a little slow so they got to talking and during the conversation Stu mentioned that the joint could use a jukebox so that kids who wanted to hear the latest tunes about twelve times in a row could do so in comfort, maybe dance a little, and just hang out.

Jimmy Jack didn't think much of the idea  while Stu was talking until about a half hour later while they were still mulling it over, pro and con, at least fifteen girls began filling up the booths and ordering Cokes and. And, of course, if fifteen girls are, just casually after a hard day looking beautiful at school and all, sitting  in any public space for more than two minutes then, like lemmings to the nearby sea, thirty guys are going to be hanging around the booths ordering their Pepsi and. Of course, the real draw was Stu and his custom-built '57 fire red Chevy that every girl in town, and from what I heard a few women, a couple married, wanted a ride in. And enough had, girls and women both, so that hanging around old Jimmy Jack's, or any place else was just plain good luck for any girl (or woman) looking to try her luck.

You know, naturally, that Stu still has a special parking spot out in front of Jimmy Jack's and no one, not police or anybody, had better be seen in it, or else. What you don't know is that once Stu made Jimmy Jack's his headquarters the jukebox was a sure thing and the master mad man in charge of keeping the machine filled with the latest hits and throwing out last week's faded flowers was none other than Billy LaCroix. And his vanity question. And although Josh, as is his wont, will probably be scratching his head for a while over why Billy asked that question one and all should know that what makes Jimmy Jack's jukebox jump is one William La Croix.

See Billy, since about the age of eight, has had an ear for the rumble coming out of the hills of rock and roll, for the real deal stuff, and the fakos too. So you can be sure that there will be plenty of Brenda Lee and her All Alone Am I and Break It To Me Gently for the swooning girls, and guys who have just been dumped by their true loves and couldn't express themselves better than listening to Brenda eighty-six times to get over it, and they do. Get over it, that is.  And the Drifters up-beat Up On The Roof (and whatever dream image that roof brings to mind) will get play as will the soapy Everley Brothers' Crying In Rain. And Billy says Shelley Fabares' Johnny Angel is nothing but candy for those self-same swooning girls and, get this, guys too because she looks kind of innocent foxy the way a lot of guys like their frills.

Jesus, you know every last dance dee-jay is hoping and praying that nobody ever, ever gets tired of last dance of the night because `Til by The Angels is built for nothing but last dance time. And every guy is hoping he gets lucky, and girls too. By the way forget Neil Sedaka's Breaking Up Is Hard To Do, The Lettermen's When I Fall In Love and Brian Hyland's Sealed With A Kiss. Strictly faded flowers. You see what I mean. Ya, Jimmy Jack's was the best.


title: When The Music's Over

text:
Scene: Brought to mind by a the cover art on this CD of a Steppenwolf-like mushroom-headed band  getting ready to belt out some serious rock in the heat of the "Generation of `68" night once the "high" wears off, a little.

"That Mustang Sally is a real piece of work," the Prince of Love (a. k. a. Josh Breslin from out of Olde Saco, Maine) thought to himself as he sat in the back of the bus, the magical mystery tour, merry prankster, yellow brick road bus that he had been "on" since the summer of love, last summer, the summer of 1967, the summer of his high school graduation, as the bus headed to their spring encampment down at Big Sur. Yes, Sally, (a. k. a. Susan Sharpe, Michigan Class of 1959, and a couple of other degrees to boot) sure had Captain Crunch (a. k. a. Robert Hutchins, Columbia, Class of 1958), the "owner" and all-around mentor of one and all, except to Sally, of course, over a barrel. See, Captain was the wizard king of the "on the bus" scene but he was nuts about Sally and went blind every time she took a new lover. Sally, in her way, was true to the Captain too, except that she liked to "play the field" a little. Yes, she had the Captain over a barrel alright, and she made him like it.

Sally's specialty was befriending younger, usually younger, guys although she never thought to give me a tumble but that may have been out of respect for Butterfly Swirl who was my first "bus" love and who had flown the coop last fall to go back to Carlsbad High and her golden-haired surfer boy. And inside that specialty Sally was really friendly toward young rock and rock musicians. Right now she was "dating" Jimmy Jakes, the drummer from the new rage band at the Fillmore West, the Magic Mushrooms. And making the Captain like it. Ya, she is some piece of work.

But the Captain, if you can believe this, is just a little less mad at this Jimmy affair than Sally thinks because Jimmy's Mushrooms not only make the room jump for the "acid freaks" that every San Francisco night group has to cater to but have a political message too. A hard political message about youth waking up and learning about how those who came to America in the old days just raped the land, raped anything they could get their hands on and then moved on, and that their progeny were still doing. Their best song, which the Captain loved enough to keep playing over and over on the bus's amped up stereo system, Mickey Mouse Monster, was deep into that message. The Captain, when he wasn't stoned, angry at Sally, or just cynical that day started this whole bus thing just to search for a `new world" and he was still searching.

