When The Blues Is Dues- The Byrds So You Want To Be A Rock And Roll Star

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman

…who knows when that sound hits the brain, or rather sounds put together to make the sway, to make the movement, and, in the end, that ferocious desire to replicate that long ago felt tribal combination. Maybe it went back to the womb, sitting, better rolling and hence a jump up on the swaying , all attuned to every stimulant, repeated back to some primeval forest dwelling, Adam and Eve time, maybe before, maybe. Or more realistically maybe back to cradle Mother Africa times, high wind-swept desert time in some Nile river flow, all bunched up against old Pharaoh’s lashes, and sing- song was the only way to keep rolling those stones up that pyramid hill. And some ancient forbear hearing that rushing river and those desert winds started swaying, started moving just a little bit different from cave times, and kept that thought embedded in all the slave ages. Or maybe, and here I speak of Billy maybe, Billy Riley from the old neighborhood, hometown Hullsville, maybe, it was just some reaction, from the womb or not, to the sounds hear in about 1943, his birth year, coming from some old wooden-faced RCA radio booming out Doris Day, Harry James, Lena Horne, the Duke, the Count, the Inkspots, and he said, no, declared, no way, no way in hell was that his sway (although he may, or may not, have known to use that neighborhood friendly word).

And the reason that Billy, William Riley, was saying that big “no”however he expressed it was because in the year of our lord 1955 he saw, saw live on television, all in beautiful black and white, Mister Billy Haley and his Comets performing Rock Around The Clock (and later Elvis, and Bo, and Chuck, and Jerry Lee but Brother Haley was the ding-dong-daddy that got him swaying that ancient sway) and that settled things, settled things for one Billy Riley, at least while the dream held. Billy Riley decided right then and there that he had his ticket out of the no dough, no girls, nowhere old town. And he almost made it, almost turned the tide, the red sea tide on old Pharaoh.

See Billy had a pretty good voice, a pretty solid voice for a twelve year old, a little Elvis snarl and turned- up lip voice, a little be-bop be-bop Bo Diddley beat feel, a little manic Jerry Lee squeal in just the right places. Check. Billy had pretty good moves, natural untrained moves, moves that with a little help could be twisted in some sellable commodity. Check. Billy also had good looks, maybe not the haughty Elvis flip, or Jerry Lee jut jaw but good enough. Check. And Billy, in old sixth grade class, at school dances, and church concerts got the girls going, got them going maybe too much (got them wet, sweaty, whatever, if one was to believe the talk in the dance or concert girls’ room at intermission or at Monday morning before school girl gabs). Check. Moreover Billy was ready, more than ready, after a few successes winning contests in local talent shows (really against nothing competition except one doo wop girl three some that beat him bad but he chalked that up to them being “hot”) and after he started drawing scout attention, to sell himself to the devil, the devil’s brother, or whomever one sold out to in order to get that old neighborhood jail break-out chance. Check

But see too something happened to Billy, happened out of the blue, when he hit thirteen, his voice changed and he started sounding like all smooth and silky like Mister Perry Como and so he was finished before he even began (although the girls still hovered around him for a while). But know this too through a troubled youth (his parents divorced, father off with some woman, heading south, and mother picking up guys, “uncle” guys, whenever she had the chance), through a couple of scrapes with the law (a couple of off-hand gas station robberies, kid’s stuff) , through two tours in‘Nam (and a couple of purple hearts and some other medals) , through a couple of drug addictions (reefer, sister), through a couple of bouts of homelessness (one after his first marriage fell through the floor)Billy Riley never lost that idea that he could have been a rock and roll star, could have challenged the king in all his glory. Yah, maybe it did go back to Pharaoh times...

So You Want To Be A Rock 'n' Roll Star Lyrics

by The Byrds

from The Country Bears Soundtrack

So you want to be a rock and roll star?
Then listen now to what I say.
Just get an electric guitar
Then take some time
And learn how to play.
And with your hair swung right,
And your pants too tight
It's gonna be all right.
Then it's time to go downtown
Where the agent man won't let you down.
Sell your soul to the company
Who are waiting there to sell plastic ware.
And in a week or two
If you make the charts
The girls'll tear you apart.

The price you paid for your riches and fame,
Was it all a strange game?
You're a little insane.
The money, the fame, and the public acclaim,
Don't forget who you are,
You're a rock and roll star.

