From The Pen Of Peter Paul Markin - Out In The North
Adamsville Jukebox Saturday Night
<b>Click on the headline to link to a
<i>YouTube</i> Film clip of Ben E. King performing <i>Spanish
Harlem</i>.</b>
A while back I was on a tear hunting down every old
but goodie, 1950s and 1960s versions if you please, rock and roll compilation,
set, 45 RPM record (look that up if you don’t know, look it up on Wikipedia if
you are in a hurry) that was not nailed down to some musty, dusty attic floor.
Reason? Who knows the reason except
this: I, seemingly, have endlessly gone back to my early musical roots. Maybe
the earliest that I could call my own, be-bop rock and roll (not that Frank
Sinatra, Bing Crosby, Kay Starr, Inkspots stuff, jesus no, that got my parents’
generation through the Great Depression [1930s variety] and World War II
although that was endlessly heard wafting through the teenage house). While
time and ear have eroded the sparkle of some of the lesser tunes (who, for
example, really wants to remember Gene Pitney’s Town Without Pity, that I
played endlessly on girl-less Saturday nights) 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 <i>Zeitgeist</i> 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 hangout with the
tee-shirted, engineered-booted, cigarette (unfiltered, naturally, “coffin nail”
ready, usually Luckies but on occasion Camels) 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, playing some “hot” song for the nth
time that night, hold the onions I might get lucky tonight, dreamy girl might
come in the door thing. Of course, the soda fountain, and…ditto, dreamy girl
coming through the door thing, merely to share a sundae, please. And, finally,
the same for the teen dance club, keep the kids off the streets even if we
parents hate their damn rock music, with
the now eternal hope dreamy girl coming in the door, save the last dance for me
thing.
Whee! That’s maybe enough memory lane stuff for a
lifetime, especially for those with weak hearts. But, no, your intrepid
messenger feels the need to go back again and take a little different look at
that be-bop jukebox Saturday night scene as it unfolded in the early 1960s.
Hey, you could have found the old jukebox in lots of places in those days,
bowling alleys, drugstores, pizza parlors, drive-in restaurants, and maybe at
the daytime beach, if you lived near a beach. I remember on such beach place
called, surprise, surprise the Surf Club that catered to summer vacation teens
during the day and doubled as a no teens, no goddamn teens allowed, hot spot
nightclub for be-bop hipsters (really faux hipster by then), motorcycle daddies
with their mamas (or somebody’s mama) on back, and your average just that
moment at large hood. But all this jukebox seeking by pimply teen or
chain-wielding biker was done while boy or girl watching. So juke heaven was
basically any place where kids (and those oldsters just mentioned as well) were
hot for some special song and wanted to play it until the cows came home. And
had the coins to satisfy their hunger.
Funny, a lot of
hanging around the jukes was to kill time waiting for this or that, although
the basic reason was that these were all places where you could show off your
stuff, and maybe, strike up a conversation with someone who attracted your
attention after you had sized them up as they came in the door. I remember one
time at this all the kids in town after school afternoon hang-out diner waiting
for Cokes and burgers this dreamy girl waiting for her platters (records, okay,
again check Wikipedia if you are lost) to work their way up the mechanism that
took them from the stack and laid them out on the player. And this tee-shirted
sullen guy, me (could have been you though, right?), just hanging around the
machine waiting for just such a well-shaped brunette (or blond, but I favored
brunettes in those days) to show up, maybe chatting idly for what might be
worth at least a date (or, more often, a telephone number to call). Okay, I got
the number that time but get this. Don’t
call after nine at night though or before eight because those were times when
she was talking to her boyfriend. Scratch that one. Lucky guy he, maybe.
But here is where the real jukes skill came in, and
where that white-tee-shirted guy just mentioned seemed to be in his element,
although a million guys have stories about how they worked this one. You
started out just hanging casually around the old box, especially on a no, or
low, dough day waiting on a twist (slang for girl in our old working- class
neighborhood) to come by and put her quarter in (giving three or five
selections depending what kind of place the jukebox was located in) talking,
usually to girlfriends, as she made those selections. Usually the first couple
were easy, some old boyfriend memory, or some wistful tryst remembrance, but
then she got contemplative, or fidgety, over what to pick next.
Then you made your move-“Have you heard
<i>Spanish Harlem?</i>. NO! Well, you just have to hear that thing
and it will cheer you right up. Or some such line. Of course, you wanted to
hear the damn thing. But see, a song like that (as opposed to Chuck Berry’s
<i>Sweet Little Rock and Roller</i>, let’s say) showed you were a
sensitive guy, and maybe worth talking to... for just a minute, I got to get
back to my girlfriends, etc., etc. Oh, jukebox you baby. And guess what.
Sometimes it actually worked. Beautiful.
Now that I am at a great remove from jukes I can give
you my basic spiel playlist well worked out during those periods when things
were slow and I really was killing time.