Funny that the Captain would grant "absolution" to Sally for Jimmy over a simple song but Jimmy, in addition, actually talked politics, real world politics to the Captain. Stuff like how music could be the driving force of the revolution, and that John Lennon should be the head of it, and everybody should go back to the land for a while, all kinds of wild ideas like that. Ideas that for "acid" rock guys were too profound, especially when the high wore off. But the Captain listened, sometimes attentively and sometimes with a smirk. Except when that smirk turned to a big-time frown, when the Captain noticed that Sally was now hovering around a guy playing an electric flute. Ya, Sally had the Captain over a barrel, no question.


title: When Rock Came Out From Under The Rock

text:
Scene evoked by the cover art that graces the front of this CD. The cover illustrates an example of 1965 teen jail-break concert, or better, some local teen queen bee club, where a local cover band, complete with mopped-hair and Nehru jackets, amped-up to the high heavens is trying to make its own musical break-out.

Ya, Olde Saco, Maine is rocking tonight. School's over for the summer, mercifully over, and everybody who is anybody, anybody in the teen world, what other world is there, is out in the sea breeze night. Hell, Josh, Joshua Lawrence Breslin, freshly-minted junior-to-be at Old Saco High come the fall earlier in the evening even counted a bunch of walkers and others touristas who don't really count out this night. This Friday night just before the French-Canadians from up in Quebec (the locals call them "cubies," to draw a distinction between the foreigners and the homegrown varieties  of French Canadian including Josh himself whose mother is a LeBlanc) descend on the town come July and take up all the air, the Maine soft fluffed beach sand, and the whiskey clubs with their arcadian dreams, and liquor stinks.

Ya, he chuckled to himself they sure don't count, not tonight. And not down at the Surfside Club where the local favorites from up in Bangor, the Rockin' Ramrods, are holding thier first concert, well, dance really since they fronted for The Kinkies down in one of Boston's Fenway night clubs a few weeks back. Now, for the squares, what the Surfside is about is a teen night club where no liquor is served, no official liquor okay. And only people eighteen to twenty-one can get in. Period, well, kind of period.

See last summer after the Beatles hit the shore the guy who owns the Surfside, Lenny LaCroix,  decided he could make more dough, lots more dough, using his club on Friday and Saturday nights to let the teeny-boppers bop (hey, that is how he explained it to one and all in the Olde Saco Tribune). Before that he used to have a fox-trot and whisky crowd, mainly whisky, foul up the place for a few hours before heading off to watch late night television or something. And so almost every week since then every eighteen to twenty-one year old within fifty miles including those tweedy Colby girls and Bates guys came thundering down the newly opened Maine Turnpike to listen to what was what on the local music scene. But mainly to be seen, and see. Officially, okay

Hold on a minute. How does one Joshua Lawrence Breslin, who by no stretch of the imagination can fit the eighteen year old minimum either by looks or by stance, fit in. Well, that is where the old ancient human game, hell maybe Adam and Eve invented it, who you know, who you know in the Old Saco teen night scheme of things come into play.

See the king hell king of that night is none other than usually day and night whiskey-soaked "Stewball" Stu (although nobody, nobody alive anyway, calls him to his face, not if they want to stay alive anyway) who has been the king of the car-crazed night here as long as anyone can remember. Why? Let us just say `57 cherry flaming hellfire red "boss" Chevy and be done with it. And Josh, having inadvertently done Stu a good turn turning over some local Lolita that Stu was interested in, has been riding "shot gun" on most Friday and Saturday nights in that "57 chariot for the past couple of years.

And the very long in the tooth (over 21) Stu is nothing but the guy who turned  the owner of the Surfside, Lenny,  on to the idea of evicting the sloe-gin fizz crowd and making his joint a teen club. Besides Stu, at the best of times an oily mechanic to normal people (read: non-teens), is nothing but a magnet for the legion of honeys who love '57 Chevys, or rather love being seen in that kind of vehicle, and what that does to them in lots of ways. Best of all if Stu, who sometimes can be a hard and cruel king, is open-armed welcome his boy Josh is welcome too. So tonight is no different from a million other nights that way. Strictly Friday routine.

So this night Josh is making his usual trek over to Stu's "house," really just a mucked-up trailer cum ad hoc garage, hell, let's just call it a dump and be done with it, down at the corner of his own wrong side of the tracks street, Albemarle , and Main. That trip is required protocol now since mother Delores (nee LeBlanc,and no nonsense French-Canadian in such matters) put her foot down (or rather both feet) last spring and declared Stu and his car persona non grata and persona non cara. No big deal this night though as the stars have come out and Josh dreams his usual dream, his usual Friday night salacious dream of "scoring" a bevy of babes at this hoe-down teen night club scene so that he will have one for each night in the week like his mentor, Stu. He arrives at Stu's, they pass their usual grunt greetings, and they are off into the ocean air, wave-flecked night.

