title: You Are On The Bus Or Off The Bus

text:
Scene: Brought to mind by one of the pieces of artwork that graces each CD in this series. In this case, this 1966 case, the then almost ubiquitous merry prankster-edged converted yellow brick road school bus, complete with assorted vagabond minstrel/ road warrior/ah, hippies, that "ruled" the mid-1960s highway and by-ways in search of the great American freedom night. We never found it in the end, but the search was worth it then, and still worth it now.
*****
A rickety, ticky-tack, bounce over every bump in the road to high heaven, gear-shrieking school bus. But not just any yellow brick road school bus that you rode to various educationally good for you locations like movie houses, half yawn, science museums, yawn, art museums, yawn, yawn, or wind-wept picnic areas for  some fool weenie roast, two yawns there too, when you were a school kid. And certainly not your hour to get home daily grind school bus, complete with surly driver (male or female, although truth to tell the females were worst since they acted just like your mother, and maybe were acting on orders from her) that got you through K-12 in one piece, and you even got to not notice the bounces to high heaven over every bump of burp in the road. No, my friends, my comrades, my brethren this is god's own bus commandeered to navigate the highways and by-ways of the 1960s come flame or flash-out.

Yes, it is rickety, and all those other descriptive words mentioned above in regard to school day buses. That is the nature of such ill-meant mechanical contraptions after all. But this one is custom-ordered, no, maybe that is the wrong way to put it, this is "karma" ordered to take a motley crew of free-spirits on the roads to seek a "newer world," to seek the meaning of what one persistent blogger on the subject has described as "the search for the great blue-pink American Western night."

Naturally to keep its first purpose intact this heaven-bound vehicle is left with its mustard yellow body surface underneath but over that primer the surface has been transformed  by generations (generations here signifying not twenty-year cycles but trips west, and east) of, well,  folk art, said folk art being heavily weighted toward graffiti, toward  psychedelic day-glo hotpinkorangelemonlime splashes and zodiacally meaningful symbols.  And the interior. Most of those hardback seats that captured every bounce of childhood have been ripped out and discarded to who knows where and replaced by mattresses, many layers of mattresses for this bus is not merely for travel but for home. To complete the "homey" effect there are stored, helter-skelter, in the back coolers, assorted pots and pans, mismatched dishware, nobody's idea of the family heirloom china, boxes of dried foods and condiments, duffle bags full of clothes, clean and unclean, blankets, sheets, and pillows, again clean and unclean.

Let's put it this way, if someone wants to make a family hell-broth stew there is nothing in the way to stop them. But also know this, and know it now, as we start to focus on this journey that food, the preparation of food, and the desire, except in the wee hours when the body craves something inside, is a very distant concern for these "campers." If food is what you desired in the foreboding 1960s be-bop night take a cruise ship to nowhere or a train (if you can find one), some southern pacific, great northern, union pacific, and work out your dilemma in the dining car. Of course, no heaven-send, merry prankster-ish yellow brick road school bus would be complete without a high-grade stereo system to blast the  now obligatory "acid rock" coming through the radiator practically, although just now, as a goof, it has to be a goof, right, one can hear Nancy Sinatra, christ, Frank's daughter how square is that, churning out These Boots Are Made For Walkin'.

And the driver. No, not mother-sent, mother-agent, old Mrs. Henderson, who prattled on about keep in your seats and be quiet while she is driving (maybe that, subconsciously, is why the seats were ripped out long ago on the very first "voyage" west). No way,  but a very, very close imitation of the god-like prince-driver of the road, the "on the road" pioneer, Neal Cassady, shifting those gears very gently but also very sure-handedly  so no one notices those bumps (or else is so stoned, drug or music stoned, that those things pass like so much wind). His name: Cruising Casey (real name, Charles Kendall, Harverford  College Class of '64, but just this minute, Cruising Casey, mad man searching for the great American be-bop night under the extreme influence of one Ken Kesey, the max-daddy mad man of the great search just then). And just now over that jerry-rigged big boom sound system, again as if to mock the newer world abrewin' The Vogues' Five O' Clock World.

And the passengers. Well, no one is exactly sure, as the bus approaches the outskirts of Denver, because this is strictly a revolving cast of characters depending on who was hitchhiking on that desolate back road State Route 5 in Iowa, or County Road 16 in Nebraska, and desperately needed to be picked up, or face time, and not nice time with a buzz on, in some small town pokey. Or it might depend on who decided to pull up stakes at some outback campsite and get on the bus for a spell, and decide if they were, or were not, on the bus. After all even all-day highs, all-night sex, and 24/7 just hanging around listening to the music, especially when you are ready to scratch a blackboard over the selections like the one on now, James and Bobby Purify's I'm Your Puppet, is not for everyone.

We do know for sure that Casey is driving, and still driving effortlessly so the harsh realities of his massive drug intake have not hit yet, or maybe he really is superman. And, well, that the "leader" here is Captain Crunch since it is "his" bus paid for out of some murky deal, probably a youthful drug deal, (real name, Samuel Jackman, Columbia, Class of 1958, who long ago gave up searching, searching for anything, and just hooked into the idea of "taking the ride"), Mustang Sally (Susan Stein, Michigan, Class of 1959, ditto on the searching thing), his girlfriend, (although not exclusively, not exclusively by her choice , not his, and he is not happy about it for lots of reasons which need not detain us here). Most of the rest of the "passengers" have monikers like Silver City Slim, Luscious Lois (and she really is), Penny Pot (guess why), Moon Man, Flash Gordon (from out in space somewhere, literally, as he tells it), Denver Dennis (from New York City, go figure), and the like. They also have real names that indicate that they are from somewhere that has nothing to do with public housing projects, ghettos or barrios. And they are also, or almost all are,  twenty-somethings that have some highly-rated college years after their names, graduated or not). And they are all either searching or, like the Captain, at a stage where they are just hooked into taking the ride.

One young man, however, sticks out, well, not sticks out, since he is dressed in de rigeur bell-bottomed blue jeans, olive green World War II surplus army jacket (against the mountain colds, smart boy), Chuck Taylor sneakers, long, flowing hair and beard (well, wisp of a beard) and on his head a rakish tam just to be a little different, "Far Out" Phil (real name Phillip Larkin, North Adamsville High School Class of 1964). And why Far Out sticks out is not only that he has no college year after his name, for one thing, but more importantly, that he is nothing but a old-time working class neighborhood corner boy from in front of Salducci's Pizza Parlor back in North Adamsville, a close-by suburb of Boston.

Of course then  Far Out Phil was known, and rightly so as any girl, self-respecting or not, could tell you as "Foul-Mouth" Phil, the world champion swearer of the 1960s North Adamsville (and Adamsville Beach) be-bop night. And right now Far Out, having just ingested a capsule of some illegal substance (not LSD, probably mescaline) is talking to Luscious Lois, talking up a storm without one swear word in use, and she is listening, gleam in her eye listening, as ironically, perhaps, The Chiffons Sweet Talkin' Guy is beaming forth out of his little battery-powered transistor radio (look it up on Wikipedia if you don't know about primitive musical technology) that he has carried with him since junior high school. The winds of change do shift, do shift indeed.


title: Out In The Be-Bop 1961 School Dance Night

text:
Scene: Brought to mind by one of the pieces of teen life-driven artwork that graces each CD in this series.

Saturday night, any third Saturday of the month from September to May, when every red-blooded teen boy and girl in the 1961 North Adamsville High School be-bop,be-bop night could only be in one locale, or want to be. That was the night of the monthly seasonally-themed high school hop where anyone, even freshmen and sophomores, could ante up the dollar admission and dance the night away. Well, almost dance the night away. And that is the dilemma confronting one freshman, Gary Ladd (he is the "wallflower" way off to the side of the gym almost into the wall if you didn't think you saw him on one of the nights in question).

Gary, well, we might as well have our moment of truth right up front, can't dance. Can't dance a damn, to hell, heaven or any place in between. Two- leftfeet. Two left-feet despite the best efforts of one Agnes Ladd, North Adamsville Class of 1961 Vice President, whose own feet have taken a terrible beating trying to teach little brother Gary the elements of the waltz, the fox trot, and hell, even the twist to no avail. But Gary, no twerp under his two left-footed exterior, has always, as he put it, exercised his democratic right to be at these universal dances, come hell or high water.

But this night, this warm April Springfest Dance night, things might just be a little different as Gary takes his place against the far wall (the wall farthest away from the girl "wallflowers" just in case you wanted an exact location. Mostly wallflowers, boy or girl, are keeping their respective distances on the odd chance that someone may actually come up and ask them to dance). First off this month the local craze rock band sensations, The Rockin' Ramrods, are here live on the makeshift bandstand. And just this minute they are tuning up with the appropriately named Please Stay by the Drifters. Secondly, a new girl in town, Elsie Mae Horton, is here. Naturally the mere fact that she is here is added reason why Gary is here (and why he tortured his sister Agnes to try, try in vain, to teach him some dance steps). See Gary has the "bug" for Elsie Mae, ya, he is smitten.

Now this Elsie Mae is maybe, on a scale of one to ten, about a six so it is not looks that have Gary (and about six other guys), well, smitten. But what Elsie Mae has is nothing but smarts, book smarts, idea smarts, talk smarts you name it smarts and one of the sweetest smiles this side of heaven. And, as Gary found out early on in one of their shared classes, very easy to talk to about anything. Yes, he is smitten; the only unknown is whether she can dance good enough to stay out of his way. That is if he gets up the nerve to ask her. And as the Ramrods start their first set with Gary Bonds' School Is Out (praise be) he notices her coming in the door. Heart pounding he starts sinking into the wall again. As they finish with Brother Bonds the Ramrods start in on The Impressions' Gypsy Woman before Gary realizes that Elsie Mae has drawn a bee-line straight for him and is standing right in front of him, turning a little red. "Oh, my god," Gary whispers under his breathe, "she is going to ask me to dance. No way."  The usually easy to talk to Elsie Mae though says nothing, nothing but turns a little redder as the Ramrods cover the Pips Every Beat Of My Heart (nicely done too). She is waiting for Gary to ask her, if you can believe that. Well, two-left feet or not, he does ask her. And she smiles a little smile as she "accepts." Relief.

