Tales From Out In The 1960s Be-Bop Night

From The Pen Of Peter Paul Markin Out In The Be-Bop 2000s Night- Desperately Seeking...

Markin comment :

Yah, I know I switched up on you. Usually when I write about the be-bop night, at least the times of my schoolboy “high-tide” feverish, mad monk-driven be-bop nights it is either the mid to late 1950s when I first got the itch, the wandering idea itch, or the early 1960s when I shared those be-bop nights with Frankie, Frankie, king of the be-bop schoolboy night in our old beat-down, beat-up, beat seven ways to Sunday, beatified, North Adamsville working class neighborhood. Certainly be-bop times don’t extend later than the late 1960s and the hitchhike highway road, a separate highway story road, but on this one I have to extend forward to the new millennium to make my pitch. So hear me out, will you.

******

Desperately seeking…

an idea. I will keep this short and sweet. I have to admit to failure, abject failure, utter failure, despairing failure, and twelve other forms of it, in my efforts to keep up a steady drumbeat of commentaries about the old days at North Adamsville High (many of which, mercifully, have been relegated to the recycle bin, trash barrel, deep freeze space or other designated welcoming cyberspace disposal sites). Failure, do you hear me? Why? I foolishly, again, again meaning here when one of my projects does not turn out right that is the characterization they deserve, believed that my commentaries would act as a catalyst and draw 1964 classmates, other former students at North Adamsville and an odd denizen from the deep, out. Hell, even an off-hand straggler from fiendish cross-town arch rival blue and white Adamsville would be given a hero’s welcome.

What I was really thinking though was, maybe, some long lost comrades of the schoolboy night like hang-around guys in front of Harry’s Variety (where the white-tee-shirt, blue-jeaned, engineer-booted, cigarette-smoking, unfiltered of course, sneering, soda-swilling, Coke, natch, pinball wizards held forth daily and nightly, and let me cadge a few odd games when they had more important business, more important girl business, to attend to)would find their voices. Maybe they could tell, finally tell, the secret swaying of the hips, just so not too much left or right, that got them all those extra games, and the girls, fast girls too. Or the gang around Doc’s Drugstore ( a place where all the neighborhood boys, all the sixteen year old boys, and maybe some girls too, all the plaid-shirted, black-chino-ed, “cool”, max daddies came of drinking age, from Doc's shelves, for medicinal purposes of course). They could tell of magic elixirs from rums and raw whiskey, and confess, yes, confess that that whisky taste was nasty.

Or, even holy of holies, Salducci’s Pizza Parlor up the Downs when Frankie, Francis Xavier Riley, was king of night (and a few days too) and I was his lord chamberlain. Maybe tell of some pizza dough secrets, or how to snag a girl with just the right jukebox combination when dough was short and you were lonely. But no, no one came forth to spew their whitewashed stories almost a half a century later. Probably, on some of the stuff, some of the kiddish schoolboy night stuff, they didn’t realize the statute of limitations ran out, and ran out long ago. But that’s not my problem.

At some point I figured out that this was not to be the case, that those phantoms had lost their voices or preferred snickered quietude, and I resolved to push on anyway at the whim of whatever demons were driving me on. Fierce demon, raider red bleeding demons, to speak out of gone-by days. I was going along fine until I realized and the readers, or at least a few readers, tipped me to this hard fact of literary life. I was recycling the same basic story just in little different guises. You know teen alienation, teen angst, teen love, teen hate, and teen lost themes. And girl less-ness, or too many girl-ness, or wanna be such. Same, ditto, Xerox. Praise be king trash barrel of the dark, dark just before the dawn night. And quick click fingers.

Now, frankly, and this is the core of my plea, I have run out of ideas. A recent re-reading of some of my commentaries has rubbed my face in that hard fact. Two themes, one mentioned above, in various guises have emerged; no, have jumped from the page at me, from the work- the 'tragic' effects of my growing up poor in the land of plenty in the 1950s be-bop working class night and that usual teenage longing for companionship and romance. Gee, those ideas have never been the subject of literary efforts before, right?

Okay, okay nobody asked me to volunteer to be the unpaid, self-appointed voice of the Class of 1964 and so I have only myself to blame. I swear I will get into a twelve-step program for the nostalgically-challenged just the minute I get out of the rehab program for political junkies. But in the meantime-help, or else. And what might that or else threat mean? I am desperate enough to steal someone else's thunder from the general North Adamsville High Message Board that I have been peppering with my ravings. Do you really want to hear me on the subject of Squaw Rock or other seamy, steamy tales of the seashore "submarine" night? And name names. Or, how nasty some of our teachers were? Ditto on the names. Yawn. Or the kinky, perverted, long-suppressed dark side of the North Adamsville High School Band and what they did with those seemingly innocent instruments? Or ........have me go into back into that dreaded Recycle Bin and dust off some of those rejects? Think about it. Send an idea-quick.