First stop. Or rather first pass through. Jimmy Jacks' Diner (the one on Main and Atlantic, the teen girl magnet and guy hot car hang-out one, not the lame senior citizen blue plate special before six joint over on West Grand, hell no) to see who may be out and about early, who is not going anywhere near some hot teen club, and who, or what, crazed who is looking for Stu to go mano y mano with him on some dawn Squaw Rock "chicken" run. Ya, some crazed yahoo from the sticks or something who hasn't heard that Stu and his Chevy are immortal. But this night "no dice," nothing, nada and so it is off to the pier to scout things out there on the pilgrimage.

Scouting the pier is a much part of the Friday night summer ritual as breathing, no question. See this is like Stu's coronation, or reaffirmation of his kinghood. And also see that the honeys who hang around the pier are those who, unlike Josh and his cachet, have no chance of sneaking (or staying) into the Surfside and so they must cool their act on the amusement park boardwalk. That little problem, however, does not stop them from getting in line, a line six deep at times, to oh, oh, oh, Stu's Chevy and hope, hope that maybe tonight he sees their teeny-bopper charms. And Stu, normally a girl stoic at least out front, loves this adoration from, well from girls his own age, socially developed own age.  Josh though thanks his lucky stars Stu is that way ever since that local Lolita turnover, thanks his lucky starts everyday.  Even if the Stu aura has never brought him any luck with those silly, screaming skee ball sticks.  Even on a lonesome Monday night.

But even an adored king knows that hanging around parent and cop heavy boardwalks is ill-advised, especially ill-advised, when one Officer "Pete" is aiming dead-eye at Stu and getting his pencil and citation book out ready to pounce on some lame town ordinance to ticket Stu. They are off, although more than one pair of sad-eyed, mini-skirted sticks is moaning and groaning about the leaving. Jesus, Stu really is the king hell king.

Arriving at the Surfside (on East Grand just after the Acey-Duecey Club where all the lamo, old-time motorcycle guys and their "sweeties" hang trying to jump-start their youth dreams) Stu parks in the spot that Lenny has set aside for him as is appropriate for royalty. Stu and Josh go in. And, as usual, they split up and take their respective spots around the bandstand. For a while now Stu and Josh have agreed, no, Stu have proclaimed that once inside the club it is every man for himself and Stu wants no high school junior-to-be messing with his time. Period.

Stu, of course, gets his usual looks from the local shapes (no amusement boardwalk stuff here either, pure honey) who know that a look from Stu means a ride in that '57 Chevy if not tonight then sometime. But see Stu's fifteen minutes of fame  is strictly local, the girls from the colleges, the ones that Josh eyes and spies, think Stu is, if you can believe this, nothing but a high school drop-out and/or hoodlum. At least that is what one such college girl had just told Josh, while they were slow dancing to Otis Redding's I've Been Loving You Too Long, when he tried to lash-up to Stu's star with a freshman girl, Laura, from Colby.

And see, maybe, she, Laura, was right, well right from her Colby perspective, because just before midnight Stu (with a hot red head, definitely a shape, in short green mini-skirt whom Josh had seen around town working in one of the summer hash houses) came up to Josh and for the umpteenth time told him that he had to find his own way home because, well, just because.  Just then that Colby girl, maybe sensing that Josh wasn't some Stu clone, jumped right in and said she would make sure that Josh got home. And the way she said it had Olde Saco Rock jetty beach front ocean  "parking"  and checking out the dawn all over it. Ya, Olde Saco rocked that night.


title: Out In The Be-Bop Mid-1950s Night

text:
Scene; Brought to mind by the black and white family album-style photograph that graces the cover of this CD. On this one we are treated to a photograph of a well-groom boy and girl, teenagers of course, who else would listen to rock and roll in the be-bop 1950s night. Every parent, every square parent, and they were legion, who had any sense at all was banning, confiscating, burning, or otherwise destroying every record, 45 RPM or long-playing, that came through the front door with junior and missy. Reason? Said rock `n' roll led to communistic thoughts, youth tribal hanging together (to the exclusion, no, to the denials of the existence of, parents), bad teeth, acne, brain-death, or most dreaded the "s" word, s-x.

But let's leave the world of parents and concentrate on the couple in the photo, Josh Breslin, and his date, his first date, his first date ever, Julie Dubois, who are just now shuffling the records looking to see if Earth Angel by the Penquins is in the stack to chase away the awkwardness both are feeling on this first date.  It turns out that both are crazy about that platter so they are reaching way back in their respective mind's recesses to come up with every arcane fact they know about the song, the group, how it was produced, anything to get through that next few moment until the next dance started.