Needless to say when they did their dance, The Edsels' Rama Lama Ding Dong, it was nothing but a disaster. A Gary disaster? Yes. But here is the funny part. Elsie Mae Horton, formerly of Gloversville and new to North Adamsville so of unknown dance quality, had two-left feet too. Get this though. When the dance was mercifully finished, and the two had actually survived, Elsie Mae thanked Gary and told him that he was a wonderful dancer and she wished that she could dance like him. Whee! Here is the real kicker though. Elsie Mae had also been taking dancing lessons, unsuccessfully. Dancing lessons so that two-left feet Elsie Mae Horton could dance with Gary Ladd.  See, she was "smitten" too. And so if you did not see Gary or Elsie Mae at the Mayfair Dance you have now solved that mystery. They were sitting, sitting very close to each other, on the seawall down at Adamsville Beach laughing about starting a "Two-Left Feet" Club. With just two members.


title: In The Time Of Donna Blanchard's Time- With Elvis Presley In Mind

text:
Scene: Brought to mind by one of the snapshot photos that grace each CD in this series. Doc's Drugstore and Soda Foundation (not shown), located in the heart of the North Adamsville shopping streets, and most importantly, just a few minutes walk from North Adamsville High School. The soda fountain counter area is complete with a dozen single stools, a speckled faux-marble formica countertop with assorted pastry trays, candy boxes, pie cabinets and various condiment combinations for Doc's `greasy spoon" hamburgers and hot dogs. Said single stools are strictly for losers, girl friend-less guys (or once in a great while a girl just trying catch a quick soda on the way home) or old people waiting for Doc to fill their ancient medicines prescriptions. They are no factor, no factor at all in this teen-worthy world. No, less than no factor. Every once in a while, however, one of Fritz Cullen's corner boys takes his foot off the wall in front of Doc's and enters to get a take out Cherry Coke, the de riguer drink of Fritz's boyos.

But the fountain is strictly for food and drink, food and drink that is also strictly secondary to why Doc's is a teen-worthy heaven. The real draw is the quiet booths that line both corner walls and are only for after school boy-girl couples, four-some girls looking for guys to dance with, and at night, mainly school year weekend and summer every nights, Fritz's Cullen's corner boys when they tire of holding up Doc's wall out front (or more realistically when the hour is late and the girl prospects have dimmed). But the booths mean nothing by themselves except as "resting" areas after some fast dance coming from Doc's super-charged juke box, complete with the very latest records straight from Pete' Platters Record Shop so you know the are hot.

Right now, just this very teen ear minute, one can hear the sassy sound of The Drifters This Magic Moment in the background as we fix on a boy and girl taking a break from deep conversation (deep conversation related in teen world to either sex, setting up dates, analyzing the state of their eternal relationship, or some combination of all three) and taking a straw sip from their shared Cherry Coke. The Cherry Coke automatically means that rank and file Doc's corner boy Harry "Red" Radley is present on one of the straws. On the other Donna Blanchard, one of the hottest sixteen year old sophomore girls at North Adamsville High, with a nice shape, a sweet smile, and a "come hither" look that has had more than one boy moony-eyed for her affections. But no dice, no dice at all. In this autumn of the year of our lord nineteen hundred and sixty Miss Donna Blanchard only has eyes, and whatever else she has to give, for one Red Radley. Let's listen in as the eminently forgettable Booby Vee is droning on in the background about some lost love (and rightfully so, if the truth be known) on Take Good Care Of My Baby.
*********

"What the matter, honey, don't you want me like that, " murmered Donna Blanchard after being told for the fifth or sixth time by our corner boy Red Radley that, if you can believe this, no he was not ready for heavy sex (meaning of course, in the language of the young, some variety of "going all the way"). It seems that last Saturday night down at Adamsville Beach, the local "parking" heaven where one and all went to see the "submarine races" in the local teen code parlance Donna, making no bones that she was ready, more than ready, to go all the way with Red got turned down. Turned down flat. Fortunately for Red Donna, embarrassed by such a fool for a boy friend, had "neglected" to mention this hard fact of life when the obligatory Monday morning Girls' "Lav" talk got around to the subject of the weekend scorecard. In short, who did, and didn't do it. Right now Red and Donna are trying to sort things out as a strangely ironic song by Cathy Jean and the Roommates, Please Love Me Forever, spins on the juke box.

What? A member in good standing of Fritz Cullen's corner boys, corner boys who have, publicly anyway, notched up (went all they way with) more North Adamsville girls than maybe there were girls in North Adamsville turned down a chance at paradise. And turned down a certified fox like Donna Blanchard. No way. Moreover, Red, displaying he not uncommon teen male bravado had lied to his fellow corner boys and said that he had had already "gone all the way" with Donna. Jesus. Did our Red have a medical problem? No. Did he have some religious scruples about pre-martial sex? Hell, no. Our Red, as it turns out was a virgin and was terrified when Donna, a virgin herself but ready for the time of her time, came on so strong. Especially when she went wild on Saturday night when the local 24/7 rock and roll station, WMEX, played a medley of Elvis tunes including his latest, Surrender.

Some times things end right in the teen universe, sometimes they don't. This time they didn't. Well, at least for Red. After their little conversation at Doc's Red and Donna agreed, but mostly Donna agreed, that they should see other people. That's teen code, and maybe universal code, for "breaking up." So now one sees the fetching Donna Blanchard riding around in Jimmy Jakes '59 cherry Chevy, and sitting very close indeed. Moreover she has that look, that certain look like she now knows a thing or two about ways of the world. Well, after all it was the time of her time, wasn't it? As for Red, well, Red is seen more and more occupying one of those single stools at Doc's counter sipping a Cherry Coke and endlessly throwing nickels, dimes and quarters in the juke box playing Elvis' It's Now or Never. Enough said.


title: Beach Blanket Bingo

text:
No question that my corner boy comrades from the old Frankie Riley-led Salducci's Pizza Parlor hang-out and me from the day high school got out for the summer drew a bee-line straight to the old-time Adamsville Beach of blessed memory. Did we go to said beach to be "one" with our homeland, the sea? No. Did we go to admire the boats and other things floating by? No. Did we go to get a little breeze across our sun-burned and battered bodies on a hot and sultry August summer day. No. Well, maybe a little. But come on now we are talking about sixteen, maybe seventeen, year old guys. We were there, of course, because there were shapely teeny-weeny bikini-clad girls (young women, okay, let's not get technical about that pre-woman's liberation time) sunning themselves like peacocks for all the world, all the male teenage North Adamsville world, the only world that mattered to guys and gals alike., to see.

And they were sunning themselves and otherwise looking very desirable and, well, fetching, in not just any old spot wherever they could place a blanket but strictly, as tradition dictated, tradition seemingly going back before memory, between the North Adamsville and Adamsville Yacht Clubs. So, naturally, every testosterone-driven teenage lad who owned a bathing suit, and some who didn't were hanging off the floating dock right in front of said yacht clubs showing off, well, showing off their prowess to the flower of North Adamsville maidenhood. And said show-offs included, of course, Frankie Riley (when he was not working at the old A&P Supermarket), his faithful scribe, Peter Paul Markin, and other including the, then anyway, "runt of the litter," Johnny Silver. It is Johnny's sad beach blanket bingo tale that gets a hearing today. If it all sounds kind of familiar, even to the younger set, it is because, with the exception of the musical selections, it is.

*********

"The next girl who throws sand in my face is going get it," yelled Johnny Silver to no one in particular as he came back the Salducci's Pizza Parlor corner boy beach front acreage just in front of the seawall facing, squarely facing, midpoint between the North Adamsville and Adamsville Yacht Clubs. As the sounds of Elvis Presley's Loving You came over Frankie Riley's transistor radio and wafted down to the sea, almost like a siren call to teenage love, one of those no one in particulars, Peter Paul Markin replied, "What did you expect, Johnny? That Katy Larkin is too tall, too pretty and just flat-out too foxy for a runt like you. I am surprised you are still in one piece. And I would mention, as well, that her brother, "Jimmy Jukes," does not like guys, especially runt guys with no muscles bothering his sister." Johnny came back quickly with the usual, "Hey, I am not that small and I am growing, growing fast so Jimmy Jukes can eat my... "But Johnny halted just in time as one Jimmy Jukes, James Allen Larkin, halfback hero of many a North Adamsville fall football game came perilously close to Johnny and then veered off like Johnny was nothing, nada, no thing. And after Jimmy Jukes was safely out of sight, and Frankie flipped the volume dial on his radio louder as the Falcons' You're So Fine came on heralding Frankie's attempt by osmosis to lure a certain Betty Ann McCarthy his way, another standard brand fox in the teenage girl be-bop night, Johnny poured out his sad saga.

Seems that Katy Larkin was in one of Johnny's classes, biology he said, and one day, one late spring day Katy, out of the blue, asked him what he thought about Buddy Holly who had passed away in crash several years before, well before he reached his potential as the new king of the be-bop rock night. Johnny answered that Buddy was "boss," especially his Everyday, and that got them talking, but only talking, almost every day until the end of school. Of course, Johnny, runt Johnny, didn't have the nerve, not nearly enough nerve to ask a serious fox like Katy out, big brother or not. Not until this very day when he got up the nerve to go over to her blanket, a blanket that also had Sara Bigelow and Tammy Kelly on board, and as a starter asked her if she liked Elvis' That's When The Heartache Begins. She answered quickly and rather curtly (although Johnny did not pick up on that signal) that it was "dreamy." Then Johnny's big moment came and he blurted out, "Do you want to go to the Surf Dance Hall with me Saturday night? Crazy Lazy is the DJ and the Rockin' Ramrods are playing. And as the reader knows, or should be presumed to know, Johnny's answer was a face full of sand. And that sad, sad beach saga is the end of another teen angst moment. So the to the strains of Robert and Johnny's We Belong Together we will move along.