From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin-Rock And Roll Is Here To Stay,Circa 1958

Peter Paul Markin and Frankie Riley had known each other from the days in the old 1960s North Adamsville neighborhood, the old just barely working- class neighborhood where the chronically unemployed, under-employed and just plain ne’er-do-wells, mainly Irish, mainly third or fourth generation Irish and thus firmly planted by the prior toil of forbears lived, where they had met, beyond North Adamsville Junior High corridor met, while hugging the walls (literally according to both sources) at the old Sacred Heart (Roman Catholic) Church at the weekly (except Lent, of course, and other odd-ball feast days like the Feast of the Immaculate Conception which even as ignorant, flat- out ignorant as these boyos were drew a guffaw) “sock hop” held by the senior parish priest, Monsignor Lally.

Held to, well, “keep an eye, maybe more than one, on the younger portion of his flock,” as he expressed it each Sunday when making the announcement for the next one in the line-up. The real reason, of course, whispered among the young, including wall-huggers Markin and Riley, was to keep said young sheep, away from too much heathen (read: ersatz Protestant music probably a Baptist or Unitarian conspiracy, the good priest spouted both theories) devil’s music; that rock and roll music that was just then epitomized by that hip-swaying, butt-flaying, making the girls“wet” (wet in the wrong places) praying false god Elvis Presley. And by all means to keep them, that unprotected flock to a person, but especially those with access to automobiles, from dark seawalls down at Adamsville Beach listening to fogged-up car radios in the back seat and digging the beat while, well, just while or for those without golden automobile access or too young, away from the Strand Theater, the exclusive upstairs balcony section of course, for the young set, the car-less healthy young interested in s-x (you know just in case the old bastard is still around).

Although they had known each other for some fifty years and were duly standing against the wall, as in old Sacred Heart day, at Lucy’s the site of their fiftieth anniversary high school class reunion not far from the old high school, North Adamsville High, Peter Paul and Frankie still remembered the first song that had heard upon meeting at that fateful junior high school time sock hop, Danny and the Juniors’ At The Hop. And the reason they remembered that song so vividly was one sparking blue-eyed, flaming red-haired Clara Murphy, a girl who had given both of them her come hither twelve-years old look that night (and previously at school) and they had been hooked, hooked as bad as men (okay, boys) could be hooked by a woman (okay, girl). So it was not surprising that they both had rushed over to ask her to dance when that number was being played at that fateful dance. And Clara in her Solomonic wisdom turned them both down. Or maybe not so solomonic. Clara Murphy couldn’t, just that moment decide whether she liked Peter Paul or Frankie better, or whether she liked either of them, according to Frankie’s intelligence source, his younger sister Amy who was friends with Clara’s sister Bonnie and so gave in to her budding feminine wiles and turned them both down.

Naturally that denial after those come hither looks inflamed the boyos. So for the next several weeks Peter Paul and Frankie made every mad school boy attempt to win her favors. Both had recklessly, although determinedly, courted legal danger by “clipping” (five finger discount, oh, you know, petty larceny) onyx rings (Frankie’s had a diamond in the center) for her (again intelligence, reliable intelligence, Clara sister Bonnie via Amy, had informed them separately that she liked those kinds of rings). She accepted both as tokens of friendship she called it. Ditto 45 RPM Elvis and Jerry Lee records (an easy “clip” for these adventurers, just place under your undershirt and walk out, or better slide into your underpants, no salesperson is going there, no way). Accepted, dispassionately accepted. Not ditto though, not ditto “clipped” flowers and candy (especially when Clara heard how the previous goods were “purchased” although she did not go so far as to give them back). They had each worked, really dragged their butts carrying doubles, as caddies as the local golf course to gather the dough necessary for those expenses. And on it went like that for several weeks.

To no avail because, also exhibiting another aspect of budding wiles, Clara took up with Bill Larkin, their friend and fellow classmate Kenny’s older brother (one year older). Reason: stated Clara reason. Bill had a head on his shoulders and, quote, was not so hung up on silly rock and roll that was just a passing thing, unquote. Both men laughed at the recollection that reunion night, a bittersweet recollection, since later Clara married Bill, they later had drifted west to the coast, formed and unformed a couple of rock and roll bands in the strobe light dreams 1960s with Clara as a Jefferson Airplane’s Grace Slick –like lead singer and Bill on lead guitar, and a few years after that Bill had been killed, face-down killed, down in some dusty town in Mexico, Sonora, they thought, when a major drug deal went south on him.