Now Josh always thought he was cool, at least cool when he was dealing with his boy gang boys. But this girl thing was a lot harder than it looked, once you had exhausted every possible fact about Earth Angel and then had to reach way back in the mind's recesses again when he tried to do the same for The Clover's version of Blue Velvet. No sale, Julie didn't like that one; she smirked, not dreamy enough. The ditto when, Julie, seriously trying to hold up her end went on and on about Elvis' Blue Moon cover. No sale, no way, no dice said Josh to himself and then to Julie since they had vowed, like some mystical rite of passage passed down from  eternal teenagerness, be candid with each other. Finally, Julie's shuffling through the platters produced The Turban's When You Dance and things got better. Yes, this was one tough night, on tough first date, first date ever night.

Maybe the whole thing was ill-fated from the beginning. Josh's friend, maybe best friend, at Olde Saco Junior High, Rene Leblanc, was having his fourteenth birthday party, a party that his mother, as mothers will, insisted on being a big deal. Big deal being Rene inviting boys and girls, nice boys and girls, dressed in suits, or a least jackets and ties (boys), and party dresses (girls) and matched-up (one boy, one girl). Mrs. Leblanc was clueless that such square get-ups and social arrangements in the be-bop teen night would "cramp" every rocking boy and girl that Rene (or Josh) knew. But the hardest part was that Josh, truth, had never had a boy-girl date and so therefore had no girl to bring to Rene's party. And that is where Julie, Rene's cousin from over in Ocean City, came in. She, as it turned out, had never had a girl-boy date. And since when Mrs. Leblanc picked Josh up on party night and then went over to Ocean City for Julie, introduced then, and there was no love at first sight clang, Josh figured that this was to be one long, long night.

So the couple, the nervous couple, nervous now because the end of the stack was being reached when Marvin and Johnny's Cherry Pie came up, both declared thumbs, up they both let out a simultaneous spontaneous laugh. And the reason for that spontaneous laugh, as they were both eager to explain in order to have no hurt feelings, was that Josh had asked Julie if she was having a good time and she said, well, yes just before they hit Cherry Pie pay-dirt. Just then Rene came over and shouted over the song being played on the record player, The Moonglow's Sincerely, "Why don't you two dance instead of just standing there looking goofy?" And they both laughed again, as they hit the dance floor, this time with no explanations necessary.


title: In The Heart Of The Fillmore Night

text:
Scene: Brought to mind by one of the songs in this compilation, The Jefferson Airplane's Fillmore West-driven classic wa-wa song, Someone To Love.

It wasn't my idea, not the way I was feeling then although I had "married" them under the stars one night, one late June night, in this year of our summer of love 1967. Married Prince Love (a.k.a. Joshua Breslin, late of Olde Saco High School Class of 1967, that's up in Maine) and Butterfly Swirl (a.k.a. Kathleen Clarke, Carlsbad High School Class of 1968, that's down south here in California), my "family" as such things went on the merry prankster yellow brick road bus that brought us north to `Frisco. I had only "adopted" the Prince here on Russian Hill one day when he was looking for dope. Before that I had traveled all through the great western blue-pink night, as my North Adamsville corner boy friend, Peter Paul Markin, would say from Ames, Iowa where  I got "on the bus," the Captain Crunch merry prankster bus).

I brought Butterfly and Lupe Matin (her Ames "road" name then although now she is going under the name Lance Peter. No, don't get the idea she has gone male, no way, no way in freaking hell and I have the scars on my back to prove it.  It's just her, well, thing, the name-changing thing, and her real name anyway is Sandra Sharp from Vassar, that's a high-end New York college for women, okay) up here for a serious investigation of the summer of love we kept hearing about down in Carlsbad where we camped out (actually we looked out for the estate of friend, or maybe better an associate, of our "leader," Captain Crunch, as care-takers). Yes, the "old man," me, Far-Out Phil (a. k. a. Phil Markin, North Adamsville Class of 1964, that's in Massachusetts, okay) married them but I was not happy about it because I was still not done with Butterfly myself. Only the residual hard-knocks North Adamsville corner boy in me accepted that Butterfly had flown from me.

It was all Captain Crunch's idea, although Mustang Sally (a. k. a. Susan Stein), if she was talking to the Captain (a. k. a Samuel Jackman) just then, which was always a sometime thing lately since she had taken up with a drummer from one of the myriad up-and-coming "acid rock" bands that had sprouted out of the Golden Gate night, The Magic Mushrooms, and the Captain was not pleased, not pleased at all, probably was the real force behind the idea. The idea? Simple enough, Now that they, the they being the thousands of young people who had fled, fled a millions ways, west, were about creating a merry prankster yellow bus world on the hills of San Francisco the notion that Prince Love and Butterfly Swirl were "married" under the sign of "Far-Out Phil and would have proper bourgeois "wedding reception" was impossible. Celebrate yes, no question. Celebrate high and hard, no question. But the times demanded, demanded high and hard, some other form of celebration. And that is where the Captain (or, as seemed more and more likely once more facts came out, Mustang Sally) hit his stride.