Well, not quite. It also seems that Katy Larkin, tall (too tall for Johnny, really), shapely (no question of really about that), and don't forget foxy, Katy Larkin had a "crush" on one John Raymond Silver if you can believe that. She was miffed, apparently more than somewhat, that Johnny had not asked her out before school got out for the summer. That more than somewhat entailed throwing sand in Johnny's face when he did get up the nerve to ask. So on the first day of school, while Johnny was turning his radio off and putting it in his locker just before school started, after having just listened to the Platters One In a Million for the umpteenth time, Katy Larkin "cornered" (Johnny's term) Johnny and said in a clear, if excited voice, "I'm sorry about that day at the beach last summer." And then in the teenage girl imperative, hell maybe all woman imperative, "You are taking me to the Fall All-Class Mixer and I will not take no for an answer." Well, what is a guy to do when that teenage girl imperative, hell maybe all women imperative, voice commands. So Johnny is now re-evaluating his attitude toward beach sand and maybe, after all, it was just a girl being playful. In any case, Johnny grew quite a bit that summer and now Katy Larkin is not too tall, not too tall at all, for Johnny Silver to take to the mixer, or any where else she decides she wants to go.


title: In The Heart Of The Last Kiss Night

text:
Scene: (Prompted by the cover photograph, the memory cover photograph, which graces each CD in this Heart of Rock `n' Roll series. The photo on this CD, as might be expected, shows a he, Johnny Riley, and a she, Peggy McGuire, half-dancing, half-embracing, half-kissing (wait a minute that is too many halves, right?). Kissing that last dance kiss as if their lives depended on it, and maybe it does. Or it had better be so else this scene will turn to ashes)

Johnny Riley had been thinking, thinking hard about Peggy, Peggy McGuire, all day as he prepared himself in anticipation of his date with her for that night's school dance over at the North Adamsville High gym. Although they had only gone out a few times, a few glorious down the day time beach, out to the movies, and after school bowling at Jake's Bowling and pizza at Salducci's times he was thinking hard about her just the same. Ya, it was getting to be like that. More pressing though was, if she liked him too, and he thought she might, what it would be like on their first kiss. She looked like a good kisser but kissing, although he didn't have all that much experience at it truth to tell, wasn't something you could tell about by looking; only doing. With that "wisdom" in mind he planned, planned hard, almost as hard as he was thinking about Peggy on how he would "work" around to that first kiss tonight. Ya, tonight was the night he thought to himself later as he made his final preparations, teeth brushed, check, mouth wash, check, deodorant, check, hair tonic-ed and combed, check. Ready.

And out the door with the keys to father's, clueless father's, automobile on loan, on special Johnny loan for this evening because Johnny's father "liked" Peggy. Johnny wondered, wondered for just a second, whether his father and mother kissed. Nah, no way. And as he drove to pick Peggy up Johnny went through his plan in his head one more time. At the dance he was going to dance all the slow dances real close and real physical to get her worked up a little. Then after the dance suggest that they go to Salducci's for some pizza and then down the beach to "watch the submarine races." Although he wouldn't say that but more like it was nice night and let's go down to the beach and watch the moon or something like that. The key though was to get her "in the mood" with that slow dancing.

Well, Johnny picked Peggy up, they talked in the car on the way over, just chitchat stuff, Johnny parked the car, and they went into the dance. No problems so far, and things were going according to Johnny plan because no sooner had they got there than the DJ played Fever by Little Willie John and Johnny "worked" his closeness magic and a few songs later with Long Lonely Nights by Lee Andrews and The Hearts. After intermission the DJ played Ivory Joe Hunter's Empty Arms, a song, no question, designed to bring lips together. And Johnny could sense that Peggy, every time he held her closer, didn't try to back off but just followed his lead and stayed close. Yes, this was going to be the night. A couple of songs they sat out as both agreed they were drippy like old foggy Pat Boone's April Love and Lloyd Price's Just Because.

Then Elvis' Love Me came on and they got up again to dance. About two seconds into the dance Peggy gave Johnny the biggest kiss he had ever received in his life, not a long kiss but big, big with meaning, kiss. Right on the dance floor. And then Peggy said she had enough of dancing and since it was such a nice night maybe they could go down to the beach to cool off and "watch the submarine races." See, as hard as Johnny was thinking about Peggy that day, Peggy McGuire was thinking just a little harder about him, and about why he was taking so long to give her a first kiss like he didn't want to. So a girl had to take things in hand sometimes. Of course old clueless Johnny only found this out, between kisses, as they were watching those submarine races on that nice night down at the beach. Thanks Elvis.


title: In The Corvette Night

text:
I have recently been on a tear in reviewing individual CDs in this extensive Time-Life Rock `n' Roll series. A lot of these reviews have been driven by the artwork which graces the covers of each item, both to stir ancient memories and reflect that precise moment in time, the youth time of the now very, very mature (nice sliding over the age issue, right?) baby-boomer generation who lived and died by the music. And who fit in, or did not fit in as the case may be, to the themes of those artwork scenes. This The `60s: Rave On is a case of the latter, of the not fitting in. On this cover, a summer scene (always a nice touch since that was the time when we had at least the feel of our generational breakout), a summer night scene, a lovers' lane summer's night scene, non-described as such but clearly "boss" Corvette car scene spells it all out for this car-less teen, no car soon in sight teen, and no gas money, etc., etc. even if I had as much as an old Nash Rambler junk car. But not to speak bitterness today, I do want to talk car dream, Corvette car dream, okay.

I have ranted endlessly about the 1950s as the "golden age of the automobile" and I am not alone. As perceptive a social critic and observer as Tom Wolfe, he of Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test and many other tribal gathering-type book screeds, did a whole book on the California car culture, the California post World War II teen car culture that drifted east and "infested" plenty of young working class kids in that time, the time of white tee-shirts, jeans, maybe a leather jacket against life's storms, and of endless grease monkey tune-up to get that engine revved just right. Moreover, nostalgia-driven George Lucas's American Graffiti of 1973 is nothing but an ode to that good-night teen life, again California-style.

Sure, and as it drifted back east Sammy the local wizard, car wizard, had all the girls, all the good-looking girls hanging around his home garage just waiting to be "selected" for a ride in Sammy's latest effort, usually some variation off a '57 Chevy. And Sammy, believe me, was nothing but very average for looks. But get this, old bookish reviewer, old two-thousand facts and don't stop counting reviewer, got exactly nowhere even with the smart girls in Sammy-ruled land. Ya, get away kid, `cause Sammy is the be-bop daddy of the Eastern ocean night. And books and book-knowledge, well you have old age for books but a '57 Chevy is now. And here is the unkindest cut of all-"go wait for the bus at the bus stop, boy. Sammy rules here."

But a man can dream, can't he? And even Sammy, greased up, dirty fingernails, blotched tee-shirt, admitted, freely admitted, that he wished, wished to high heaven that he had enough dough for the upkeep on a Corvette the ding-daddy (his word) "boss" (my word) car of the age and nothing but a magnet for even smarter and better looking girls than the neighborhood girls that "harassed" him. ( I found out later that this "harassed" was nothing but a nothing thing because come Friday or Saturday night he had more than his fair share of companions down by the seashore-every thing is alright night.) Still Corvette meant big dough and as the scene in this CD indicates, probably big "new money" California daddy rich kid dough to look out at the Hollywood Hills or Laguna Beach night. Ya, that's the dream, and that window-fogged night part too.

And whether you were a slave to your car (or not as with this writer), be it '57 Chevy, Corvette or just that old beat down, beat around Nash Rambler you had that radio glued, maybe literally, to the local rock station to hear the tunes on this CD. Although truth to tell this writer listening to his be-bop little transistor radio would not have gone crazy over the mix presented here. This is a second compilations of `60s hits but it seems to have run out of steam so the few stick-outs here include: Let's Have a Party (a great rockabilly tune by one of the few woman in that genre, Wanda Jackson; Chains (great harmony by this group that also did backups on a ton of other material), The Cookies; and, If You Need Me (his heyday and much under-appreciated as an early soulful singer except, of course, when they played him as last dance and you got the courage to ask that certain she you had been eyeing all night to dance, thanks S.B.), Solomon Burke.


title: And They Showed Movies Too

text:
I have recently been on a tear in reviewing individual CDs in this extensive Time-Life Rock `n' Roll series. A lot of these reviews have been driven by the artwork which graces the covers of each item, both to stir ancient memories and reflect that precise moment in time, the youth time of the now very, very mature (nice sliding over the age issue, right?) baby-boomer generation who lived and died by the music. And who fit in, or did not fit in as the case may be, to the themes of those artwork scenes. This 1963 CD is a case of the former, of the fitting in. On this cover, a summer scene (always a nice touch since that was the time when we had at least the feel of our generational break-out) we are at the drive-in, the drive-in movies for those of the Internet/Netflicks/YouTube generations who have not gotten around to checking out this bit of Americana on Wikipedia, with the obligatory 1950s-early 1960s B-movie monster movie (outer space aliens, creatures from the black lagoon, blobs, DNA-damaged dinosaurs, foreign-bred behemoths a specialty) prominent on the screen.

Oh sure, everyone of a certain age, a certain baby-boomer age, a generation of '68 age, has plenty of stories to tell of being bundled up as kids, maybe pre-set with full set pajamas on to defend against the late sleepy-eyed night, the sleepy-drowsy late movie night, placed in the car backseats and taken by adventurous parents (or so it seemed) to the local open air drive-in for the double feature. That usually also happened on a friendly summer night when school did not interfere with staying up late (hopefully through both films). And to top it all off you got to play in the inevitable jungle jim, see-saw, slide, swing set-ladened playground during intermission between the film while waiting, waiting against all hope, for that skewered, shriveled hot dog, rusty, dusty hamburger, or stale, over the top buttered pop corn that was the real reason that you "consented" to stay out late with the parents. Ya, we all have variations on that basic theme to tell, although I challenge anyone, seriously challenge anyone, to name five films that you saw at the drive-in that you remembered from then-especially those droopy-eyed second films.

In any case, frankly, I don't give a damn about that kid stuff family adventure drive-in experience. Come on, that was all, well, just kids' stuff. The "real" drive-in, as pictured in the cover art here is what I want to address. The time of our time in that awkward teen alienation, teen angst thing that only got abated by things like a teenage night at the drive-in. Ya, that was not, or at least I hope it was not, you father's drive-in. That might have been in the next planet over, for all I know. For starters our planet involved girls (girls, ah, women, just reverse the genders here to tell your side of the experience), looking for girls, or want to be looking for girls, preferably a stray car-full to compliment your guy car-full and let god sort it out at intermission.

Wait a minute. I am getting ahead of myself in this story. First you needed that car, because no walkers or bus riders need apply for the drive-in movies like this was some kind of lame, low-rent, downtown matinee last picture show adventure. For this writer that was a problem, a personal problem, as I had no car and my family had cars only sporadically. Fortunately we early baby-boomers lived in the golden age of the automobile and could depend on a friend to either have a car (praise be teenage disposable income/allowances) or could use the family car. Once the car issue was clarified then it was simply a matter of getting a car-full of guys (or sometimes guys and gals) in for the price of two (maybe three) admissions.