According to the reports, police reports, Mexican police reports, so maybe a little off on the details, but on point on the face-down dead part, Bill and Clara had “muled” many times for one of the budding drug cartels. Bill had decided to go “independent”trying to take-off with one of his deliveries to be used as seed money for his own operation and wound up in a back alley with six slugs in the back of his head. Clara who had accompanied him on that fateful trip (and had been holding that delivery, ten kilos of coke just then becoming the drug of choice for the hipsters, and not cartel recovered) was never heard from again.

Just then some oldies but goodies aficionado, or someone who had seriously misspent his or her youth, put Roll and Rock Is Here To Stay on, and for the life of the two boyos they couldn’t remember until later that Danny and the Juniors had recorded that song as well. They then raised a drink to Clara Murphy, Clara of the sparkling eyes and flaming red hair, and of their youth.

From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin-Rock And Roll Is …, Take Two

 

Rock and roll was (is) big, sweaty cities, hot time summertime and the living is easy cities, New York-sized outlandish skyscrapers to the stars (if you could see them out on those lonesome canyon walls) cities, Chicago big windy, sloppy hog butcher to the world (reeking of stinks, animal stinks, vegetable stinks, two in the morning whiskey stinks) cities, seven hills rolling to the golden pacific wash and Japan seas great American west night San Francisco (visions of endless North Beach- City Lights Bookstore-Hungry Eye –black bereted, black stockings, black chinos, black, hell, black everything down to those midnight sunglasses worn 24/7/365 beat, beat down, beat around, beat six- ways-to- Sunday beat, but beatitude beat too, Kerouac on the road beatitude beat although undiscovered, Howl , beat)cities, sprawling sun-sweated, be-fogged, brown hills and all swish and swirl coreless arroyo Los Angeles ( searching for perfect Malibu waves, for Venice Beach muscle boys, for bikini-ed tanned golden girls, and, and Hollywood angst , Rebel Without A Cause angst, Blackboard Jungle angst, max daddy Asphalt Jungle angst, hell again, just cruising Saturday night Hollywood Boulevard (and Vine, okay) looking for a walking daddy cities.

Be-bop cities okay, kids be-bopping, doo-wopping, do-langing, sha-sha –sha-ing (if such a sound is possible) acting like king hell king long gone walking daddies and mamas (okay, okay chicks, twists, frails) sitting around Washington Square , Central Park, Union Square, Lincoln Park, Grant Park, Russian Hill, Telegraph Hill, Golden Gate Park, Venice Beach, Santa Monica Pier, Malibu surf run, name your square, park, hill, beach, run, what the hell is a surf run (perfect wave, huh), or be square, be-bopping away, waiting, waiting impatiently, waiting out of their shoes, blue suede Carl Perkins stolen like a thief by Elvis shoes or not, maybe fearful Pat Boone, Pat Boone!!! white bucks, whatever, impatiently for the big freeze red scare (hell, no far away, big freeze red scare right down in big city New York Foley Square and dead commie Rosenburgs, stalinite jews for god’s sakes, why did they do it, Hollywood Ten cinematic villains writing up some Malibu nightmare scenes to scare young children, future golden boy perfect wave surfers, to death, Chi town Wobblies turned red never getting over Haymarket 1886 and doing hard time in Joliet, Longshoremen Harry Bridges and golden gate breach) cold war night to turn warm and provide some fresh air to breath, to breath a not parentcoppriestteacherauthority, not air raid shelter, head down, ass up breathe.

Clapping hands by twos and threes as some bopping horn, or better sexed-up sax (not some old time, teen old time, tenor or alto Johnny Hodges/ Lester Young/ Charlie Parker/Dizzy be-bopping thing but chained, chained hard and fast to that riffing guitar), parent wary too sexed-up sax that made junior toss in his bed at night and sis, well, made her, cool and collected, toss a few sweaty wet nights too, make of that what you will, always sax wails, whales, wales, away with that big beat, beat down, beat around, beat six- ways-to- Sunday (the day exactly), some guitar riff out of Les Paul or some jazz Charlie Christian saint, maybe some Ike Turner Rocket 88 turbo-blast, trying to make sense of that off-beat Bill Haley and the Comets Rock Around The Clock beat that framed, hell, beat to hell that silly Asphalt Jungle j. d. (juvenile delinquent for the clueless squares, jack-rollers, corner boys, whip chain-slashers for those in the know also looking for that freeze to thaw in their own coping way) movie seen down at the Majestic on that cool off Saturday popcorn afternoon.

