Vibrating Through Life
the unforgettable
#3
Captain Midnight
Our hike up into the Grand Tetons was our last 'park' adventure. We did it, man! The Canadian Rockies,
Banff, the Sun Road at Glacier, crowded Yellowstone, the gorgeous Tetons. We'd been on a motorcycle mountain extravaganza. Our eyeballs were plum wore out.
Late that day, Rte 287 took us east to Riverton. Chuck wanted to camp out at this really remote campsite.
All I wanted was off the saddle and a cold beer. Plus, I'll admit, the thought of waking up with a rattlesnake
sharing my tent was not my thing. Chuck was determined to 'rough it' the entire trip. I fought and garnered a compromise. We settled on a campsite close to town.
After a quick river skinny-dip the next early morn, we cranked the Harleys and rode toward South Dakota and Sturgis. We landed is Spearfish, a week before the massive yearly Black Hills Motor Classic bike rally. Early was good as we commandeered an inviting campsite for a lot less cash than the inflated prices set to take effect 7 days hence.
That night occurred an unforgettable.
Why not embark on a bit of nightlife. We'd been touring and camping in the mountains for weeks. We'd kept a even- keel on this trip. Time to rock the boat.
We left the tents and rode to a live music venue. Local band. Cowboy bar. We met some folk. Shared a
pitcher. Danced. Chuck grew weary and finally left for the campsite. I stayed. Not a good decision. Why did
I do that? Still beer in my glass? Honestly, I do not recall. Perhaps a half hour passed before I at last
mounted up... and proceeded to get misdirected and lost. Not hard. A bit inebriated. Unfamiliar roads. Into the wee wee hours –super dark. Wrong turns led to turnarounds – so pissed at myself – before finally finding my way back to the campground.
Chuck is dead to the world. I manage to lay my weary head down and take stock. I stink. I'm filthy. God,
when was my last brawl with a bar of soap? We'd been camping for days in remote areas – no facilities –
but not here. This place is high-class. So get back up, dude. Take advantage.
Finding a towel, soap dish, and flashlight was no easy task in the pitch black. Lots of thrashing around, lots of cursing, eventually led to to success. Perhaps a 100 yards to the showers... but I was game.
Entering the brick building, I was surprised a shower was in use. After all, we're in the middle of the night by
now. But there were two stalls and two were enough. I stripped in a flash. This was going to be heaven. I
darted in to let the water reign o'er me... then stared in disbelief. A metal box stared back... needing a
quarter to pump/dispense.
What the hell. I don't have a stinking quarter! I don't have a stinking penny! High-class? My ass! How can they be so cheap?
My grimy, hungover, and totally pissed off rant went on – loudly.
Then – a happenstance, a miracle of sorts. Girlish laughter overrode my verbal assault. "Oh, you must need two bits," she cooed, "here you go. Grab it."
The adjoining stalls were separated by a 6 foot partition, low enough for a naked and obvious feminine arm to extend over; two fingers holding onto a shiny disk. It appeared like the Star of Bethlehem. I plucked it
graciously, aimed for the coin slot, then caught my breathe. "Ah... no offense...but this don't seem right."
"Roger that bro. You're in the wrong building, bro. Like... take it next door!"
Holy Harley. In my haste I'd charged into the 'better half' shower. Maybe once or twice in slumber I'd conjured up such a scene, but here... now? Regardless, Lady Godiva was too late. Her gift had deposited, the handle was turned, water cascaded like a long lost love.
As I scrubbed away, I heard her shower finish, her stall door open. In a flash I realized it was imperative that I somehow uphold the hard-core biker image. The lifestyle demanded tossing out a line. I shouted above the downpour. "Look, it's your quarter. By rights your water. Join up. Plenty of room in here."
Her reply still haunts.
First came a hearty laugh – followed by an closeup, sly, sultry, unforgettable retort:
"Only in your dreams, Captain Midnight."
With that, I heard retracing steps, the outer door slam. She was gone. I was struck dumb. I wanted to
holler: "No, don't go. I've been on this balls-to-the-walls bike trip... day after day under perfect skies. I've given myself a 'handle'. I'm the Sun King... not Captain Midnight."
But I didn't utter a word. I was too late. She had vanished. My Joan of Arc, my lady godsend.