What? Okay, I think that I can safely tell the story now because the statute of limitations must have surely passed. See, what you did was put a couple (or three guys) in the trunk of that old car (or in a pinch one guy on the backseat floor) as you entered the drive-thru admissions booth. The driver paid for the two (or three tickets) and took off to your parking spot (complete with ramp speaker just in case you wanted to actually listen to the film shown on that big wide white screen). Neat trick, right?

Now, of course, the purpose of all of this, as mentioned above, was to get that convoy of guys, trunk guys, backseat guys, backseat floor guys, whatever, to mix and moon with that elusive car-full of girls who did the very same thing (except easier because they were smaller) at the intermission stand or maybe just hanging around the unofficially designated teen hang-out area. No family sedans with those pajama-clad kids need apply (nor any sane, responsible parent get within fifty paces of said teens). And occasionally, very occasionally as it turned out, some "boss" car would show up complete with one guy (the driver) and one honey (girl, ah, woman) closely seated beside him for what one and all knew was going to be a very window-fogged night. And that was, secretly thought or not, the guy drive-in dream. As for the movies. Did they show movies there? Enough said.

Oh, except that at said drive-in, before the first show started at dusk, between shows and on the way home, girl-matched or not, you were very liable to hear many of the songs in this CD on the old car radio. The stick outs here include: Heat Wave (not as good as Dancing In The Streets but good), Martha and the Vandellas; Just One Look (make that look my way, please, even if you are munching on pop corn) Doris Troy; Wild Weekend (just in case you wanted to dance during intermission rather than watch the screen clock ticking off the time until that next film began), The Rockin' Rebels ; and, Don't Say Nothin' Bad About My Baby (ya, you have got that right, sisters), The Cookies.


title: Out In The Be-Bop Jukebox Night

text:
Several years ago, in response to a question on questionnaire sent by members of my  1964 high school class reunion committee, a question posed simply as did you prefer the Beatles of the Rolling Stones during your high school days I answered in favor of the latter. Needless to say in recounting that experience in this space I provided more than that simply answer. I went on and on about how the Stones blues-driven early rock numbers "spoke" much more to my boy teenager alienation and angst, girl angst if you must know, than the more "happy music" the Beatles originally produced. I also noted that, as a general proposition, the earlier male rockers of the period from Elvis, Jerry Lee Lewis, Bo Diddley and Chuck Berry "spoke" more to me, for those same reasons,  than the girl (the term of the times) vocalists with their generally wistful, whimsical lyrics about the age old boy-meets-girl relationships, and their pratfalls.

That simple, or I thought simple, observation from ancient youth brought a storm of protest from an unexpected (well, now that I think about it, not so unexpected source), my long time dear companion, my female dear companion. She lambasted my male-based choices unceremoniously and challenged me to really listen to the great female vocalists from those days. And I did, somewhat haphazardly. And thereafter in this space posed the Beatles/Stones question for the distaff side. Brenda Lee or Patsy Cline? At the time I did that somewhat artificially because I was actually pretty unfamiliar with either of their works. And as it turned out ditto for most of the young female vocalists of that period. So more recently I have been on something of a learning, or rather re-learning binge (re-learning because of, course, fixated on my transistor radio up in my room to keep out parental and sibling noise I had heard most of the girl vocalists back then, their songs just didn't register).  To answer the question I posed though, no question Patsy Cline was the "max mama" of the late 1950s song night before her untimely death.

All of the above is just a roundabout, very roundabout way, of getting to the core of this review. On of the great features of this Time-Life Rock `N' Roll Era series is the cover art work. And that remains true on this 1960s: Jukebox Memories CD compilation. The cover portrays a very Brenda Lee/Wanda Jackson/Dodie Stevens wannabe lead young female vocalist backed by a standard rock trio backing up her vocals. And that sent me flashing back to those tunes, those girl tunes. And I will just repeat here what I mentioned as a result of listening to about ten girl doo wop or just straight girl vocalists. As you will not doubt see I have "got religion" :

"As I also noted in that earlier review [referring to a review of girl doo wop compilations] one problem with the girl groups, and now with these generic girl vocals for a guy, me, a serious rock guy, me, was that the lyrics for many of the girl group songs, frankly, did not "speak to me." After all how much empathy could a young ragamuffin of boy brought up on the wrong side of the tracks like this writer have for a girl who breaks a guys heart after leading him on, yes, leading him on, just because her big bruiser of a boyfriend is coming back and she needs some excuse to brush the heartbroken lad off in the Angels' My Boyfriend's Back. Or some lucky guy, some lucky Sunday guy, maybe, who breathlessly catches the eye of the singer in the Shirelles'  I Met Him On Sunday from a guy who, dateless Saturday night, was hunched over some misbegotten book, some study book, on Sunday feeling all dejected. And how about this, some two, or maybe, three-timing gal who berated her ever-loving boyfriend because she needs a good talking to, or worst, a now socially incorrect, very incorrect and rightly so, "beating" in Joanie Sommers' Johnny Get Angry.

So you get the idea, this stuff could not "speak to me." Now you understand, right? Except, surprise, surprise foolish, behind the eight- ball, know-nothing youthful guy had it all wrong and should have been listening, and listening like crazy, to these lyrics because, brothers and sisters, they held the key to what was what about what was on girls' minds back in the day, and maybe now a little too, and if I could have decoded this I would have had, well, the beginning of knowledge, girl knowledge. Damn. But that is one of the virtues, and maybe the only virtue of age. Ya, and also get this- you had better get your do-lang, do-lang, your shoop, shoop, and your best be-bop, be-bop into that good night voice out and sing along to the lyrics here. This, fellow baby-boomers, was our teen angst, teen alienation, teen love youth and now this stuff sounds great.
And from girls even."

As for the stick outs in this compilation: Dum Dum by Brenda Lee; Runaround by The Fleetwoods; I Wonder What She's Doing Tonight by Barry & Tamerlanes; Dear One by Larry Finnegan; You Don't Have To Be A Baby To Cry by Caravelles; My One And Only Jimmy Boy by The Girlfriends; That's The Way Boys Are by Lesley Gore; Happy Birthday by Kathy Young & Innocents; and, My Own True Love by The Duprees. ________________________________________


title: Let's Have A Party

text:
Although I am not completely familiar with the range of their efforts, and of their purpose, I have already extensively reviewed many CD compilations from Time-Life Music's Rock `N' Rock Era series. A highlight of that series has been the cover artwork that has evoked, and evoked strongly, the themes that dominated our lives, our hubristic teenage lives, in the classic age of rock as we watched it unfold. Things like last dance school dances, lovers' lanes, dancing the night away to the latest rock music, drive-in movies, drive-in restaurants, summer beach life and on and on. This later series also driven by year dates, at least as observed through the cover art, seems to be less concerned with strong old time evocations by flashy artwork. Nevertheless sometimes just a simple photograph as appears on the 1957 cover evokes those memories in a more subtle way.

And what does that photograph picture. Well, Johnny (we'll just call him that for our purposes here, okay) suited up in sports coat, white shirt, and tie (pants not observed although they had to be black chinos, cuffed or uncuffed, and shoes, well, loafers for sure) and Susie (ditto Johnny) dressed up in her best frilly party dress (no bobby socks or nylons showing so I cannot discuss that issue here nor will I venture into the girl shoe night anymore than I would today into the woman's shoe night) are comparing notes on the latest 45s.

For those not long in the tooth who may have wandered into this space and are not sure why that was the size record we played on our old time record players (no not wind-up Victrolas, wise guys) when we wanted to drown out ma, pa, and sibling noises about homework, chores, or just the stuff of everyday life. Each record had a one song A side (the hit) and a one song B side, each side a little over two minutes long. That idea didn't last too long before responding to the crush of the market they started making LPs, records with several songs on each side. Oh, I forgot, for those who don't know what a record is, long or short, look it up on Wikipedia. I have given enough time to the subject.

And in the year 1957 what might they be comparing on this night, this house party night (or on other school dance nights) well here, as usual the "battle of the sexes" will be played out just like from teen time immemorial. At least records and record player time immemorial. While Buddy Holly, Patsy Kline, Rickey Nelson, and the Everly Brothers have entries on this CD compilation the real fight, the real important fight, school dance or house party, is what song will be played for the last dance. Yes, the key last dance to see whether the evening continues when they hold each other tight after a night of apart self-expression rock and roll dancing. So the battle really boils down to Could This Be Magic? by The Dubs or Happy Happy Birthday Baby by the Tune Weavers and if Johnny does not want to be lonely tonight he better make the right choice. Good luck, brother Johnny.


title: Oh Ya, The Surfer Guys

text:
I have recently been on a tear in reviewing individual CDs in this extensive Time-Life Rock `n' Roll series. A lot of these reviews have been driven by the artwork which graces the covers of each item, both to stir ancient memories and reflect that precise moment in time, the youth time of the now very, very mature (nice sliding over the age issue, right?) baby-boomer generation who lived and died by the music. And who fit in, or did not fit in as the case may, to the themes of those artwork scenes. This 1959 is a case of the latter, of the not fitting in for this reviewer. On this cover, a summer scene (always a nice touch since that was the time when we had least at the feel of our generational breakout), two blondish surfer guys, surf boards in tow, are checking out the scene.

That scene although not pictured (except a little background fluff to inform you that you are at the beach, the summer youth beach and no other, certainly not the tortuous family beach scene with its lotions, luggage, lawn chairs, and longings, longings to be elsewhere in early teen brains), can only mean checking out the babes, girls, chicks, or whatever you called them in that primitive time before we called them sister, and woman. No question that this whole scene is nothing but a California come hinter scene. No way that it has the look of Eastern pale-face beaches, family or youth. These is nothing but early days California dreamin' cool hot days and cooler hot nights with those dreamed bikini girls. These are, no question "beach bums", no way that they are serious surfer guys, certainly not Tom Wolfe's Pump House LaJolla gang where those surfers lived for the perfect wave, and nothing else better get in the way. For such activity one needed rubberized surf suits complete with all necessary gear. In short these guys are "faux" surfers. Whether that was enough to draw the attention of those shes they are checking out I will leave to the reader's imagination.