Stag (stag, meaning no girl, not solo, but with full corner boy regiment, white shirted, maybe white tee-shirted, black chinos, some Thom McAn mother bought shoes, ugh, slick-backed hair, and wisp of Elvis king sideburns, (wisp, just like wisp beards, later, damn, and corner boy laughs and fag-baits) in tow, the crowd from 42^nd Street hangs, Division Street hangs, Post Street hangs, and yah, again Hollywood Boulevard hangs), later, intermission later, seeing she, Public School 63 (or name your school la, la, la, do I have to do all the work?) sweet Madonna and then to Eddie Cochran Sitting in the Balcony, Zooey (maybe jewish and no madonna, no frozen irish Catherine Madonna, Muffy wasp Madonna , Rita italian Madonna , Greta german Madonna thing, thank god but not caring not caring a fig just following that Zooey ivory bath soap, could it be perfume smell, that has hooked guys, smart guys too, guys who know up from down, since, well Adam), and off to private upstairs balcony screenings.

Later, maybe four o’clock later, strolling (got to learn how to get the hang of that damn thing, the stroll, no not the dance, jesus not the dance, the walking in such a way that it takes half an hour to get Zooey homeward rather than the ten real minutes it takes, if you want to hang on to Zooey, boy) off to Schrafft’s corner lunchroom ( Harry’s Variety, Doc’s Drugstore, Hayes-Bickford, Friendly’s, Brigham’s, Howard Johnson, okay) and quarters for jukebox, endless cadges; play this and that six, twelve, infinite times. And our father, Elvis, Elvis, all shakes, shiver, making girls, making Zooey (he heard, heard from the corner boy grapevine, really the corner boy Be-Bop Kid’s sister who overheard that blessed news at one Monday morning before school girls’ “lav” talkfest when they were discussing, ah, discussing what made them “wet”) sweat (and Zooey, cool fragrance bath soap smell Zooey does not sweat even in sweaty New York/Chi Town/Frisco/LA LA land cities) and do things up in cloistered rooms (so he heard, a separate corner boy sister’s wisdom as source) while they (boys “they” in case you didn’t figure that out) ran the clerks at Mr. Sam’s clothing store ragged looking for just the right look, and old Mr. Mack at Doc’s Drugstore too benefited selling combs, gels, and six other things, except correctives for two left feet.

Rock was (is) small Podunk towns, every boy knows every girl (and maybe desires each and every one and the reverse too although that would cause a scandal in monogamous protestant-driven podunk), small , sweaty towns and villages, hell, one street main street crossroads down in dusty Texas, pass throughs for Greyhound buses and oil tankers, summertime and the living is easy crossroads, Podunk outlandishly named towns, Boise (big, two-hearted rivers and endless forests between jukebox locales, jesus, and those bad ass city corner boy thought they had it tough), Helena (and old time whiskey dreams filled with unfulfilled gold dust dreams), Ponticello (big-hearted in its own way), Big Sur (sleepy town before the invasion), Olde Saco filled with raven-haired, smooth-cheeked French-Canadian boys calling out the songs in patois French (no Arcadia here), be-bop (okay, half be-bop towns, dusty old towns soon, how soon, to be de-populated by every boy and girl and off to the big sweaty rock and roll cities). Kids sitting around the village green, the fourth of july bandstand, the monument to the civil war, maybe on ocean edge towns down some salty beach fighting off King Neptune for some sea wall space or some hidden Seal Rock lovers’ lane fighting off some enterprising corner boy (senior set) in his father’s passed- on car, be-bopping away, waiting, waiting just like big sweaty city waiting ,for the big freeze red scare (hell, no far away, they ran those pink, red NAACP guys, white guys, students making strange noises about black was right if white was right, right out of town, right onto those Trailways buses, one way, pronto) cold war night to turn warm and provide some fresh air to breath to breath a not parentcoppriestteacherauthority, not air raid shelter (or under old time mahogany inkwell desks for real Podunk towns), head down, ass up breathe.