No visual remains – only imagination
re - 3-26-2001
#2
7 reasons why The Ramones: Too Tough To Die (1984) remains the
best rock n roll lp/casstte/cd/download of all time
1. They are all dead
A Ramones' curse: Joey (49) passed from lymphatic cancer in 2001. Dee Dee (51) overdosed heroin in 2002. Cancer (prostate) also took Johnny (56) in 2004 and Tommy (65) (bile duct) in 2014. Early end suck. So unfair. But there is no dichotomy here. No "ha-ha" too tough contradictions. It's the music, dude.
When I first took note of the band back in '74, I figured, with the name, they were some sort of weird Mariachi tex-mex thing. No interest and in all honesty I missed out on the hoopla of the first LP... but by Rocket... I was hooked.
2. It stands like a tall zinnia in a weed patch
Too Tough was the band's 8th release, 8 years had passed since the opening salvo. The shine of the first 4 had long worn off. The previous 3 releases were already in the bargain bins. Those that followed, Animal Boy/Halfway to Sanity/Brian Drain... well...there were moments... but just reread the titles.
So how did they do it? How did they make the 'very best' from the subterranean jungle ruble they were wallowing in? Worn torn personalities were at the crisis stage. 'They despised one another' was not much of an exaggeration. An exhausted Tommy reduced himself to producing. Dee Dee felt trapped. Johnny and Joey were strangling one another vying for the same girl ( talk about worst-case band-killer scenarios). They were broke. Separate rides were out of the question. They were all still on the same bus.... rolling on resentment. So how?
It's a rock n roll mystery.
Sometime in late spring '83 , the Des Moines Register announced a June i Ramones' concert. A first. They had never played Iowa. I think I stopped somewhere within the capitol to get 2 tickets. 37 years (OMG) have passed. History is hazy. I don't think I'd chance a walk-up. Jake was 12. The two of us would stand for 'everyman'.
3. There are leaps of faith here
Too Tough begins with 3 gems: Mama's Boy/ ..Not Afraid../ title track. Quintessential. Half-way in, the boys go on a wild skate, overriding the 45 second punk manifestoes of yore. Branching out and keeping the flame. Tricky. Howling at the Moon almost gets it - 3rd base. Daytime Dilemma scores. A diamond. Brilliant.
The Des Moines concert was held at a downtown hotel, up from the river near Drake University. I recall the place as kind of a high rise Holiday Inn. We all crowded in on the top floor, a wide open convention-center rectangle with a low rise stage at one end, catering tables at the other. We weren't jammed but I eyed the crowed situ with a nervous twitch: one elevator - one emergency stairwell. With a fast spreading fire, most of our charred remains would be on the cover of Rolling Stone: Another Rock Tragedy! There was beer to buy, cigarettes to smoke (1983) , probably some weed, and an interminable opening local band making the most of their 15-minute fame-day. Old hippies and young punks waltzed together. Not sure how Jake and I fit in with this tye-dye/pin-pierced zoo but it was really cool to be 'one' with the congregate.
The 'can't see, dad' problem was solved lifting Jake atop a wide window ledge. We were close to the stage but far from the stairwell. I trusted in God not to mix stupidity with happiness. Jake was not alone. One other had brought her daughter. As fate would have it, she too had eyed the ledge. There was room for both. The two kids had the best view in the house.
If this was a novel, the 4 of us, of course, would have lived happily ever after. I do remember a pretty face and a smile of solidarity.
4. Fist pumping, mosh pit diehards never abandoned
The guys are never going to be mistaken for Duran Duran. The Ivy League is not here. Beady-eyed Johnny. Squashed bugs Dee Dee and Tommy. Joey good-naturedly being compared to a combo praying mantis/Abe Lincoln.
But as a band they took that... they wrote about that... being the weirdo, the mirror murderer, the dateless disasters... and it's Saturday night and what are we going to do? The answer were songs, two of the bands irresistible best: Chasing the Night and No Go. "Hey, ho, let's go." We are not alone. We are one.
5. Maybe the best lyric line in rock history is here.
Planet Earth 1988 probably divides the Ramones fandom like no other. There is no other song like it. I think Dee Dee wrote it which makes no sense cause it's light years from any other invention. Regardless the division, it's noble, a 3 minute gut wrenching bulldozer, with a loping arpeggio-like cadence sorta like Neil Young's Cortez the Killer in 4th gear.