As for the music, the 1959 music, that backs up this scene we are clearly in a trough, the golden age of rock with the likes of Jerry Lee Lewis, Elvis, and Chuck Berry is fading, fading fast into what I can only describe as "bubble gum" music. Sure I listened to it, listened to it hard on my old transistor radio, mainly because that was all that was presented to us. It will be a while until the folk, folk rock, British invasion, and free expression rock engulfs us. As the bulk of this CD's contents will attest to we are marking time. There are, however, some stick-outs here that have withstood the test of time. They include: La Bamba, Ritchie Valens; Dance With Me, The Drifters; You're So Fine (great harmony),The Falcons; Tallahassee Lassie (a favorite then at the local school dances by a local boy who made good), Freddy Cannon; Mr. Blue (another great harmony song and the one, or one of the ones, anyway that you hoped, hoped to distraction that they would play for the last dance), The Fleetwoods; and, Lonely Teardrops, Jackie Wilson (a much underrated singer, then and now, including by this writer after not hearing that voice for a while).

Note: After a recent trip to the Southern California coast I can inform you that those two surfer guys are still out there and still checking out the scene. Although that scene for them now is solely the eternal search for the perfect wave complete with full rubberized suit and gear. No  artist would now, or at least I hope no artist would, care to rush up and draw them. For now these brothers have lost a step, or seven, lost a fair amount of that beautiful bongo hair, and have added, added believe me, very definite paunches to bulge out those surfer suits all out of shape. Ah, such are the travails of the baby-boomer generation. Good luck though, brothers.


title: A Watershed Year

text:
I have recently been on a tear in reviewing individual CDs in this extensive Time-Life Rock `n' Roll series. A lot of these reviews have been driven by the artwork which graces the covers of each item, both to stir ancient memories and reflect that precise moment in time, the youth time of the now very, very mature (nice sliding over the age issue, right?) baby-boomer generation who lived and died by the music. And who fit in, or did not fit in as the case may, to the themes expressed in these artwork scenes. Here we have the latter, the not fit in part, for this reviewer anyway.

This 1964 art cover piece with its drawing of a high school girl (school used as backdrop here to let you know, just in case you were clueless, that the rock scene was directed, point blank, at high school students, high school students with discretionary money to buy hot records, or drop coins in the local juke box), or rather her high heel sneakers (Chuck Taylor high tops, for sure, no question, although there is no trademark present no way that they can be some knock-offs in 1964, no way, I say). The important thing, in any case, is the sneakers, and that slightly shorter than school regulation dress, a dress that presages the mini-skirt craze that was then just on its way from Europe. Naturally said dress and sneakers, sneakers, high- heeled or not, against the mandatory white tennis sneakers on gym days and low-heel pumps on other days, is the herald of some new age. And, as if to confirm that new breeze, in the background scouring out her high school classroom window, a sullen, prudish schoolmarm. She, the advance guard, obviously, of that parentally-driven reaction to all that the later 1960s stood for to us baby-boomers, as the generations fought out their epic battles about the nature of the world, our world or theirs.

But see that is so much "wave of future" just then because sullen schoolmarm or not what Ms. Hi-heel sneakers (and dress, ya, don't forget that knee-showing dress) is preening for is those guys who are standing (barely) in front of said school and showing their approval, their approval in the endless boy and girl meet game. And these guys are not just of one kind, they are cool faux beat daddy guys, tee-shirted corner boy guys, and well, just average 1964- style average guys. Now the reality of Ms. Hi-heel sneakers (and a wig hat on her head) proved to be a minute thing and was practically forgotten in the musical breeze that was starting to come in from Europe (British invasion led by the Beatles and the Rolling Stones) but it was that harbinger of change that the old schoolmarm dreaded and we, teenagers, especially we teenagers of the Class of 1964, were puzzled by. All we knew for sure, at least some of us knew , was that our class, at least for a moment, was going to chase a few windmills, and gladly.

That is the front story, the story of the new breeze coming, but the back story is that the kind of songs that are on this CD with that British invasion coming full blast were going to be passé very soon. Moreover, among my crowd, my hang-out crowd, my hang-out guy and girl crowd of guys who looked very much like those guys pictured on the artwork here, if not my school crowd (slightly different) the folk scene, the Harvard Square at weekend night, New York City Village every once in a while folk scene, the Dylan, Baez, Van Ronk, Paxton, Ochs, etc. scene was still in bloom and competitive (although that scene, that folk scene minute, ironically, would soon also be passé).

Thus 1964 was a watershed year for a lot of the genres, really sub-genres, featured here. Like the harmony-rich girl groups (The Supremes, Mary Wells, The Shangri-Las, Martha and the Vandellas, Betty Everett) and the surfer boy, hot-rod guys of blessed neighborhood memory (Ronnie and the Daytonas, The Rivieras, and The Beach Boys, a little). But it was also a watershed year for the guys pictured in the artwork (and out in the neighborhoods). Some would soon be fighting in Vietnam, some moving to a commune to get away from it all, and others would be raising holy hell about that war, the need for social justice and the way things were being run in this country. And Ms. Hi-heel sneakers? Maybe, just maybe, she drifted into that San Francisco for the Summer of Love night, going barefoot into that good night. I like to think so anyway.

Watershed year or not, there are some serious non-invasion stick-outs here. Under The Boardwalk (great harmony), The Drifters; Last Kiss, Frank Wilson and The Cavaliers; Dancing In The Streets (lordy, lordy, yes), Martha and the Vandellas; Leader Of The Pack (what a great novelty song and one that could be the subject of a real story in my growing up neighborhood), The Shangri-Las; Hi-Heel Sneakers, Tommy Tucker (thanks for the lead-in, Tommy), and, the boss song of the teen dance club night, no question, no challenge, no competition, Louie, Louie by the Kingsmen


title: Once Again, Doo Wop

text:
Sure I have plenty to say, as I mentioned in a review of Volume One of this two volume Street Corner Serenade set, about early rock `n' roll, now called the classic rock period in the musicology hall of fame. And within that say I have spent a little time, not enough, considering its effect on us on the doo-wop branch of the genre. Part of the reason, obviously, is that back in those mid-1950s jail-breakout days I did not (and I do not believe that any other eleven and twelve year olds did either), distinguish between let's say rockabilly-back-beat drive rock, black-based rock centered on a heavy rhythm and blues backdrop, and the almost instrument-less (or maybe a soft piano or guitar backdrop) group harmonics that drove doo-wop. All I knew was that it was not my parents' music, not close, and that they got nervous, very nervous, anytime it was played out loud in their presence. Fortunately, some sainted, sanctified, techno-guru developed the iPod of that primitive era, the battery-driven transistor radio. No big deal, technology-wise by today's standards, but get this, you could place it near your ear and have your own private out loud without parental scuffling in the background. Yes, sainted, sanctified techno-guru. No question.

What doo-wop did though down in our old-time working class neighborhood, and again it was not so much by revelation as by trial and error is allow us to be in tune with the music of our generation without having to spend a lot of money on instruments or a studio or any such. Where the hell would we have gotten the dough for such things when papas were out of work, or were one step away from that dreaded unemployment line, and there was trouble just keeping the wolves from the door? Sure, some kids, some kids like my "home boy" (no, not a term we used at the time) elementary school boyhood friend Billie, William James Bradley, were crazy to put together cover bands with electric guitars (rented occasionally), and dreams. Or maybe go wild with a school piano a la Jerry Lee Lewis, Little Richard, or Fats Domino but those were maniac aficionados. Even Billie though, when the deal went down, especially after hearing Frankie Lymon and The Teenagers on Why Do Fools Fall In Love was mad to do the doo-wop and make his fame and fortune.

The cover art on this compilation shows a group of young black kids, black guys, who look like they are doing their doo wop on some big city street corner. And that makes sense reflecting the New York City-derived birth of doo-wop and that the majority of doo-wop groups that we heard on AM radio were black. But the city, the poor sections of the city, white or black, was not the only place where moneyless guys and gals were harmonizing, hoping, hoping maybe beyond hope to be discovered and make more than just a 1950s musical jail-breakout. Moreover, this cover art also shows, and shows vividly, what a lot of us guys were trying to do-impress girls (and maybe visa-versa for girl doo-woppers but they can tell their own stories).

Yes, truth to tell, it was about impressing girls that drove many of us, Billie included, christ maybe Billie most of all, to mix and match harmonies. And you know you did too (except girls just switch around what I just said). Ya, four or five guys just hanging around the back door of the elementary school on hot summer nights, nothing better to do, no dough to do it, maybe a little feisty because of that, and start up a few tunes. Billie, who actually did have some vocal musical talent, usually sang lead, and the rest of us, well, doo-wopped. What do you think we would do?  We knew nothing of keys and pauses, of time, pitch, or reading music we just improvised. (And I kept my changing to teen-ager, slightly off-key, voice on the low.)  Whether we did it well or poorly, guess what, as the hot day turned into humid night, and the old sun went down just over the hills, first a couple of girls, then a couple more, and then a whole bevy (nice word, right?) of them came and got kind of swoony and moony. And swoony and moony was just fine. And we all innocent, innocent dream, innocent when we dreamed, make our virginal moves. But, mainly, we doo-wopped in the be-bop mid-1950s night. And a few of the songs in this doo-wop compilation could be heard in that airless night.

The stick outs here on Volume Two which is not quite as good as the first volume overall reflecting, I think, that like in other genres, there were really only so many doo-wop songs that have withstood the test of time: Life Is But A Dream (which with my voice really changing I kept very, very low on), The Harptones; Gloria ( a little louder from me on this one), The Cadillacs; Six Nights A Week (not their best 16 Candles is), The Crests: and, A Kiss From Your Lips, The Flamingos.


title: Doo Wop In The Be-Bop Night

text:
Sure I have plenty to say about early rock `n' roll, now called the classic rock period in the musicology hall of fame. And within that say I have spent a little time, not enough, considering its effect on us on the doo-wop branch of the genre. Part of the reason, obviously, is that back in those mid-1950s jail-breakout days I did not (and I do not believe that any other eleven and twelve year olds did either), distinguish between let's say rockabilly-back-beat drive rock, black-based rock centered on a heavy rhythm and blues backdrop, and the almost instrument-less (or maybe a soft piano or guitar backdrop) group harmonics that drove doo-wop. All I knew was that it was not my parents' music, not close, and that they got nervous, very nervous, anytime it was played out loud in their presence. Fortunately, some sainted, sanctified, techno-guru developed the iPod of that primitive era, the battery-driven transistor radio. No big deal, technology-wise by today's standard's, but get this you could place it near your ear and have your own private out loud without parental scuffling in the background. Yes, sainted, sanctified techno-guru. No question.