Here’s the list and there are some stick outs that might work today and
others, well remember the fate of Gene Pitney and his damn town without pity
because you know it’s tough out there on those mean streets. I have added a few that worked some of that
“magic” just mentioned above on tough nights too:
<i>1) My Boyfriend's Back - The Angels (in honor
of the shapely brunette above with the boyfriend with the telephone ear); 2)
Nadine (Is It You?) (only use if the “target” looks like a little rock and
roller and if you have a strong enough heart to stand the rejection when she
turns you over in a week or so for the next best thing) - Chuck Berry;
3)Spanish Harlem - Ben E. King (only if you can do the “sensitive” guy thing
otherwise save this one for the last dance for that girl you have been getting
sore eyes over all night) ; 4)Come & Get These Memories (strictly for known
Motown heads) - Martha & the Vandellas; 5)Perfidia (for smart girls who
might even know what this word means) - The Ventures; 6)Lover's Island (figure
this one out yourselves but think beach and starlight nights)- The Blue Jays;
7)Playboy (not for the “girl next door” types, please) - The Marvelettes;
8)Little Latin Lupe Lu (strictly for be-bop girls, girls with many quarters) -
The Righteous Brothers; 9)It's Gonna Work Out Fine (backseat Saturday night,
okay) - Ike & Tina Turner; 10)When
We Get Married ( for dreamy girls-without boyfriends)- The Dreamlovers; 11)The
One Who Really Loves You ( ditto the “sensitive guy” thing)- Mary Wells;
12)Little Diane ( for the “girl next door”) - Dion; 13)Dear Lady Twist (
strictly friends, except…)- Gary "U.S." Bonds; 14); Heartaches
(“recovering” girls) - The Marcels; 15)Feel So Fine (Feel So Good)( back to Mr.
Sensitive, you had better learn that approach)- Johnny Preston; 16) If You
Gotta Make a Fool of Somebody (please,
please, James Brown, please) - James Ray; 17)All in My Mind (for girly girls)-
Maxine Brown; 18)Maybe I Know ( strictly for telephone number givers)- Lesley
Gore; 19)Heart & Soul (you have it, Mr. Sensitive, don you see a pattern
here) - The Cleftones; 20)Peanut Butter (goofy tough night girls)- The
Marathons; 21)I Count the Tears (Mr. Sen…need I say more) - The Drifters;
22)Everybody Loves a Lover (for the girls with telephone boyfriends)- The
Shirelles. There it is all laid out for you- Good luck.
</i>
Out In The Be-Bop 2000s Night- A Class Website Of
One's Own, For The Class Of 1964 Wherever You Are
<b>Markin, North Adamsville (MA) Class Of 1964, comment:</b>
Although these blog sites that I have established tend
to reflect old time, be-bop night, hard times, beat times, beat down times,
beat down, beatified schoolboy concerns and memories I am not adverse to coming
into the new millennium to try, try hard by the way, to deal with the
implication of the new technologies like the Internet,
<i>Facebook</i>, <i>Twitter</i> and whatever comes up
next as the “new” mode of so-called social networking in order to get that
“message” out. That said, I was surfing the one such social networking site
looking at the class message boards of the classes at North Adamsville just
before and after my class, the Class of 1964, and found that Rodger Goldman had
made an announcement that the Class of 1965 has its own website hosted by its
own webmaster. Correct me if I am wrong but didn't the Class of 1964 have
several members who went to MIT or other scientific or technically- oriented
schools who could take on such a task?
Actually, these days doesn't someone have an
eight-year-old grandchild who could serve in that Webmaster capacity? In either
case, isn't there someone who can take on this chore so that we get to see all
the photos of children and grandchildren, the family dogs and cats, the aging
children of the Class of 1964, and whatever else cyberspace will accept. I am
on a crusade, fellow classmates.
Now I have not always been a techie fan. In fact in
the past I have been something of a technological Luddite (if you do not know
who a Luddite is go to <i>Wikipedia</i>). During most of my life I
have consciously kept a few too many steps behind the latest technology, at
times from a political prospective and at others from a desire not to get too
much clutter in my space. Now, however, although cyberspace does not
necessarily bring us the golden age of the global community that I have long
hankered for, it does permit those of us from the Class of 1964 to take a
stroll down memory lane.
I know there is someone out there who, with evil
intent in his or her heart, someone like Frankie, Francis Xavier Riley, king
hell king of the be-bop early 1960s schoolboy night, says " Well, why
doesn't old Markin take on this task?" Fair enough. However, as this is a
confessional age, I must come clean here. While I appreciate and can certainly
use the Internet when the deal goes down and I get into technological trouble
or have to upgrade, etc. I must call in my "significant other" to
rescues me. When I say,” Cindy, the #*& computer just went kaput” she
comes to the rescue. Moreover, if the truth were known I also still use a CD
player when I go for my walks. In the age of the iPod how yesterday, right? I,
however, would be more than happy to write a little something for our website.