Clapping hands by twos and threes as some bopping horn, or better sexed-up sax (not some old time, teen old time, tenor or alto Johnny Hodges/ Lester Young/ Charlie Parker/Dizzy be-bopping thing but chained, chained hard and fast to that riffing guitar), parent wary too sexed-up sax that made junior toss in his bed at night and sis, well, made her, cool and collected, toss a few sweaty wet nights too, make of that what you will, always sax wails, whales, wales, away with that big beat, beat down, beat around, beat six- ways-to- Sunday (the day exactly), some guitar riff out of Les Paul or some jazz Charlie Christian saint, maybe some Ike Turner Rocket 88 turbo-blast, trying to make sense of that off-beat Bill Haley and the Comets Rock Around The Clock beat that framed, hell, beat to hell that silly Asphalt Jungle j. d. (juvenile delinquent for the clueless squares, jack-rollers, corner boys, whip chain-slashers for those in the know also looking for that freeze to thaw in their own coping way) movie seen down at the Bijou (imitation big city Majestic, really doubling for Sunday morning pancake all you can eat, bring the family socials too, doors open at eight, eight in the morning, jesus), on that cool off Saturday popcorn (popcorn addicted same as in sweaty cities) afternoon. Stag (ditto, cities, maybe corner boys, maybe from some innocent when you dream Mama’s Pizza Parlor corner, closing when main street closes at 9:00 PM , maybe no), but later, intermission later, seeing she, Olde Saco South Junior High School, for example, she (no blank big city Public School X number here) sweet Madonna (same as big city on that) and then to Eddie Cochran Sitting in the Balcony,Betty (or Jane, Mary, nothing as exotic as big city, maybe jew, big city Zooey) and off to private upstairs balcony screenings.

Later, maybe four o’clock later, strolling (got to learn how to get the hang of that damn thing, the stroll, if you want to hang on to Betty/Jane/ Mary, boy) off to Doc’s corner drugstore and quarters for jukebox, endless cadges, play this and that six, twelve, infinite times. And our father, Elvis, Elvis, all shakes, shiver, making girls, making Betty (he heard) sweat (and Betty, Zooey-like, cool Betty does not sweat even in sweaty summer midday corn-picking fields) and do things, universal do things, private girl things, up in cloistered rooms (so he heard, though that same universal Monday morning before school “lav” talkfest- and lie-fest) while they (boys “they” in case you didn’t figure that out) ran the Sears catalogue (and Ma) ragged looking for just the right look, and old Doc (Doc Andrews and no doctor but just a guy who crushed pills and sold liquor as medicine for what ailed people to get by) and his fuddy-duddy drugstore with odd medicines for sick people what-a- drag- to-be-old-and- it- ain’t- never- going- to- come- to- that- for- me benefited selling combs, gels, and six other things, except correctives for two left feet.

Rock was (is)…

 

From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin-Rock And Roll Is …, Take Two

Rock and roll was (is) big, sweaty cities, hot time summertime and the living is easy cities, New York-sized outlandish skyscrapers to the stars (if you could see them out on those lonesome canyon wall) cities, Chicago big windy, sloppy hog butcher to the world (reeking of stinks, animal stinks, vegetable stinks, two in the morning whiskey stinks) cities, seven hills rolling to the golden pacific wash and Japan seas great American west night San Francisco (visions of endless North Beach City Lights Bookstore-Hungry Eye –black bereted, black stockings, black chinos, black, hell, black everything down to those midnight sunglasses worn 24/7/365 beat, beat down, beat around, beat six- ways-to- Sunday beat, but beatitude beat too, Kerouac on the road beatitude beat although undiscovered, Howl , beat)cities, sprawling sun-sweated, be-fogged, brown hills and all swish and swirl coreless arroyo Los Angeles ( searching for perfect Malibu waves, for Venice Beach muscle boys, for bikini-ed tanned golden girls, and, and Hollywood angst , Rebel Without A Cause angst, Blackboard Jungle angst, max daddy Asphalt Jungle angst, hell again, just cruising Saturday night Hollywood Boulevard (and Vine, okay) looking for a walking daddy cities.