What doo-wop did though down in our old-time working class neighborhood, and again it was not so much by revelation as by trial and error is allow us to be in tune with the music of our generation without having to spend a lot of money on instruments or a studio or any such. Where the hell would we have gotten the dough for such things when papas were out of work, or were one step away, and there was trouble just keeping the wolves from the door? Sure, some kids, some kids like my home boy elementary school boyhood friend Billie, William James Bradley, were crazy to put together cover bands with electric guitars (rented occasionally), and dreams. Or maybe go wild with a school piano a la Jerry Lee Lewis, Little Richard, or Fats Domino but those were maniac aficionados. Even Billie though, when the deal went down, especially after hearing Frankie Lymon and The Teenagers was mad to do the doo-wop and make his fame and fortune.

The cover art on this compilation shows a group of young black kids, black guys, who look like they are doing their doo wop on some big city street corner. And that makes sense reflecting the New York City-derived birth of doo-wop and that the majority of  doo-wop groups that we heard on AM radio were black. But the city, the poor sections of the city, white or black, was not the only place where moneyless guys and gals were harmonizing, hoping, hoping maybe beyond hope to be discovered and make more than just a 1950s musical jail-breakout. Moreover, this cover art also shows, and shows vividly, what a lot of us guys were trying to do-impress girls (and maybe viz-a-versa for girl doo-woppers but they can tell their own stories).

Yes, truth to tell, it was about impressing girls that drove many of us, Billie included, christ maybe Billie most of all, to mix and match harmonies. And you know you did too (except girls just switch around what I just said). Ya, four or five guys just hanging around the back door of the elementary school on hot summer nights, nothing better to do, no dough to do it, maybe a little feisty because of that, and start up a few tunes. Billie, who actually did have some vocal musical talent, usually sang lead, and the rest of us, well, doo-wopped. What I do you think we would do?  We knew nothing of keys and pauses, of time or reading music we just improvised. (And I kept my changing to teen-ager, slightly off-key voice on the low.)  Whether we did it well or poorly, guess what, as the hot day turned into humid night, and the old sun went down just over the hills, first a couple of girls, then a couple more, and then a whole bevy (nice word, right?) of them came and got kind of swoony and moony. And swoony and moony was just fine. And we all innocent, innocent dream, innocent when we dreamed make our virginal moves. But, mainly we, doo-wopped in the be-bop mid-1950s night. And a few of the songs in this doo-wop compilation could be heard in that airless night. The stick outs here: Deserie, The Charts; Baby Blue, The Echoes; Till Then, The Classics; Tonight (Could Be The Night), The Velvets.


title: Out In The Be-Bop 1950s Adventure Car Hop Drive-In Night

text:
Now 1957 was a good year for rock, for "boss" cars, and for car hops if you could keep them, at least that was what some of the older guys told me later. In 1957 my drive-in restaurant experiences were limited to, when we had a car, a working car in our family which was an iffy proposition at best, sitting in the back seat of some beat up sedan waiting during the daytime (the night belonged to the teens and no self-respecting or smart parent would bring tender children to such a place at night) for some cold plastic hamburger with fries. Jesus.

But the music was on fire as the breakout of the previous couple of years hit the pre-teen audience that was just as starved for its own not parent-seal-of-approval music as the older kids. Elvis, Chuck Berry, Little Richard, and a ton of other talent was hitting the airwaves so that if you tired of hearing one song after the one thousandth consecutive playing you could move right on.

In this The Rock `n' Roll Era series some years, I believe reflecting banner years, have two CDs dedicated to the greatest hits for that year. For 1957, which has the magic two, I think that the other 1957 CD is a bit better but this one covers the rest of what should have been preserved. Stick outs here include Chuck Berry's Rock & Roll Music (Christ, he had about ten hits in those years and most of them still crank up the teen-memory dark night air with their electricity); The Platters' classic last dance, school dance I'm Sorry (oh, please, please save that last dance for me certain she that I have eyed until my eyes got sore all night, and she, certain she, peeked at me too); Little Richard's Jenny, Jenny (another guy who had a ton of hit in a short period, although they haven't worn as well as Chuck's); and Fats Domino's Blue Monday (ya, back to school days Monday blahs, except for Monday morning boys' "lav" bragging rights if that certain she I just mentioned really did mean to look my way for that last dance, otherwise why have a Monday anyway).


title: In The Time Of The Teen Jailbreak

text:
I have, seemingly, endlessly gone back to my early musical roots in reviewing this great big Time-Life classic  rock series that goes under the general title The Rock `n' Roll Era. And while time and ear has eroded some of the sparkle for some of the lesser tunes it still seems obvious that those years, say 1955-58, really did form the musical jail break-out for my generation, the generation of '68 who had just started to tune into music. And we, we mini-punk, hardly wet behind the ears elementary school kids, and that is all we were for those who are now claiming otherwise (like a friend of mine who claimed, with a straight face to the girls, that he was Elvis' long lost son) tuned in on our transistor radios (small battery- operated radios that we could put in our pocket, and hide from snooping parental ears, at will) to listen to music that from about day one, at least in my household was not considered "refined" enough for young ears. Ya right, like Patti Page or Bob (not Bing, not the Bing of Brother, Can You Spare A Dime?, anyway ) Crosby and The Bobcats were supposed to satisfy our jail break cravings.

In many ways 1956 was the key year, at least to my recollection. And here is why. Elvis may have been burning up the stages, making all the teenage girls sweat, making slightly older women sweat too and every guy over about eight start growing sideburns before then but that is the year that I actually saw him on television and started be-bopping off his records. Whoa. And the same with Bill Haley and the Comets, even though in the rock pantheon they were old guys by then. And Chuck Berry. And for the purposes of this particular review, James Brown, ah, sweet, please, please, please James Brown with that different black, black as the night, beat that my mother (and others too) would not even let in the house, and maybe not even in our whole white working class neighborhood. But remember that transistor radio and remember when rock rocked.


title: In The Time Of Classic Rock

text:
As I have noted in reviewing The `60s: Last Dance and the 1957 parts of this Time-Life Roll `n' Roll Era series I have spent tons of time and reams of cyberspace "paper" in this space reviewing the teenage culture of the 1950s and early 1960s, especially the inevitable school dance and the also equally inevitable trauma of the last dance. That event, the last dance that is, was the last chance for even shy boys like me to prove that we were not wallflowers, or worst. The last chance to rise (or fall) in the torrid and relentless pecking order of the social scene at school. And moreover to prove to that certain she that you were made of some sort of heroic stuff, the stuff of dreams, of her dreams, thank you very much. Moreover, to make use of that social capital you invested in by learning to dance, or the "shadow" of learning to dance.

Hey, I have already filled this space with enough prattle about the old time school dances, middle school and high school, so I need not repeat that stuff here. Moreover, whatever physical description I could conger up would be just so much eye wash anyway. Those dances could have been held in an airplane hangar and we all could have been wearing paper bags for all we really cared. What mattered, and maybe will always matter, is the hes looking at those certain shes, and vis-a-versa. The endless, small, meaningful looks (if stag, of course, eyes straight forward if dated up, or else bloody hell) except for those wallflowers who are permanently looking down at the ground. And that was the real struggle that went on in those events, for the stags. The struggle against wallflower-dom. The struggle for at least some room in the social standing, even if near the bottom, rather than outcast-dom. That struggle was as fierce as any class struggle old Karl Marx might have projected. The straight, upfront calculation (and not infrequently miscalculation), the maneuvering, the averting of eyes, the not averting of eyes, the reading of silence signals, the uncomphrehended "no", the gratuitous "yes." Need I go on? I don't think so, except, if you had the energy, or even if you didn't, then you dragged yourself to that last dance. And hoped, hoped to high heaven that it was a slow one.

Ah, memory. So what is the demographic that this CD compilation is being pitched to, aside from the obvious usual suspects, the AARP crowd. Well that's simple. Any one who has been wounded in love's young battles; any one who has longed for that he or she to come through the door, even if late; anyone that has been on a date that did not work out, been stranded on a date that has not worked out; anyone who has had to submit to being pieced off with car hop drive-in food; anyone who has gotten a "Dear John" letter or its equivalent; anyone who has been jilted by that certain he or she; anyone who has been turned down for that last school dance from that certain he or she that you counted on to make your lame evening; anyone who has waited endlessly for the telephone (now iphone, etc., okay for the younger set who may read this) to ring to hear that certain voice; and, especially those hes and she who has shed those midnight tears for youth's lost love. In short, everybody except those few "most popular "types who the rest of us will not shed one tear over, or the nerds who didn't count (or care) anyway.

Stick outs on this one that include both 50s and 60s material include: Everybody's Trying To Be My Baby by the underrated Carl Perkins who had all the making to be a big time rockabilly cross-over except Elvis got in the way; You're No Good by Betty Everett who bopped the bop; I'm Leaving It All Up To You, by the one-hit wonders Don and Dewey, Time Is On My Side by the legendary blues rocker, Irma Thomas (a song, by the way, covered by the Stones; I Can't Stop Lovin' You, a country-type cross-over y Don Gibson. Needless to say John Lee Hooker's Boom Boom rates as well but I take that as a blues classic rather than a rock classic. And for that last dance, that one that you hoped for, prayed against all odds for, and sweated blood for, Doctor Feelgood and the Interns on Mr. Moonlight. Natch, a slow one. You're on your own now for the after dance arrangements.


title: The Last Chance Dance

text:
I have spent tons of time and reams of cyberspace "paper" in this space reviewing the teenage culture of the 1950s, especially the inevitable school dance and the also equally inevitable last dance. That event, the last dance that is, was the last chance for even shy boys like me to prove that we were not wallflowers, or worst. The last chance to rise (or fall) in the torrid and relentless pecking order of the social scene at school. And moreover to prove to that certain she that you were made of some sort of heroic stuff, the stuff of dreams, of her dreams, thank you very much. Moreover, to make use of that social capital you invested in by learning to dance, or the "shadow" of learning to dance.

But all of that social stuff is neither here nor there at last dance time. The real question, the world historic question, is whether that song will be a slow one or a fast one. A slow one means that you have to dance close and hope, hope to high heaven, that you do not ruin your partner's feet and shoes (shoes, moreover, brought for just this occasion, damn). A fast one brings a sigh of relief as you know; know as sure as you are born, that you can fake that one with a couple of wiggly moves. This compilation has both types of songs for the nostalgically-inclined AARP demographics this item is pitched too. And for the younger set a chance to giggle at what your parents and grandparents got all heated up about and along the way thank someone, some blessed spirit, that as members in good standing of hip-hop nation you avoided all of that.