******

P.S. Someone has suggested a comparison or contrast between Elvis and Jerry Lee Lewis along the lines of Rolling Stones/Beatles (Class of 1964-Stones or Beatles) or Brenda Lee/Patsy Cline (Battle of The Sexes-Round 235) commentaries that I had done earlier this year. This does not count as a new idea though as that goes to the old lonely nights and girl-less days theme that we are trying to move away from just before that twelve step night.

Of course, Jerry Lee was better than Elvis-that's a no-brainer. But it is an idea that will find its way into these pages on its own. Meanwhile how about some North Adamsville idea? I am ready to start writing about President John Adams, his wife Abigail, his son John Quincy, his grandson, Charles Francis, his great grandson, Henry and unto the nth generation if nothing better comes along. And believe me, Adamsville born and bred, I have all the dirt on those guys and their dolls. You have been forewarned.

Those Oldies But Goodies…Out In The Be-Bop ‘50s Song Night- Jody Reynolds “Endless Sleep”- Billie’s View

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sT23zZXKq-A

Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Jody Reynolds performing the classic Endless Sleep.

Markin comment:

This is another tongue-in-cheek commentary, the back story if you like, in the occasional entries under this headline going back to the primordial youth time of the 1950s with its bags full of classic rock songs for the ages. Of course, any such efforts have to include the views of one Billie, William James Bradley, the mad hatter of the 1950s rock jailbreak out in our “the projects” neighborhood. Yah, in those days, unlike during his later fateful wrong turn trajectory days, every kid, including best friend Markin, me, lived to hear what he had to say about any song that came trumpeting over the radio, at least every one that we would recognize as our own. This song, Endless Sleep, came out at a time when I my family was beginning to start the process of moving out of the projects, and, more importantly, I had begun to move away from Billie’s orbit, his new found orbit as king hell gangster wannabe. I was in my 24/7 reading at the local public library branch phase in lieu of being Billie’s accomplice on various, well, let’s call them capers just in case the statute of limitations has not run out. Still Billie, king hell rock and roll king of the old neighborhood, knew how to call a lyric, and make us laugh to boot. Wherever you are Billie I’m still pulling for you. Got it.

JODY REYNOLDS

"Endless Sleep"

(Jody Reynolds and Dolores Nance)

The night was black, rain fallin' down

Looked for my baby, she's nowhere around

Traced her footsteps down to the shore

‘fraid she's gone forever more

I looked at the sea and it seemed to say

“I took your baby from you away.

I heard a voice cryin' in the deep

“Come join me, baby, in my endless sleep.

Why did we quarrel, why did we fight?

Why did I leave her alone tonight?

That's why her footsteps ran into the sea

That's why my baby has gone from me.

I looked at the sea and it seemed to say

“I took your baby from you away.

I heard a voice cryin' in the deep

“Come join me, baby, in my endless sleep.

Ran in the water, heart full of fear

There in the breakers I saw her near

Reached for my darlin', held her to me

Stole her away from the angry sea

I looked at the sea and it seemed to say

“You took your baby from me away.

My heart cried out “she's mine to keep

I saved my baby from an endless sleep.

[Fade]

Endless sleep, endless sleep

*****

Billie back again, William James Bradley, if you didn’t know. Markin’s pal, Peter Paul Markin’s pal, from over the Adamsville Elementary School and the pope of rock lyrics down here in “the projects.” The Adamsville projects, if you don’t know. Markin, who I hadn’t seen for a while since he told me his family was going to move out of the projects and who had developed this big thing for the local library and books lately, came by the other day to breathe in the fresh air of my rock universe-adorned bedroom when we got to talking about this latest record, Endless Sleep, by Jody Reynolds. All the parents around here, at least the parents that care anyway, or those who have heard the lyrics screaming from their kid’s plug-in blaring radio (that’s why they invented transistor radios-so parents wouldn’t, or couldn’t, catch on to what we are listening to- smarten up is what I say to those kids still on plug-in mode, for christ’s sake) about the not so subtle suicide theme. Yah, like that is what every kid is going to do when the going gets a little tough in the love department. Take a jump in the ocean, and call one and all to join them. Come on, will ya. It's only a song. Besides what is really good about this one is that great back beat on the guitar and Jody Reynolds' cool clothes and sideburns. I wish to high heaven I had both.