There's that line... impossible to forget:
Guerrilla armies rule the street
No more Christmas or trick or treat
Political scribes and historians have written thousand page tomes detailing our blood and iron past; forewarning our tenuous civilization. The Ramones got it down to 2 lines.
That was his gift: making things simple (Arturo Vega)
The Ramones hit the Des Moines stage like a bulldozer roaring to life. Jake and I were close. I remember them as this giant black jacketed cartoon coming to life. Just this inner delight. Johnny. Despite yo-yoing Dee Dee and the gargoyle draped over the mike, you could not take your eyes off comatose wall-of-sound Johnny. You just had to laugh. They were simply too good to be true. Some 40 minutes. That was the set. It was enough. Not another note was needed. Perfect.
6. The second-to-none coolest Ramones' song is here
I understand. There are many scoffing that Too Tough is not only not the best LP ever, it's not even the best Ramones' LP. I mean, with the latter, Rocket to Russia is gonna garner a lot of votes and certainly song-wise, Rockaway Beach is gonna top a lotta charts. And I agree some. Rockaway Beach is their finest 2 minutes, maybe anybodies finest, but Endless Vacation is the finest Ramones' two minutes. Semantics here.
No other song in their vast whatever represents what and who they are. And no other is as insanely funny either. The ultimate ode to a tormented dysfunctional family now on a seemingly endless supposed holiday. Lyrically harsh but don't worry, you can't understand a word they're screaming.
Johnny and Dee Dee wrote it. Makes perfect sense.
" takin Carrie to the high school prom.... somethings always go'in wrong"
When the buzzsaw ended, I told Jake we'd wait... be the last out.. away from the exit mass. Probably took 30 minutes. Alone, it was... why not the elevator. The fact that it was still operational was certainly a tribute to an inventors skill. Like I say, we were at the top maybe a dozen floors up. Swoosh, down we went and with a ding we were halted half-way and the unforgettable arrived.
The door rattled open and Johnny and Dee Dee joined us. I may have looked at Jake. I know I was speechless. As the decent recommenced I surely offered up a "great show" or "thanks for coming to Iowa" but they shrugged off my stuttered sentiment. They were heading out into the night. They wanted to know where to go. They'd found the right guy. I knew the Drake district. I directed them to So's Your Mother's, a 2-story hot spot live band venue near the university. "Not far at all", I said, "practically within walking distance."
Ding! We had hit the lobby. The doors opened. "Thanks." They were off and gone.
Jake and I just stared at one another. "Can you believe..." we said together... then laughed and smiled...
never to forget.
7. Too Tough to Die was the Ramones' lowest chart-peaking record ever
Well.. how could it be otherwise.
In 2019, 36 years after Too Tough's release, 36 years since Tommy, Joey, Dee Dee, and Johnny made music together, so many years since they had all passed away, I accompanied my granddaughter Ivy to school and stayed for a meal at the cafeteria. I learned that 100 seven-year-old second graders can make a lot of noise. The din was all encompassing. Unable and unwilling to converse, I eyeballed around, suddenly settling on one of Ivy's classmates sitting directly across from me. I was taken. She was adorable. They all were. But what straitened my spine was her garb, her top. She was wearing a Ramones T-shirt. The classic. Band name in huge caps over the punned e pluribus unum.
Most assuredly a gift from a grandfather/great uncle.
But how can this be? 4 long gone hit-less misfits from Long Island still claiming a stake in Texas near 40 years down the road. The wonder of it all. Too tough to die.
re 3-23-2020
Vibrating Through Life
the unforgettable
#1
For Your Consideration: Mr. Tambourine Man
Back in the 80’s, cassettes ruled the music world. “Ill make ya a tape” was the catch phase of the cassette era. They pretty much reside in the dust bins of history, but in actuality, during their heyday, they were doggone versatile. Though low-low tech when compared to todays I-Tunes, Spotify, or Google Play, one could, in a similar fashion, round up a bunch of albums / recorded tapes and via a cassette tape deck - select songs and ‘make a tape’ - chief difference of the two eras being, of course, ‘access’. Today we have unlimited digital access to music catalogs. Want to record say, Blueberry Hill? Click I-tunes and you’ve a dozen versions to choose from. It’s all great, natch, but I kinda miss the hectic gathering that went on in the cassette world - attempting to locate, say, an obscure Neil Young LP like ‘83’s, Everybody’s Rockin’ - calling my friend Greg askin’,
“ You wouldn’t by chance have a copy of Neil’s rockabilly thing?”