Stick outs here include: legendary rocker Chuck Berry's <em>Sweet Little Rock and Roller </em>(fast); The Fireflies' <em>You Were Mine</em> (slow, ouch); Sandy Nelson's <em>Teen Beat</em> (fast); and The Platter's classic (the one you prayed they would play) <em>Only You</em>. How is that for dee-jaying even-handedness?


title: Of Cowboys And Cowgirls

text:
I spent some little time a couple of years ago going over the transformation of the American Old West of cowboys, wild boys, fast guns and faster reputations into the New West populated by characters like Duane, in the series of novels written by Texas writer/bibliophile and fleamarketeer, Larry McMurtry. Apparently, the myth of the Old West dies hard though, and for this review I am glad of it.

Why? For singer/songwriter and wannabe cowgirl Carol Noonan and friends from ....Maine has given us a potpourri of very nice renditions of some of the old classic Western songs that people of a certain age, my age, grew up with as we absorbed our version of the Old West through the like of Hopalong Cassidy, the Cisco Kid and the Lone Rangers and his sidekick, Tonto.

Of course it helps if one has a beautiful voice, some good instruments and some good friends to harmonize with on this self-produced (I believe) CD. All that is left is to pick a few numbers that stand out in an album that is filled with them. "Red River Valley", "High Noon", "Streets Of Laredo", and "Wayward Wind" readily come to mind.


title: Back In The Days Of Early Rock

text:
Certain record labels are associated with various genres. Chess Records with that Chicago blues sound.  Motown with "soul". Vanguard with folk. Sun with early hard rock and rockabilly. And so on. From what I have been told and have read there is a thriving market in collecting specific record labels. Fine. What interests me here is the Decca label. In the fight to survive in the cutthroat and quirky music business various record production companies searched for talent that would sell. In the 1950's in the early struggle to grab the rock `n' roll market Decca was right up there with Sun and later RCA in the hunt to grab that market.

This collection, uneven as it is, represents the winners and losers from that fight. Not all compilations are born equal but at least classifying by record label let's one discover what one company though was saleable at any given time. And some of the material here represents the classics of early rock as it came out of R&B, swing, country and western and the million other influences that swirled around at the time. So in one place you get Bill Halley, Louis Jordan, Patsy Cline, Buddy Holly, Jackie Wilson, the Shirelles and a host of other legitimate rock hall of famers, or at those who belong in some hall of fame. Then you get the likes of Red Foley, Bill Riley (doing "Is That All To The Ball"), Jimmy and Johnny (doing the entirely forgettable "Sweet Love On My Mind"). Give me a break, please! However, on balance this is a nice little slice of rock history for rock buffs and label collectors alike.


title: Where Rock And Politics Met

text:
America where are you now?
Don't you care about your sons and daughters?
Don't you know we need you now
We can't fight alone against the monster

The heavy rock band Steppenwolf, one of many that was thrown up by the musical counter-culture of the mid to late 1960's was a cut above and apart from some of the others due to their scorching lyrics provided mainly, but not solely, by gravelly-voiced lead singer John Kay. Not all the lyrics worked, then or now. Not all the words are now some forty years later memorable. Certainly some of the less political lyrics seem entirely forgettable. As does some of the heavy decibel rock sound that seems to wander at times. But know this- when you think today about trying to escape from the rat race of daily living then you have an enduring anthem "Born To Be Wild" that still stirs the young (and not so young). If Bob Dylan's "Like A Rolling Stone was one musical pillar of the youth revolt of the 1960's then" Born To Be Wild" was the other.

And if you needed (or need) a quick history lesson about the nature of American society in the 1960's, what it was doing to its young, where it had been and where it was heading (and seemingly still is as we fight against the Iraq and Afghan wars) then the trilogy under the title "The Monster" (the chorus which I have posted above) said it all. Then there were songs like "The Pusher Man" a song that could be usefully used as an argument in favor of decriminalization of drugs (although not drug pushers) and other then more topical songs like "Draft Resister" to fill out the album. The group did not have the staying power of others like The Rolling Stones but if you want to know, approximately, what it was like for rock groups to seriously put rock and roll and a hard political edge together give a listen.


title: Strictly For Aficionados

text:
In a review of Bob Dylan's "The Freewheeling Bob Dylan" elsewhere in this space I noted:

"In reviewing Bob Dylan's 1965 classic album "Bringing All Back Home" (you know, the one where he went electric) I mentioned that it seemed hard to believe now that both as to the performer as well as to what was being attempted that anyone would take umbrage at a performer using an electric guitar to tell a folk story (or any story for that matter). I further pointed out that it is not necessary to go into all the details of what or what did not happen with Pete Seeger at the Newport Folk Festival in 1965 to know that one should be glad, glad as hell, that Bob Dylan continued to listen to his own drummer and carry on a career based on electronic music."

And I am still glad of that fact. What I am less enamored of is the virtual cottage industry that has grown up around various 'bootleg', 'basement', cellar, barn, attic or any other odd location versions of Dylan's work, electric or acoustic. This archival material is nice for folk, rock and cultural historians but I would argue that Mr. Bob Dylan's usually well-produced albums are after over forty years more than enough to listen to without having to get into the minutia of his career. And, somehow, left to feel that one has missed something without this other more esoteric material. In short, these five volumes of practice, outtakes, cuts, dubsm flubs, etc. done with The Band while he was "hiding" out in rural New York after his motorcycle accident are strictly for aficionados.

That said, for those who insist on getting their little hands on this material here is the "scoop". From Volume One- "Odds And Ends"  From Volume Two- "Quinn The Eskimo". From Volume Three-"Tiny Montgomery", "Santa Fe" and "Sign Of The Cross (excellent)". From Volume Four- "You Ain't Going Nowhere", "Confidential To Me" and "Bring It On Home".  From Volume Five (the album to get if you get just one)-"Four Strong Winds", "Joshua Gone Barbados" "I Forgot To Remember To Forget", "Bells Of Rhymney", "Spanish Is The Loving Tongue", "Cool Water", "Banks Of The Royal Canal". These are all covers and very nicely done.


title: Yes, It Hurts Me Too!

text:
When one thinks of the classic blues tune "Dust My Broom" one tends to think of the legendary Robert Johnson who along with his "Sweet Home, Chicago" created two of the signature blues songs of the pre-World War II period. However, my first hearing of "Dust My Broom" was on a hot LP (the old days, right?) version covered and made his own by the artist under review, Elmore James. I have heard many cover versions since then, including from the likes of George Thorogood and Chris Smithers, and they all reflect on the influence of Elmore's amazing slide guitar virtuosity to provide the "heat" necessary to do the song justice. Moreover, this is only the tip of the iceberg as such blues masters and aficionados as B.B. King and The Rolling Stones have covered other parts of James' catalog.

Perhaps because Elmore died relativity young at a time when blues were just being revived in the early 1960's as part of the general trend toward "discovering" roots music by the likes of this reviewer he has been a less well-known member of the blues pantheon. However, for those who know the value of a good slide guitar to add sexiness and sauciness to a blues number James' is a hero. Hell Thorogood built a whole career out of Elmore covers (and also, to be sure, of the late legendary Bo Didderly). I never get tired of hearing these great songs. Moreover, it did not hurt to have the famous Broomdusters backing him up throughout the years. As one would expect of material done in the pre-digital age the sound quality is very dependent on the quality of the studio. But that, to my mind just makes it more authentic.

Well, what did you NEED to listen to here? Obviously,"Dust My Broom".  On this CD though you MUST listen to Elmore on "Standing At The Crossroads". Wow, it jumps right out at you. "Look On Yonder Wall" (a song that I used to believe was a key to early rock 'n' rock before I grativated to Joe Turner's "Shake, Rattle and Roll" as my candidate), "It Hurts Me Too" and the classic "The Sky is Crying" round out the minimum program here. Listen on.


title: Waiting To Exhale

text:
In the late 1960's a number of my friends from the Generation of '68 that considered themselves part of the counter-cultural movement argued, sincerely I believe, that music, by while they meant rock or maybe folk/rock music was the revolution. According to this political logic the various summers of love, be-ins, Woodstock, etc. if sustained would create the atmosphere for social change without the need for either a political overthrow of the current capitalist system or doing any heavy political lifting to overturn society's values and create the `new man and woman'. Probably the most articulate expression of that concept was expounded by the likes of John and Yoko Lennon. Well, life has demonstrated once and for all the fantastic nature of that assertion. Which is just a roundabout way for me to argue my point here that while music may not be the revolution some music may be `counter-revolutionary'? Let me explain that further.

Whatever the roots of rock and roll- country, rockabilly, blues, rhythm and blues, etc. the sound produced was clearly a dramatic departure from the likes of Ms. Patti Page and her How Much Is That Doggie In The Window and songs of that ilk that clogged up the airwaves in the early 1950's. Rock got people, and by this I mean young `impressionable' people like myself moving. Moving much more than our parents liked. In short, getting caught up in the `sexual' sensual beat of things like Shake, Rattle and Roll or Good Rockin' Tonight. And there was a palpable backlash from adults and other authorities. While teens might have then begun to have more disposable dollars to spend that money came from parents, for the most part. The record companies and other responded, at least in part, to that reality. Hence this truly scary compilation of tunes from 1960 that, frankly, put my hair on ends.

Don't get me wrong. I listened, like millions of other teenagers, to this music and liked some of it but in recently listening to it in combination with Carl Perkins Classic hits for Sun Records I want my money back. No, not from Time-Life but from whoever imposed this stuff on us in 1960. Okay, compare the rock classics of 1955 like Perkins's Blue Suede Shoes or Everyone Wants To Be My Baby and The Theme From "A Summer Place" by Percy Faith and the band, Connie Steven's Sixteen Reasons or Bobby Vee's Devil or Angel. Need I go on or say more. Unless you are a nostalgically-inclined modern popular music historian then pass this by and wait for The Rolling Stones or The Beatles to come by in a few years. Enough said.


title: Ok item...

text: Not as functional as I was hoping for


title: Wonderful hard to find CD

text: Absolutely love this CD. Couldn't find it anywhere and itunes didn't even have it. Very Happy with this purchase


title: A modern day, throwaway, tweeny bopper band.

text:
This would have been tolerable when I was 18 and an immature, yearning romantic, but it holds nothing for a mature pop music aficionado.  A Silent Film is an earnest ensemble, I'll give them that and Robert Stevenson has good pipes but his voice is lost on mundane material.  The band is over-produced and, subsequently, banal.  Brits singing American covers is one thing, but Brits writing and singing about Americans is like, well, Americans writing and singing about Brits.  It usually doesn't work.  After Danny, Dakota and the Wishing Well hooks you, you feel hood-winked by an Earl Grey tea drinking cowpoke.  You don't gain artistic credibility by recording in Texas, either.  And then there's the rest of the disc to get through...