Here is the "skinny."  The Captain knew somebody, hell the Captain always knew somebody for whatever project he had in mind, connected to the Jefferson Airplane, a hot band that was going to be playing at the Fillmore next Saturday night. And that somebody could get the Captain twenty prime tickets to the concert. [Everybody suspected that the deal was more nuanced than that, probably the tickets for a batch of Captain-produced acid, or in a two-fisted barter, a big pile of dope, mary jane most likely, from somebody else for something else and then a trade over for the tickets. That high finance stuff was never very clear but while nobody worried much about money, except a few hungry times out in some god-forsaken desert town or something, there usually was plenty of Captain dough around for family needs.] So the Captain's idea was that this concert would be an electric kool-aid acid test trip that was now almost inevitably part of any 1967 event, in lieu of that bourgeois (the Captain's word, okay) wedding reception.  And, see, the Prince and Butterfly, were not to know because this was going to be their first time taking some of that stuff, the acid (LSD, for the squares, okay). And once the acid hit the Captain said, and the rest of us agreed, there would be no sorrow, no sorrow at all, that they had not had some bogus old bourgeois wedding reception.

Saturday night came, and everybody was dressed to the nines. (Ya, that's an old Frankie Riley, North Adamsville corner boy leader, thing that I held onto, still do, to say hot, edgy, be-hop.  Let's just concentrate on the "bride" and "groom" attire and that will give an idea of what nines looked like that night. Butterfly, a genuine West Coast young blonde beauty anyway, formerly hung-up on the surfer scene (or a perfect-wave surfer guy anyway), all tanned, and young sultry, dressed in a thin, almost see-through, peasant blouse. According to Benny Buzz, a kind of connoisseur on the subject,  it wasn't really see-through but he lied, or close to it, because every guy in the party or later, at the concert, craned his neck to look at the outline of her beautiful breasts that were clearly visible for all to see. And while she may have been "seek a new world" Butterfly Swirl she was also an old-fashioned "tease," and made no apologies for being so.  He also wore a short mini-skirt that was de rigueur just then that highlighted her long well-turned legs (long flowing skirts were to come in a little later) and had her hair done up in an utterly complicated braid that seemed impossible to have accomplished piled high on her head, garlands of flowers flowing out everywhere, and silvery, sparkling, starry mascara eyes and ruby-red, really ruby red lips giving a total  effect that even had the Captain going, and the Captain usually only had his eyes, all six of them, fixed on Mustang Sally.

And the "groom." Going back to Olde Saco roots he wore along with his now longer flowing hair and less wispy beard an old time sea captain's hat, long flared boatswain's whites, a sailor's shirt from out of old English Navy times and a magical mystery tour cape in lieu of the usual rough crewman's jacket. A strange sight that had more than one girl turning around and maybe scratching her head to figure out his "statement." That didn't however stop them from looking and maybe making a mental note to "try him out" sometime. (By the way, I told the Captain later that the Prince had no idea of  making a statement and, being more than a little stoned on some leftover hash that he found around he just grabbed what was at hand).

Now back to the action. In order to "fortify" everyone for the adventure the Captain proposed a "toast" to the happy couple before we left the merry prankster yellow bus to make the one mile trip to the Fillmore. So everybody, including the bride and groom toasted with Dixie cups of kool-aid. The Prince and Butterfly were bemused that, with all the liquor available around the bus, the Captain proposed to use kool-aid for the toast. Well, we shall see.  And they shall see.


title: The Great San Francisco Summer Of Love

text:
Scene: Brought to mind by one of the songs in this compilation, The Byrds  Filimore West-driven  classic wa-wa song, So You Want To Be A Rock `n' Roll Star .

Phil Larkin, now road-weary "Far-Out" Phil Larkin, for those who want to trace his evolution from North Adamsville early 1960s be-bop night "Foul-Mouth" Phil, the vocal terror  of every mother's daughter from six to sixty (and, occasionally, secret delight, secret delight of one Minnie Callahan, damn him, for one of some girl classmates), to full-fledged merry prankster now sits on a 1967 be-bop night San Francisco hill with his new flame Butterfly Swirl, and his old flame, Luscious Lois, now transformed into Lilly Rose, transformed at the flip of a switch, as was her way when some whim, or some word in the air, hit her dead center. (Sometime, but not now, remind me to give you my take on this name-changing epidemic as not only were we re-inventing ourselves physically and spiritually but in our public personas shedding our "slave names" much as some blacks were doing for more serious reasons than we had at the time. Yes, remind me.  A nameless hill, nameless to first time `Frisco Phil, although maybe not to some ancient Native American shaman delighted to see our homeland the sea out in the bay working it way to far-off Japans. Or to some Spanish conquistador, full of gold dreams but longing for the hills of Barcelona half a world away.