“ The Shocking Pinks? Yeah, I got it somewhere.”
“ Oh man, that is awesome. Need a song from it. Can I borrow?”
and so on.
Fun stuff.
The other high tech advantage being clearness of sound. Back in the ‘vinyl days’ we had to overcome beer soaked LPs that both skipped (in the worst places, of course) and often emulated that snap, crackle, and pop breakfast cereal.
But cassettes were cool. Still are in my opinion.
With his long varied recording career, Dylan was ideal for ‘I’ll make ya a tape’. Put together a bunch of favorite tunes, try to get a sequence that makes sense ... golly, I made a slew of Dylan stuff - but oddly, Mr. Tambourine Man never made my playlists. I’m not sure why exactly. The original recording from Bringing It All Back Home was fine. There was that gutteral coming-out-of-the-harmonica-break throat clearing moment in verse 4: “tthhen taake me disappearin’...”, but hell, those kind of things never bothered me - more endearing than anything. No, there was just something about the melody line that bothered. The Tam- Man felt forced somehow - spinning lyrics in need of a more solid foundation - and the song was long, which added to my irritation. An overbearing bottom line that somehow slowed the ‘mo’ of every concocted playlist. The Tam-man didn’t work for me.
But I’m in a small minority here. Very small. Take 20 Dylan purists and at least 19 will have Mr. Tambourine in their ‘top ten’ of all time. I’d be the odd man out. And of course, to add insult to injury, back in ’65, all will recall, that the amplified Byrds took the song into the stratosphere plus... McGuinn’s electric 12-string had a great deal to do with Dylan’s plunge to the power chord himself. Highway 61 Revisited followed by Blonde on Blonde upset the rock and roll apple cart like never before.
Thus Mr. Tambourine Man was the lock choice on everyone’s Dylan cassette mix. But not mine ...
until 2002 and the release of The Bootleg Series Vol 5: Live 1975 - the CD documenting the Rolling Thunder Review tour through wintry New England. One might think the entire recording would be awesome - but it really isn’t. On most of the songs there are simply too many musicians and singers singing and playing too many notes. Somewhere in the middle of this thing I was beginning to regret the 20 odd Washingtons I'd coughed up for this overblown jamboree - when on cue - after fading applause, an acoustic Tambourine Man reverberated from my speakers.
One might picture the situation. A performance in Worchester, Mass complete. Musicians high-fiving well-dones back stage. An audience foot stomping, pleading: “One more! One more!” Dylan, in an elated mood, suddenly grabs an acoustic and reappears stage left. Rapture ensues, then quiet, as he strums a beginning to the Tam-man. And thank God the recorders were still running.
Was this the way it happened? I don’t have a clue, but what’s cool is how the crowd slowly comes to realize they are witness to an extraordinary event ... perhaps the finest Mr. Tambourine Man performance like...ever. They can hardly contain themselves - and neither could I years later - listening to this gold standard in my living room.
Dylan changes the song, tilts it ever so slightly to sublime advantage. It’s livelier. Playful. He’s phrasing the lines as only he can do. “Too dead for dreaming” gets a hard staccato. Suddenly the song is not long enough. On he goes, past the cosmic, “Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free”, toward rapturous ending applause. Bending an ear, one feels a near ‘witness to history’.
Indeed. Mr Tambourine Man would never be omitted on my playlists again.
How did I get to this point with this guy. It was early summer, ’63. I was 17 with an older sister Alaine, 20, who had a boyfriend Jim from Brooklyn, New York. We were living where I grew up; bedroom suburban Westport, Connecticut.
I recall Jim with fondness. He was Big Jim like in that western saga Dylan song from Blood on the Tracks - cept that he didn’t own a diamond mine. Alaine had met him in college and he use to regale me with hilarious stories about attempting to play football for Marietta in Ohio. He was Big Jim but hardly gridiron granite. He was a gifted musician, guitar/banjo, and had a jug band. My sister sang. I was with them at one of their gigs. It was winter, I recall, ’67, up in Schenectady, NY. My wife and I must have been visiting. They played at a former synagogue that had seen better times - now converted to some kind of alt cafe; what Woody Allen might have called a b’ani-a-go-go. That next January day we attended a party at a friends home. The Packers were playing on a small neglected telly tucked away in the corner; something new called a super bowl.