If you want a full, mesmerizing pop music experience, competent production and solid instrumentals with soaring vocals, buy a Muse disc.  A Silent Film should live up to their title.  They're 'a one trick poney'.


title: She has amazing acoustic stuff

text: All these were originally released electric, but now she's doing them with just her voice and an acoustic guitar.  She sounds real good this way, and it's like hearing these all over.


title: Nostalgic for the railroad nut

text: My dad says some of these songs bring back memories


title: Five Stars

text: Item arrived on time and as described


title: buena compra

text: excelente disco


title: Michael Jackson King of Pop - Greatest Hits Mexican Collection

text: Everything was just fine. Excellent recording. This was a gift and the recipient was very satisfied. i would certainly recommend this item to Michael Jacson fans.


title: Great Album

text: It was as described in the product description, no problems.<br />I've had it for almost a month and haven't had any problems and still love it. I had heard a couple of the songs before and really liked them so I decided to buy the album and would highly recommend this to anyone who liked any of her other songs.


title: Worth the extra $ for the feel & performance!

text: I've ordered 2 pairs of these for the studio and road. Neither 2LP's were warped out of the sleeve. I really like the feel and performance of these vs. the standard control vinyl and other performance series vinyl. The color is beautiful!


title: TARGET

text: You can buy this combo pack of the 7" record and shirt at TARGET stores for only $20 ;) Just trying to be helpful people.


title: Five Stars

text: Delivered promptly in perfect condition and at a fair price. Delighted with this purchase!


title: Five Stars

text: fast delivery & quality


title: Great, REAL Country Music!

text: This is only 2 of his songs and they are great! You should definitely give him a listen when you can, his music is what true country music used to be and should still be!


title: Five Stars

text: THANK YOU


title: Five Stars

text: Excellent product


title: Five Stars

text: Love it!


title: JUST VIOLIN NOT VOICE

text: Her violin performance is to be admired but her singing is not her talent. Seriously!


title: Liked it.

text: Liked it.


title: The Best

text:
This might one of the BEST CD for those that drive an hour or more a day or travel.

I play it ever trip and LOVE it.

Could never get tired of this great voice and selection of songs.

Jerry Wood


title: Looks Good!!

text: Built pretty sturdy,BUT if you have more then your ID and a few credit cards to put in it,its not all that great.I cant get any pictures in it,or money and then get it to snap close.So its a little bitter sweet type thing!


title: LDS-friendy

text: Well produced McLean LDS music.


title: great oldies CD

text: great oldies CD


title: jab

text: This is by far my very favorite show on television. Can`t wait for season 2. It`s a dark fairy tale with some humor and some monster type characters. It has beautiful lush scenery, in the forests of Oregon.


title: Sounds like Frank

text: Nice sound.  We heard him in concert and wanted a CD.


title: LOL funny

text: I don't think there is any other comedian out there like Dylan Moran today.  His wit is quite unique, dry, sarcastic, and without being offensive.  Yes, he picks on groups of people, but he does it with precision and charm, and they all would do well to laugh at themselves.  He is gem and this double CD is a keeper.


title: Roger Joseph Manning Jr. delivers another molar-tingling dose of sugary pop

text:
When Roger Joseph Manning Jr. released his [[ASIN:B000CEK5FY Solid State Warrior]] tracks a couple of years ago many viewed it as the next best thing to Jellyfish while others saw it as a pale imitation.  I've heard it said that if you took "Sebrina, Paste and Plato" from [[ASIN:B000002US5 Spilt Milk]] and recycled it a bunch of times you'd end up with most of Roger's most recent pop output.  I find that attitude both uncharitable and a bit distant from the truth.  Yes, most of the songs are cheesily penned lyrically, and Roger's voice makes any song seem like a Partridge Family outing to see the highlights from a contest of harmonies between Queen and ELO, but that is the genius behind [[ASIN:B0012ZN67Q Catnip Dynamite]] and it is the main reason Andy Sturmer was able to balance his own musical sensibilities and create such outstanding music with Roger.

01. The Quickening (10/10) - A fantastic tune with that classic over-produced grandeur common in the 70's.  The beat is something out of Gary Glitter's repertoire.  Replete with space-age synth sweeps and even a cowbell, it has some marvelous ELO moments that are stunning.  The super harmonies and musicianship are all typical in RJM's work.

02.  Love's Never Half As Good (7/10) - Showcasing Roger's piano skills, this song is the equivalent of "I Wish It Would Rain" from [[ASIN:B000CEK5FY Solid State Warrior]].  This is one of those soft, AM radio friendly songs that has Roger performing several background vocal tracks.  While this is not one of my standouts, it is still quite good with plenty of happy, sappy moments.  The name of the song sums it up pretty well...  It does have a "Chorus Line" moment toward the end that really came out of the blue for me.

03.  Down in Front (10/10) - It is really hard to describe this one...  The verses tick along quickly to a keyboard rhythm that supports a snappy synth beat, but the bridges between verses and verse and chorus are these blistering blasts of great glam guitar.  A fine T-Rex moment, again with a Glitter foot-stomping beat thrown in make this one an absolute winner.

04. My Girl (6/10) - This one actually pushes the boundaries of sappiness in a pop song.  A slow-ish beat with a banjo being plucked to offset the saloon-style piano jangling is a little much to take unless you are ok with not having anything that will set the pulse racing or the foot tapping.  Cute, but that is where it ends.

05.  Imaginary Friend (9/10) - This one has the same keyboard stylings that bands like Smash Mouth, Inspiral Carpets and the Caesars used to great effect.  A nice solid beat that is more 60's than 70's in it's inspiration, this particular song actually plays down Roger's vocals and just sets a go-go tone.  It could be a b-side for "Dragonfly" with the slightly Austin Powers feel.

06. Haunted Henry (7/10) - A piano influenced tune that rolls along sadly.  Not a rocker by any stretch, and somber in it's tone it comes complete with bell tolls and is set to a minor key throughout.  Any song about a crazy person living locked in his crazy mind is sure to fall short of upbeat.

07. Tinsel Town (5/10) - I gave this a 5, though it has some Country & Western sensibilities that I find disturbing.  I will be skipping this song, which is something I didn't do at all on [[ASIN:B000CEK5FY Solid State Warrior]].

08. The Turnstile At Heaven's Gate (9/10) - This one redeems where Track 07 failed.  It has some complex moments and ultimately plays like a song from the same recipe book that spawned some of the better Wings and Queen moments.  It changes gears a bunch of times and has no hummable chorus, but it really has an epic feel to it.

09. Survival Machine (6/10) - This is the stepchild of "Sandman" and "Sleep Children".  If you like the harpsichord-laced stuff and get a kick out of Roger's voice hitting the upper registers, this song is for you.  It has a pretty anti-war theme, so if you are into Freedom Fries and Walmart, you might want to steer clear.  A little reminiscent of the "Butcher's Tale" from The Zombies [[ASIN:B000005YZM Odessey and Oracle]] but with Roger's super-sweet voice carrying the story.

10. Living In End Time (10/10) - A heavier tune with a more rock 'n' roll tone.  This one actually plays up some guitar work that is absent in many of the others.  This one is not as readily recognized as a style Roger is known for.  Still, it is pretty fun and about halfway through it it has some downright Jellyfish sounding moments.

11. Drive Thru Girl (7/10) - If you could imagine how Beatles fans felt when Paul did "Honey Pie", you might have an idea how this song throws a wrench in the gears.  It has a stage piano as the primary instrument with hand clapping and a kazoo as the only other instrument.  It is fun in it's way, but is an odd one after Track 10.  It is supposed to emulate an old fashioned stage show or tavern piano act.  It succeeds there...

12. American Affluenza (10/10) - A fun song that again uses that go-go mode with the short, choppy keyboards and some Beach Boy harmonies.  You could frug to this one with the electro-flute and tight drum beat.  An upbeat song about American excesses set to a swingin' beat with Roger's voice again somewhat subdued save for the harmonies.  A good ender in that it closes on a high note.

SUMMARY:  Much less even than [[ASIN:B000CEK5FY Solid State Warrior]], this one still has enough to warrant a look from power pop fans and old members of the Jellyfish Army.  The high price tag is prohibitive in that this release is really only worth the price tag if you are a collector of Roger's stuff or an ex-Drag/Jellyfish fan.  I would not recommend this one as a starting point for those new to Roger Joseph Manning Jr.  [[ASIN:B000CEK5FY Solid State Warrior]] is much better in my opinion than the similarly tracked [[ASIN:B000H8SF8Y The Land of Pure Imagination]], though the latter is cheaper by far.  If you are willing to drop the money on [[ASIN:B0012ZN67Q Catnip Dynamite]], you already probably know what you are getting into.  It is Roger after all, so it is cleverly produced pop music with an incredible attention to detail and intricately built melodies and harmonies.

attachment_type: IMAGE


title: He is so quick and witty...loved it!

text: I happen to love David Mitchell, his wit, his intellect and his voice!  I think you’d have like him first to enjoy his book.  Wouldn’t appeal absolutely to  everyone.  I listen to it on trips in the car by myself.  I was thoroughly entertained and interested in his story.


title: Alex North's triumphant score

text: A superior film soundtrack to enjoy again and again.


title: Great Music

text: I've always loved this movie and the music which is unforgettable.  So I decided to order the CD so I could listen whenever I like. Unfortunately, if you don't have really good speakers, it loses a lot of it impact.  If you do, you are in luck, because the music is magnificent.


title: Concert for George CD set - AWESOME!!

text:
If you saw, as I did, the Concert broadcast on PBS-TV, you know how great it was.
I purchased my 2-disc CD set from: QualityCD&DVD seller.  Listened to it all today and it is GREAT!  Sound is Excellent, No skipping, not anything wrong with it.  I just ordered another for a gift.

*HIGHLY RECOMMEND