But enough of old-time visions, of old time rites of passage, and of foundling dreams. Phil, and his entourage (nice word, huh, no more girlfriend solo, or as here paired, lovingly paired, to be hung up about, just go with the flow). Phil, Butterfly, hell, even jaded Lilly Rose (formerly known as Luscious Lois in case you forgot, or we not paying attention) are a "family," or rather part of the Captain Crunch extended intentional family of merry pranksters (small case, so as not to be confused with their namesakes and models legendary mad man writer Ken Kesey and his La Honda Merry Pranksters, okay) who just yesterday hit `Frisco and have planted their de rigueur day-glo bus in the environs of Golden Gate Park  after many months on the road west, and some time down south in La Jolla. After hearing the siren call they have now advanced north to feast on the self-declared Summer of Love that is guaranteed to mend broken hearts, broken spirits, broken rainbows, broken china, and broken, well broken everything. The glue: drug, sex, and rock `n' roll, although not just any old-timey be-bop fifties rock and roll but what everybody now calls "acid" rock. And acid, for the squares out there, is nothing but the tribal name for LSD that has every parent from the New York island to the Redwood forests, every public official from `Frisco to France, and every police officer (I am being nice here and will not use the oink word) from the Boston to Bombay and back, well, "freaked out" (and clueless). Yes, our Phil has come a long way from that snarly wise guy corner boy night of that old town he lammed out from (according to his told story) just about a year ago.

Or has he? Well, sure Phil's hair is quite a bit longer, his beard less wispy and more manly, his tattered Chuck Taylor sneakers transformed into sensible (West Coast ocean sensible) roman sandals and his weight, well, his weight is way down from those weekly bouts with three-day drug escape, and fearful barely eaten four in the morning open hearth stews, and not much else. And as he sits on that nameless hill with his "ladies" he no longer has the expectation of just trying LSD for the hell of it, having licked it (off a blotter), or drank it (the famous, or infamous, kool-aid fix), several times down in La Jolla, watching the surf (and surfers) splashing against the Pacific world with blond-haired, blue-eyed, bouncy Butterfly, and the raven-haired, dark as night-eyed Lilly Rose, or both listening to the music fill the night air. Not square music either (anything pre-1964 except maybe some be-bop wild piano man Jerry Lee Lewis, or some Chicago blues guitar fired by Muddy Waters or microphone-eating Howlin' Wolf),  but moog, boog, foog-filled music.

Just that nameless hill minute though, and to be honest, while in the midst of another acid trip (LSD, for the squares just in case you forgot), Phil sensed that something had crested in the Pacific night and that just maybe this scene  will not evolve into the "newer world" that everybody, especially Captain Crunch, keeps expecting any day now. Worst, now that he knows he can't, no way, go back to some department  clerk's job, some picket-fenced white house with dog, two point three children, and a wife what is to happen to him when Butterfly, Lilly Rose, and even Captain Crunch "find" themselves and go back to school, home, academic careers, or whatever. Heavy, man, heavy.


title: Save The Last Dance For Me

text:
Scene: Brought to mind by one of the songs in this compilation, The Drifters classic end of the night high school dance number, Save The Last Dance For Me.

Recently, when I was reviewing a companion CD in this Time-Life Music series, AM Gold: 1962, I mentioned, in detailing some of the events surrounding the North Adamsville Class of 1962-sponsored version of the traditional late September Falling Leaves Dance that one of the perks that year was getting to hear the vocals of local singer and classmate, Diana Nelson, backed up by local rock band favorite, The Rockin' Ramrods. I also mentioned that her selection had been the result of a singing competition held by the town fathers and that I would relate some of the details of that competition at a later date. That time has come. Additionally, I related that I had had a "crush" on Miss (Ms.) Nelson since I started staring, permanently staring, at her ass when she sat a few seats in front of me in ninth grade. At the time of the above-mentioned dance she was "going steady" with some college joe, and had not given me the time of day, flirting or encouraging-wise, since about tenth grade, although we always talked about stuff, music and political stuff, two of my passions, and hers too. Here's the "skinny."
******
No question that about 1960, maybe into 1961, girl vocalists were the cat's meow. (Okay, young women, but we didn't call them that then, no way. Also no way as well is what we called them, called them among we corner boys at Salducci's Pizza Parlor, especially when we got "no action." I don't have to draw you a diagram on what that meant, right?). You can, if you were around then, reel off the names just as well as I can, Connie Francis, Carla Thomas, Patsy Cline, and the sparkplug Brenda Lee. I won't even mention wanna-bes like Connie Stevens and Sandra Dee, Christ. See, serious classic rock by guys like Elvis, Bo Diddley, Chuck Berry and Jerry Lee Lewis was, well, passé, in that musical counter-revolution night. But music, like lots of other things abhors a vacuum and while guys were still singing, I guess, the girl singers (read young women, okay, and we will leave it at that) "spoke" to us more. Especially to record- buying girls who wanted to hear about teen romance, teen alienation, lost love, unstoppable hurts, betrayal (usually by the girl's best friend and her boyfriend, although not always), lonely Friday nights, and other stuff that teenagers, boys and girls equally, have been mulling over, well, since they invented teenagers a long time ago.