But see the pope of rock lyrics, me, can’t just leave this song like that. I have to decode it for the teeny-boppers around here or they will be clueless, including big time book guy Markin. And that is really what is going to make the difference between us here. We had a battle royal over this one. See, Markin always wants to give big play to the “social” meaning of the song, whatever that is, you know where the thing sticks in society, at least teeny-bopper society. Yah, and Markin is also the “sensitive” guy, usually. Like pulling for the girl to get her guy back, or at least go back to her old boyfriend for some back-up love, in Eddie My Love. Or has a kind thing to say about the dumb cluck of a bimbo who went back to the railroad track-stuck car to get some cheapjack class ring in Teen Angel (although he agreed, agreed fully, that the dame was a dumb cluck on other grounds).

Here though I am the sensitive guy, if you can believe that. Here’s why. It seems that Markin has some kind of exception to the “social” rule when it comes to the ocean, to the sea, christ, probably to some scum pond for all I know as the scene for suicide attempts. Apparently he is in the throes of some King Neptune frenzy and took umbrage (his word, not mind I don’t go to the library much) at the idea that someone would desecrate the sea that way, our homeland the sea was the way he put it. Like old Neptune hasn’t brought seventy-three types of hell on us with his hurricane tidal waves, his overflowing the seawalls, his flooding everything within three miles of the coast, or when he just throws his flotsam and jetsam (my words, from school, I like them) on the projects beaches whenever he gets fed up. So I have to defend this frail’s action, and gladly.

You know it really is unbelievable once you start to think about it how many of these songs don’t have people in them with names, real names, nicknames, anything to tag on them. Here it’s the same old thing. Markin would just blithely go on and makes up names but I’ll just give you the “skinny” without the Markin literary touches, okay. Rather than calling the girl every name in the book for disturbing the fishes or the plankton like Markin I am trying to see what happened here to drive her to such a rash action. Obviously they, the unnamed boy and girl, had an argument, alright a big argument if that satisfies you. What could it have been about? Markin, wise guy Markin, wants to make it some little thing like a missed date, or the guy didn't call or something. Maybe it was, but I think the poor girl was heartbroken about something bigger. Maybe boyfriend didn’t want to “go steady” or maybe he wasn’t ready to be her ever lovin’ one and only. Let me put it this way it was big, not Markin’s b.s. stuff.

Okay she went over the edge, no question, running down to the sea and jumping in. On a rainy night to boot. Hey she had it bad, whatever it was. But see old Neptune, Markin’s friend, maybe father for all I know, is taunting said boyfriend, saying he is taking his baby away. Well, frankly, and old wimpy Markin dismissed this out of hand, those are fighting words in the projects, and not just the projects either. And the girl, given the cold and what that does to you when you have been in too long is forced to taunt her lover boy, trying to bring him down too. This is the part I like though, although Markin would probably take umbrage (again), the boyfriend is ready to reclaim his honey, come hell or high water. Yah, he’s taking his baby back, and taking her no questions asked, from that nasty relentless sea. Chalk one up for our side. Yes, Billie, William James Bradley, is happy, pleased, delighted and any other words you can find in the library that this story has a happy ending. Markin be damned.

From The Pen Of Peter Paul Markin-Out In The Be-Bop 1960s Night- Out In The “Submarine Races” Saturday Night- A CD Review

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P4xNF9uh8SA

Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of The Capris performing There's A Moon Out Tonight.

A few years back I literarily, well maybe not literarily but close, went over the edge trying find every obscure, and not so obscure, record that I could find from the golden oldies time, the classic age of rock and roll time, the 1950s and early 1960s. I searched through flea market album bins like some ghoul out a Larry McMurtry Cadillac Jack novel. I went up into god forsaken, and maybe worst, dusty, musty, crusty attics (people really should throw out or recycle that stuff moldering away up there but that is a screed for another day) in the hopes that some errant 1950s teenager had left his or her markings and Mother was too sentimental to toss the damn things (although at the time there was civil war in many households over permission to have such “devil’s music” in the house, or within fifty yards of it). Worst, I went around to old time drugstores (any that were left in the age of Osco and CVS), steamed food diners, bent pizza parlors, and local mom and pop store hoping that in some back room they had some records left over from the 1950s jukebox days (or even better maybe still had the old jukebox). Yah, I had a jones, a big time rock and roll jones just then. I am better now, thank you. Well, thanks to YouTube and one million other Internet variations that would have saved me much shoe leather, some dough, my health and left my sunny view of previous pre-flea market- attic-pizza parlor human nature intact.