Be-bop cities okay, kids be-bopping, doo-wopping, do-langing, sha-sha –sha-ing (if such a sound is possible) acting like king hell king long gone walking daddies and mamas (okay, okay chicks, twists, frails) sitting around Washington Square , Central Park, Union Square, Lincoln Park, Grant Park, Russian Hill, Telegraph Hill, Golden Gate Park, Venice Beach, Santa Monica Pier, Malibu surf run, name your square, park, hill, beach, run, what the hell is a surf run (perfect wave, huh), or be square, be-bopping away, waiting, waiting impatiently, waiting out of their shoes, blue suede Carl Perkins stolen like a thief by Elvis shoes or not, maybe fearful Pat Boone, Pat Boone!!! white bucks, whatever, impatiently for the big freeze red scare (hell, no far away, big freeze red scare right down in big city New York Foley Square and dead commie Rosenburgs, stalinite jews for god’s sakes, why did they do it, Hollywood Ten cinematic villains writing up some Malibu night mare scenes to scare young children, future golden boy perfect wave surfers, to death Chi town Wobblies turned red never getting over Haymarket 1886 and doing hard time in Joliet, Longshoremen Harry Bridges and golden gate breach) cold war night to turn warm and provide some fresh air to breath, to breath a not parentcoppriestteacherauthority, not air raid shelter, head down, ass up breathe.

Clapping hands by twos and threes as some bopping horn, or better sexed-up sax (not some old time, teen old time, tenor or alto Johnny Hodges/ Lester Young/ Charlie Parker/Dizzy be-bopping thing but chained, chained hard and fast to that riffing guitar), parent wary too sexed-up sax that made junior toss in his bed at night and sis, well, made her, cool and collected, toss a few sweaty wet nights too, make of that what you will, always sax wails, whales, wales, away with that big beat, beat down, beat around, beat six- ways-to- Sunday (the day exactly), some guitar riff out of Les Paul or some jazz Charlie Christian saint, maybe some Ike Turner Rocket 88 turbo-blast, trying to make sense of that off-beat Bill Haley and the Comets Rock Around The Clock beat that framed, hell, beat to hell that silly Asphalt Jungle j. d. (juvenile delinquent for the clueless squares, jack-rollers, corner boys, whip chain-slashers for those in the know also looking for that freeze to thaw in their own coping way) movie seen down at the Majestic on that cool off Saturday popcorn afternoon.

Stag (stag, meaning no girl, not solo, but with full corner boy regiment, white shirted, maybe white tee-shirted, black chinos, some Thom McAn mother bought shoes, ugh, slick-backed hair, and wisp of Elvis king sideburns, (wisp, just like wisp beards, later, damn and corner boy laughs and fag-baits) in tow, the crowd from 42^nd Street hangs, Division Street hangs, Post Street hand, and yah, again Hollywood Boulevard hangs), later, intermission later, seeing she, Public School 63 (or name your school la, la, la, do I have to do all the work?) sweet Madonna and then to Eddie Cochran Sitting in the Balcony, Zooey (maybe jewish and no madonna, no frozen irish Catherine Madonna, Muffy wasp Madonna , Rita italian Madonna , Greta german Madonna thing, thank god but not caring not caring a fig just following that Zooey ivory bath soap, could it be perfume smell, that has hooked guys, smart guys too, guys who know up from down, since, well Adam), and off to private upstairs balcony screenings.

Later, maybe four o’clock later, strolling (got to learn how to get the hang of that damn thing, the stroll, no not the dance, jesus not the dance, the walking in such a way that it takes half an hour to get Zooey homeward rather than the ten real minutes it takes, if you want to hang on to Zooey, boy) off to Schrafft’s corner lunchroom ( Harry’s Variety, Doc’s Drugstore, Hayes-Bickford, Friendly’s, Brigham’s, Howard Johnson, okay) and quarters for jukebox, endless cadges; play this and that six, twelve, infinite times. And our father, Elvis, Elvis, all shakes, shiver, making girls, making Zooey (he heard, heard from the corner boy grapevine, really the corner boy Be-Bop Kid’s sister who overheard that blessed news at one Monday morning before school girls’ “lav” talkfest when they were discussing, ah, discussing what made them “wet”) sweat (and Zooey, cool fragrance bath soap smell Zooey does not sweat even in sweaty New York/Chi Town/Frisco/LA LA land cities) and do things up in cloistered rooms (so he heard, a separate corner boy sister’s wisdom as source) while they (boys “they” in case you didn’t figure that out) ran the clerks at Mr. Sam’s clothing store ragged looking for just the right look, and old Mr. Mack at Doc’s Drugstore too benefited selling combs, gels, and six other things, except correctives for two left feet.