Years earlier, Jim had played a few solo gigs in Greenwich Village. This was the ‘village’ in the early 60’s, bursting with talent. ‘Ground zero’ for the exploding folk and folk rock scene that would soon sweep the country: Dave Van Ronk, Dylan, Tom Paxton, Tommy Makem and the Clancy Brothers, Josh White, Richie Havens... the list is near endless. The scene is documented in Scorsese’s remarkable 2005 film, No Direction Home and fully detailed in Dylans own Chronicles Volume One.
And Big Jim was part of it. Well... perhaps not the headliner. I know he played at the Cafe Why Not, the dead shift - passing the hat at 2:00 am while wailing out folk chanties to a probably sparse group of fully schnockered night life critters.
Jim trained up to Westport one day in the spring in ’63 to see my sister. He drank too much of my father’s good scotch, Johnny Walker Red, and left hung over the next morning catching a Sunday commute back to the city. In such a state and probably rushing, he left behind an album he’d brought with him: Dylan’s Freewheelin.
I found it that morning. Scruffy looking guy on the cover. Girl on his arm walking down a cold snowy NY city street, strolling on past a blue beetle micro bus parked at the curb. Who is this guy? What is this stuff?
I was residing in the basement back then. My gram on my mother’s side, Nellie Robertson, had come to live with us. My bedroom was needed and I was relegated downward. I liked it just fine. Privacy. I had one of those square box hi-fi s, orange and white with a long spindle and a dial that rotated to play vinyl at 33/45/78 rpm. My umbilical chord to music. I spun on Freewheelin’ and dropped the needle. Big Jim never got it back.
33 years went by.
Alaine and JIm produced 2 daughters and a divorce. The oldest, Jennie, married in 1994.
I attended, naturally.
So did Jim.
At the outside reception, we sat together, beers in hand. I hadn’t seen him in decades.
First words:
“I’ve still got your Dylan album.”
Jim returned a non-comprehending look.
“Freewheeln,” I offered up. “Westport. 1963.”
There was just a hint of silent recognition.
I gave him a pleading look. “I was just a teenager for God’s sake. It’s all your fault.”
I burst out laughing. It was one of the unforgettable moments of my life.
And with that, you’d think the Tam-Man had reached an exit line.
Not quite.
Life goes on as does the endless Dylan Bootleg series. In 2009, the Dylan brain trust released Volume 9 The Witmark Demos: 1962-1964. These songs were early on demos. All acoustic. Rough recorded copies offered up to a publisher. The resulting released 2009 CDs would leave normal sane people scratching their heads - lots of false starts, fragmented stops, doors slamming in the background, lyrics forgotten and/or replaced mid song - wondering why anyone would give so much a second listen.
Hard core aficionados were in awe. The Rosetta Stone at last. Minnesota Robert Zimmerman becoming New York Bob Dylan.
As for me, I kinda like this stuff - but the Witmark Bootleg is raw, practice run-throughs, stuff normally left on the cutting room floor. Guitar strumming till near the end when behold: Mr. Tambourine Man bows in. The song feels tacked on. The ambiance is different - a recording from a different time and place, perhaps. You get a sense the Bootleg selection committee made a last minute decision: “Yeah, lets throw this one onto the disc too."
It’s just Dylan at the piano. A keyboard metronomic version of the song - near mathematical. He never claimed to be Mozart. As the verses sing by, the notes and tempo never change - like there is an elderly piano teacher spinster, hovering over her rebellious student, ruler in hand, ready to snap the knuckles if a key be played miss-timed, in error, or out of place.
Dylan allowed emotions to rise and fall in Worchester in ’75, but here in ’62 he’s pure monotone, a singing Tambourine robot...
and it’s brilliant. Stunning.
How does he get away with this? How can a flat-line recording of Mr. Tambourine Man mesmerize so? How does this by-the-numbers painting somehow peak it’s head above radiant Rolling Thunder?
I’m not going to try and answer that question. Who am I to define musical genius.
Hey mister! Play a song for me.
RE 12-20-13
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