But we need a Webmaster extraordinaire to get us up and running. And I know it
will not be old Frankie and his progeny because, king of the night he might
have been but he was (and is) a techno-no. His thing was pitter-patter, and
girls. Where is there room for techno-competence in that world? So, as this is
also an age that is addicted to sports metaphors- who will step up to the
plate?
Those Oldies But Goodies…Out In The Be-Bop ‘50s Song
Night- Mark Dinning’s “Teen Angel (1960)- A 50th Anniversary, Of Sorts-
Billie’s 1960 View
<b>Click on the headline to link to a<i>
YouTube</i> film clip of Mark Dinning performing the classic
<b>Teen Angel</b>. </b>
<strong>Markin comment:</strong>
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, and 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, <i>Teen Angel</i>, came out at a time when I had
left the projects, had moved across town, acquired new friends, and, most
importantly, had definitely moved away from Billie’s orbit, his new found orbit
as king hell gangster wannabe. Still he knew how to call a lyric, and make us
laugh to boot. Wherever you are Billie I’m still pulling for you. Got it.
*********
<div class="name">
MARK DINNING
"Teen Angel" </div>
<div class="feat">
</div>
<div class="authors">
(Jean Surrey & Red Surrey) </div>
<div class="lyrics">
Teen angel, teen angel, teen angel, ooh, ooh
That fateful night the car was stalled
upon the railroad track
I pulled you out and we were safe
but you went running back
Teen angel, can you hear me
Teen angel, can you see me
Are you somewhere up above
And I am still your own true love
What was it you were looking for
that took your life that night
They said they found my high school ring
clutched in your fingers tight
Teen angel, can you hear me
Teen angel, can you see me
Are you somewhere up above
And I am still your own true love
Just sweet sixteen, and now you're gone
They've taken you away.
I'll never kiss your lips again
They buried you today
Teen angel, can you hear me
Teen angel, can you see me
Are you somewhere up above
And I am still your own true love
Teen angel, teen angel, answer me, please</div>
***********
Billie back again, William James Bradley, if you
didn’t know. Markin’s pal, Peter Paul Markin’s pal, from over at 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 moved “uptown” to North Adamsville came by the other day to breathe in
the fresh air of the old neighborhood and we got to talking about this latest
record, <b>Teen Angel</b>, by Mark Dinning that had us both baffled
at first, but now I can give to you my take on it. And for one of the few times
in recorded history, recorded Billie and Peter Paul from the old projects
history, we agree right down the line that this weeper is strictly for the
girls.
Yah, I know, and Markin does too, (I won’t keep saying
“Markin does too” but I have to admit I was astounded when he agreed with me,
especially on the ring stuff, so I had to say it at least this once) this is a
guy lamenting his lost teen angel. So you think right off that he is all broken
up about his baby. But that’s just for public consumption. (Do you like that
term? Nice, huh?) What’s a guy supposed to say after his bimbo, yes, bimbo, and
I will explain that in a minute, runs back to save his f-----g ring from a clunker
(probably) stuck on some old railroad track. In fact the guy should be fuming
that this b---o (okay) thought more of his “symbolic” ring (after all they were
just “going steady”) that keeping herself alive in order to keep him company on
those now lonely Saturday nights down by the seashore, or at the carnival or
the drive-in (restaurant or movie). Ya, Markin says there should be a law
against the "bim" (compromise, okay) doing such a thing and the guy
should sue, like with divorce stuff. And you know I think he might be right.
What really grips me though is that f- - (hell, you
know what kind of ring it was) ring thing. I’m not going to beat a dead horse
over her running back. That’s over and done with. But let’s face facts, and
everybody who knows anything about anything knows that those high school class
rings are strictly from cheapsville, from nowhere, nada, nothing. Got it. All
glitter and glow for lots of dough. But like I said cheapsville. Fake jewels,
fake gold, hell, maybe fake lettering. Frankly stuff that I wouldn’t even
bother to grab off some kid I was thumping. Definitely for not a girl. Got it.
Christ, I “clipped” better stuff at Woolworth’s and
gave it to my younger sister, as a gag. But see I could have gotten this guy
some good stuff, a nice ring that he could have given her, a ring she would
have been proud to go back for, although I wouldn’t wish her to give up her
young life over it. While I am at it if anybody reading this screed needs
rings, bracelets, or other trinkets as signs of eternal love or just to give
your honey something just get a hold of me. There won’t be any fako stuff either.
Got it.
When you think about it though, and although I am glad
that my boy Markin brought it up, how much time can you really spend on this
set of lyrics. See here is where my papal authority comes in. I put this one
strictly under novelty items, and like I said strictly for girls, weepy girls.
Up in their lonely rooms waiting by that midnight telephone. No way, no way in
hell, is this that moony swoony song that sets up your mood thing down at that
previously mentioned seashore. Or do you really want to spend the whole night
at the high school dance waiting for that last dance so that the she you have
been eyeing all night just falls all over you, and then this “downer” comes on.
Take it from the pope, no way. Got it.
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