Rock was (is) small Podunk towns, every boy knows every girl (and maybe desires each and every one and the reverse too although that would cause a scandal in monogamous protestant-driven podunk), small , sweaty towns and villages, hell, one street main street crossroads down in dusty Texas, pass throughs for Greyhound buses and oil tankers, summertime and the living is easy crossroads, Podunk outlandishly named towns, Boise (big, two-hearted rivers and endless forests between jukebox locales, jesus, and those bad ass city corner boy thought they had it tough), Helena (and old time whiskey dreams filled with unfulfilled gold dust dreams, Ponticello (big-hearted in its own way), Big Sur (sleepy town before the invasion), Olde Saco filled with raven-haired, smooth-cheeked French-Canadian boys calling out the songs in patois French (no Arcadia here), be-bop (okay, half be-bop towns, dusty old towns soon, how soon, to be de-populated by every boy and girl and off to the big sweaty rock and roll cities). Kids sitting around the village green, the fourth of july bandstand, the monument to the civil war, maybe on ocean edge towns down some salty beach fighting off King Neptune for some sea wall space or some hidden Seal Rock lovers lane fighting off some enterprising corner boy (senior set) in his father’s passed- on car, be-bopping away, waiting, waiting just like big sweaty city waiting ,for the big freeze red scare (hell, no far away, they ran those pink, red NAACP guys, white guys, students making strange noises about black was right if white was right, right out of town, right onto those Trailways buses, one way, pronto) cold war night to turn warm and provide some fresh air to breath to breath a not parentcoppriestteacherauthority, not air raid shelter (or under old time mahogany inkwell desks for real Podunk towns), head down, ass up breathe.

Clapping hands by twos and threes as some bopping horn, or better sexed-up sax (not some old time, teen old time, tenor or alto Johnny Hodges/ Lester Young/ Charlie Parker/Dizzy be-bopping thing but chained, chained hard and fast to that riffing guitar), parent wary too sexed-up sax that made junior toss in his bed at night and sis, well, made her, cool and collected, toss a few sweaty wet nights too, make of that what you will, always sax wails, whales, wales, away with that big beat, beat down, beat around, beat six- ways-to- Sunday (the day exactly), some guitar riff out of Les Paul or some jazz Charlie Christian saint, maybe some Ike Turner Rocket 88 turbo-blast, trying to make sense of that off-beat Bill Haley and the Comets Rock Around The Clock beat that framed, hell, beat to hell that silly Asphalt Jungle j. d. (juvenile delinquent for the clueless squares, jack-rollers, corner boys, whip chain-slashers for those in the know also looking for that freeze to thaw in their own coping way) movie seen down at the Bijou (imitation big city Majestic, really doubling for Sunday morning pancake all you can eat, bring the family socials too, doors open at eight, eight in the morning, jesus), on that cool off Saturday popcorn (popcorn addicted same as in sweaty cities) afternoon. Stag (ditto, cities, maybe corner boys, some innocent when you dream Mama’s Pizza Parlor corner, closing when main street closes at 9:00 PM , maybe no), but later, intermission later, seeing she, Olde Saco South Junior High School, for example, she (no blank big city Public School X number here) sweet Madonna (same as big city on that) and then to Eddie Cochran Sitting in the Balcony, Betty (or Jane, Mary, nothing as exotic as big city, maybe jew, big city Zooey) and off to private upstairs balcony screenings.

Later, maybe four o’clock later, strolling (got to learn how to get the hang of that damn thing, the stroll, if you want to hang on to Betty/Jane/ Mary, boy) off to Doc’s corner drugstore and quarters for jukebox, endless cadges, play this and that six, twelve, infinite times. And our father, Elvis, Elvis, all shakes, shiver, making girls, making Betty (he heard) sweat (and Betty, Zooey-like, cool Betty does not sweat even in sweaty summer midday corn-picking fields) and do things, universal do things, private girl things, up in cloistered rooms (so he heard, though that same universal Monday morning before school “lav” talkfest- and lie-fest) while they (boys“they” in case you didn’t figure that out) ran the Sears catalogue (and Ma) ragged looking for just the right look, and old Doc (Doc Andrews and no doctor but just a guy who crushed pills and sold liquor as medicine for what ailed people to get by) and his fuddy-duddy drugstore with odd medicines for sick people what-a- drag- to-be-old-and- it- ain’t- never- going- to- come- to- that- for- me benefited selling combs, gels, and six other things, except correctives for two left feet.