So it was natural for the musically-talented girls around North Adamsville, and maybe around the country for all I know, to test themselves against the big name talents and see what they had. See if they could make teen heaven- a record contract with all that entailed. In North Adamsville that was actually made easier by the town fathers (and they were all men, mostly old men in those days so fathers is right), if you can believe that. Why? Because for a couple of years in the early 1960s, maybe longer, they had been sponsoring a singing contest, a female vocalist, singing contest. I heard later, and maybe it was true, that what drove them was that, unlike those mid-1950s evil male rockers mentioned above, the women vocalist models had a "calming effect" on the hard-bitten be-bop teen night. And calm was what the town fathers cared about most of all. That, and making sure that everything was in preparedness for any Soviet missile strike, complete with periodic air raid drills, christ again.

In 1962 this contest, as it was in previous years, was held in the spring in the town hall auditorium. And among the contestants, obviously, was that already "spoken for" Diana Nelson who was by even the casual music listener the odds-on favorite. She had prepped a few of us with her unique rendition of Brenda Lee's I'm Sorry so I knew she was a shoo-in. And she was. What was interesting about the competition was not her victory as much as the assorted talents, so-called, that entered this thing. If I recall there were perhaps fifteen vocalists in all. The way the thing got resolved was a kind of sing-off. A process of elimination sing-off.

Half a dozen, naturally, were some variation of off-key and dismissible out of hand. These girls fought the worst when they got the hook. Especially one girl, Elena G., if anyone remembers her who did one of the worst versions  of Connie Francis' Who's Sorry Now I had (and have) ever heard. The more talented girls took their lost with more grace, probably realizing as Diana got into high gear that they were doomed. But here is the funny part. One of the final four girls was not a girl at all. Jimmy C. from right down the end of my street dressed himself up as girl (and not badly either although none of us knew much about "drag queen" culture then) and sang a great version of Mary Wells' Two Lovers. Like I said we knew from nothing about different sexual preferences and thought he just did it as a goof. (I heard a couple of years later that he had finally settled in Provincetown and that fact alone "hipped" me to what he was about, sexually.)

I probably told you before that one part of winning was a one thousand dollar scholarship. That was important, but Diana, when she talked to me about it a couple of days later just before class, said she really wanted to win so she could be featured at the Falling Leaves Dance. Now, like I said, I had a big crush on her, no question, so I was amazed that she also said that she wanted me to be sure to be at the dance that next late September. Well, if you have been paying attention at all then you know I was there. I went alone, because just then I didn't have a girlfriend, a girlfriend strong enough for me to want to go to the dance with anyway. But I was having a pretty good time. I even danced with Chrissie McNamara, a genuine fox, who every guy had the "hots" for since she, just the night before, had busted up with Johnny Callahan, the football player. And Diana sang great, especially on Brenda Lee's I Want To Be Wanted. She reached somewhere deep for that one.

Toward the end of the evening, while the Rockin' Ramrods were doing some heavy rock covers, Chuck Berry's Sweet Little Sixteen I think, and she was taking a break, Diana came over to me and said, I swear she said it exactly like this- "save the last dance for me." I asked her to repeat herself. She said Bobby (her college joe) was not here that evening for some reason I do not remember and that she wanted to dance the last dance with someone she liked. Well, what's a guy to do when someone like Diana gives her imperial command? I checked my dance card and said "sure." Now this last dance thing has been going on every since they have had dances and ever since they have had teenagers at such events so no big deal, really. Oh, except this, as we were dancing that last dance to the Ramrod's cover of The Dubs Could This Be Magic Diana, out of the blue, said this. "You know if you had done more than just stared at my ass in class (and in the corridors too, she added) in ninth grade maybe I wouldn't have latched onto Bobby when he came around in tenth grade." No, a thousand times no, no, no, no...


title: The Big Time 1962 Teen Angst Night

text:
Scene: Brought to mind by one of the songs on this CD, Brenda Lee's Break It Too Me Gently.

Friday night, a late September Friday, I think, because it was just getting cold at night around old North Adamsville. And there was a cold political menace (soon to get hot, very hot) in the air as well from those pesky Cubans and their patrons, the Soviets. In any case a high school Friday night because the night we are talking of was the night of the Falling Leaves Dance that had been an institution (and still is) at North Adamsville High since Hector was a pup. Or at least as far back as my mother's time, Delores Markin, North Adamsville Class of 1943, the war years, oops, the World War II war years so that you don't get mixed up on which war. Every red-blooded teen angst-ridden boy or girl with the dollar required for entry was going to show up, singly or in couples.

Now I should explain that this dance was no Johnny Jones, the local kid with the most rock and roll records and an arcane knowledge of said records, acting as D.J. at the regular free cheap jack weekly Friday night, well, let's call it sock hop. (You all had your Johnnies so I don't have to detail his exploits, okay). No, this was a get out you best party dress girls, no tee shirts need apply guys, almost "formal" dance. And two things right away distinguished it for the low-rent sock hop. Yes, of course, it was still held in the crusty old North Adamsville gym but the place, courtesy of the North Adamsville Class of 1962 Senior Dance Committee (whee!), the senior class always sponsored this one, had the place looking, well, like a hotel ballroom. No faded banners and bunting this night. Flowers, tablecloth on the tables, glasses to drink your soda from rather than from the bottle, and so on. Ya, this one was different.