The idea though was to go back to my musical roots, the real roots in classic rock not that Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby, Andrews Sisters, Inkspots stuff that was force-fed wafting throughout the house when my parents wanted to listen to the stuff that got them through the Great Depression (always these days meaning the 1930s one, okay) and the big one, World War II. And while time and ear have eroded the sparkle of some of the lesser tunes, like for example Gene Pitney’s Town Without Pity that I played endlessly, it still seems obvious that those years, say 1955-62, 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 had our own little world, or as some hip sociologist trying to explain that Zeitgeist today might say, our own sub-group cultural expression. I have already talked elsewhere about the pre 7/11 mom and pop corner variety store street corner hangout with the tee-shirted, engineered-booted, cigarette (unfiltered) hanging from the lips, Coke, big-sized glass Coke bottle at the side, pinball wizard guys thing. And about the pizza parlor juke box coin devouring, hold the onions I might get lucky tonight, dreamy girl might come in the door thing. Of course, as well, the drug store soda fountain, and…ditto, dreamy girl coming through the door thing, naturally, eternally naturally. And the same for the teen dance club, keep the kids off the streets even if we parents hate their music, the eternal hope dreamy girl coming in the door, save the last dance for me thing. Needless to say you know more about middle school and high school dance stuff, including hot tip “ inside” stuff about manly preparations for those civil wars out in the working-class neighborhood night, than you could ever possibly want to know, and, hell, you were there anyway (or at ones like them).

Yah. but see that was all basically innocent indoor stuff. Today I want to talk about the outdoors stuff, the, hell, we are all adults, the sex stuff. And just to show I am not being just another prurient interest dirty old man I would direct your attention to the very, very on point album cover art work that accompanies this sketch. What could be more on point that a guy and his honey (or a gal and her honey if you want to look at it that way) sitting, star-light nighttime sitting, nighttime after that last dance high school opening shot young love sitting, in some early 1960s model convertible (maybe dad’s borrowed, maybe in new-found teen discretionary spending America his, probably the latter from the feel of the scene) in the local lovers’ lane. And one “bashful”, befuddled, “where do we go from here?” guy getting a seemingly innocent kiss from said honey. Nice, right

Sure all that stuff is nice for public consumption but like I said before, we are all adults, and that cutesy eyewash will just not do. So here is my expose. Every town, hamlet, hell, any place that has at least one teen-aged couple had its own local lovers’ lane where more fierce lovin’ went on that I would every have time to tell about, although Billy and Sue will be glad to fill in their friends come Monday morning in the boys’ and girls’ room at school. Our local lovers’ lane happened to also double up during the daytime as a beach, a very public beach. Can you believe that? Wasting all that good natural teenage dreamy night scene on people going swimming, digging for clams or some silly sea animals, sunning themselves, or having some ill-thought out family picnic. Christ, what a scene.

No, a thousand times no, this place was meant for the sun to go down on, a big blazing sun turning fast into the blue-pink night, boy and girl in car (or poverty-bound, not privy to that discretionary spending mentioned above, walked there and are now sitting moony-eyed on the seawall). And all car-bound or wall-bound “watching the submarine races.”

What? Yes, intensely, forthrightly, intelligently watching the submarine races. Oh come on now, you all had your own local expressions for doin’ the do. Naturally, if you are from the great plains night, or rockymountain high, or some Maine forest this was not possible but doin’ the do was. And what is doin’ the do? Oh well, yes we are all adults but I just remembered this cyberspace thing allows for small, peeking eyes, so I will leave you to figure it out. Or wait until Monday morning in the “lav” and ask grinning Billy and blushing Sue. Know this though that old car radio (or transistor radio, if seawall-bound) was blasting out tunes from some of those records I found in beaten bins, infested attics, and defunct drugstores. Here’s my selection for “getting in the mood” songs in the face of the great white-waved, Atlantic Ocean submarine race night:

There’s A Moon Out Tonight, The Capris (hopefully this was a double-header, the last dance at school and kingdom come mood-setter in that old convertible); Blue Moon, The Marcels (not bad as a runner up to The Capris as everybody starts to get a little swoony); Dedicated To The One I Love and Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?, The Shirelles (incredible harmonies, and let me tell you sometime when the kids are not around about my own story of young love when the sun comes up in the morning, yah, the morning, and how I got my very own personal version of the will you still love me question); Runaround Sue, Dion (every boy, oops, young man’s dread a girl always ready to throw you over in a week for the next best thing that comes along, damn); Hats Off To Larry (and you know what for if what he went on and on about at Monday morning boys’ “lav” roll call was true, or better, half true); Del Shannon; Stand By Me ( a mood setter if there ever was one), Ben E. King (great lyrics); and Daddy’s Home, Shep and The Limelites (good for going home from that gentle beach night after a hard night at the races).

Tales From Out In The 1960s Be-Bop Night

Saturday, August 17, 2019

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