The really big difference though, Johnny Jones's high opinion of his musicological skills notwithstanding, was that this night there was live music provided by Diana Nelson and her pick-up band, crazed local favorites, the Rockin' Ramrods. No scratchy records over Jones' jerry-rigged sound system this night but the real thing. Diana on vocals, and the Ramrods for some serious rock and roll covers. Now the reason that Diana Nelson was featured that night may surprise you, or maybe not. In the year 1962 everybody, boys and girls almost equally, were crazy for girl vocalists singing their hearts out, and singing mushy stuff about heartbreak, loneliness, sorrow, and other stuff than only teenagers in the be-bop 1962 night knew (or cared) about. Patsy Cline, Connie Francis, Brenda Lee, Carla Thomas, and especially of late, Brenda Lee, singers like that with big voices and some serious sadnesses to speak of.

So the town fathers, in their infinite wisdom, decided that such wholesome, if sorrowful, music should have its local representative and sponsored, sponsored out of town funds if you can believe this, a singing contest with a one thousand dollar scholarship prize attached for the winner. More importantly, as least to hear Diana tell it, was the chance to be the female vocalist (with those Ramrods backing her up) at the Falling Leaves Dance.

Sometime I will tell you about that competition because some things that happened there would have amused, or befuddled you. One thing that would not is the fact that Diana Nelson was, by far, the best female vocalist there with her stirring rendition of Brenda Lee'sI'm Sorry. Not a lip-sych-like imitation but in her own style. Even though I was no mushy-headed guy but a regular Salducci's Pizza Parlor corner boy, and took no notice of girlish sentiment, well, little notice anyway, I stood on my chair and applauded. Truth to tell, I had a big thing for Diana, and had been staring at her ass in classes and in the halls ever since about ninth grade so that might have added to my delight at her victory. Of course my Salducci's corner boys will try to tell you that I was one hundred percent skirt-addled and dismissed this Diana thing out of hand. Don't believe it, even though she never gave me a tumble (she was "going steady" with some college guy).

The reason I won't go into that competition thing now is because this story is really about Johnny Callahan, you know the still hallowed "tear 'em up" fullback on the 1962 championship North Adamsville Red Raiders football team. And, well, it really isn't even a story but just another one of those things that have been happening to guys since about Adam, if not before. Now that I think of it, before.

See Johnny and Chrissie McNamara had been going out for the previous couple of years since sophomore year when Chrissie, a young woman not to be messed with when she had a bee in her bonnet, set out to "capture" one Johnny Callahan. No quarter given. Well, she got her man, got him bad. Got him six ways to Sunday. I was there the night, another Friday night if I recall correctly, that Chrissie, by general agreement, general boy agreement anyway, a fox came strolling, no, zeroing in on Johnny and sat right down on his lap and practically dared him to push her off. What she didn't know (nor did we) was that Johnny was crazy for Chrissie, and had been for quite a while. Everybody laughed when Chrissie, red-faced but determined, said "Johnny, I'm going to sit here and it will take the whole football team to pull me off." Of course Johnny was holding her so tight to him that it would have taken the whole football team, maybe the junior varsity thrown in too, to get her off his lap.

But that was then. Of late the freeze had been on between them. Reason: one Lance Duncan, if you can believe that. With a fox like Chrissie, no way. Lance, despite his preppie name out of some F. Scott Fitzgerald Basil and Josephine story, was after all nothing but the local whiz kid Math guy. And just then Chrissie was on a "smart" kick. Now Johnny Callahan could carry twelve guys on his back over the goal line on a granite gray fall Saturday afternoon but, let's say, would be hard-pressed to accurately count the number of guys on his back. So Thursday night, Thursday night the day before the Falling Leaves Dance, for chrissake, Chrissie gave old Johnny the "kiss-off." Gently, nicely, with a soft landing as was Chrissie's way but still a kiss-off.

So Johnny would not be sitting at one of the those freshly laundered tableclothed tables drinking his soda from a glass instead of from the bottle waiting to be crowned king of the dance along with queen, Chrissie. I hoped, hoped to high heaven, when I heard the ugly details, that it would not affect his game that Saturday against tough arch-rival Clintondale High (it didn't). He was so pissed off he went crazy, crazy enough to count those thirteen guys he was carrying on his back when he went over the goal line for his fifth touchdown of the afternoon.

P.S. Even now, maybe especially even now these many years later, do not believe that nonsense from some unnamed corner boys about my "hitting" on Chrissie at that Saturday football game just mentioned (Math whiz Lance did not go to football games, period) now that she was "free." Utter nonsense.