Rock was (is)…

From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin-Not Your Father’s Automobile, Circa 1955

No question kids today, what with a new technological innovation every minute and so much social networking opportunity that it would keep even a civilized adult busy 24/7/365, grow up faster (read: learn the facts of life, that’s the facts jack) than we did back in the 1950s be-bop minute, the minute when the generation of ’68 began to twist and turn with the hard facts of life. The hard facts of life for boys then (oh yah, and now too but with less useful help back then) being what to do about girls (and girls, or other combinations today, can chime in with their own sagas on the just teen personal relationship heartache road). The thing consumed many an abandoned night, a sweaty toss and turn night up in some lonely bedroom, hopefully not brother-shared, trying to sleep after listening to the Midnight Special Rock And Roll Hour on the local radio station, WJDA, on your very private iPod (oops) transistor radio, the granddaddy (or grandmamma if you prefer) of that former invention, trying figure out if Sherry this liked your best friend Willie that. Or, more seriously, your own plight-if that glance from Jenny meant what the Be-Bop Kid (my moniker for a while in junior high school) though it meant when she passed him and looked back in the hallway between classes. And he looking back, detecting, microscopic detecting, just a pale and wan smile emanating from the corner of her ruby red- lipped mouth in response, enough material though to keep those bedclothes sweaty more than one night. Stuff like that. Purely kid’s stuff but the glue that held us together.

See a lot of stuff was from ignorance, willful ignorance brought to us by our parents (our frightened parents who also didn’t learn anything from their parents going back eons and so we learned it on the streets or from some “wise” boyfriend of girlfriend just like, well, just like they did), our churches (who were frightened , frightened worse than our parents, because they actually knew more, more about what they would call human depravity, and didn’t want us within a hundred yards, make that one thousand yards, or call your number, of sinful sex) and our schools (acting as substitute parents, I won’t use the common Latin term because this is no dead language screed but about rock and roll, oh yah, and sex) to keep us in the dark about, well, sex, for openers. Nowadays every ten year old kid knows more real stuff about the subject (and probably as much unreal stuff as back in the day too) than you could shake a stick at. And I hope that knowledge helps them through teen angst and teen alienation time in those sweaty toss and turn bedroom hours after they shut the iPod down.

But I wonder about a certain period, that period when for boys, some boys anyway, when girls turn from sticks to shapes. About whether that aspect of the rules of the game have changed. You know what I am talking about. When Jenny, who last year was nothing but a nuisance, a giggling nuisance chattering away with her six girlfriend armada seen everywhere and acting as one, acting as one or else, and making odd-ball remarks about you being this or that kind of goof, donk, nerd, dweed, etc. pick your generational term of art, or maybe taking a hard punch at you just for looking at her the wrong way, or saying some wrong thing, or even maybe thinking about saying the wrong thing, now looked kind of, well, interesting. And maybe she is taking her first blushed kind of interesting, not punch-provoking, peeps at you too.

Here is where it all got really confusing though, that time when Jenny (and her girlfriend armada naturally-the hours they must of spent on who did, or did not, make the cut, jesus, just be thankful you made it and now could finish junior high school without having to live in the catacombs, or some desert island which would be a more friendly environment if you had not made that precious A-list) invited you, you of all people, based on that very scant blushed peep she took a couple of weeks back, to her house for a party and you went, you trembling went (taking two showers, applying enough deodorant to make the whole world smell pretty, and gulping down enough mouth wash to float a battleship, trembling went).

As the evening wore on (maybe eight o’clock kid’s time late, junior high Friday night late), after half-dancing (praise be, rock and roll- induced dancing apart and plenty of room for faking dance moves studied assiduously from teen movies) the inevitable lights went out and the “petting” began and she, without an armada by the way, came over and sat right next to you, interesting blushed peep you. You fumble kissed, not exactly sure who made the first move (clueless about such protocols from clueless parents who would not discuss even that innocent question for fear, yah, for fear of the next question), and exactly sure (she too, she trembling too) that you did not know the next move. And then you would think about what old rock and rock king Chuck Berry meant when his latest single, Almost Grown, hit the airwaves (and was played a couple of times at said party). Jesus, kid’s today have it a hundred times easier. Right.

From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin- Reflections On A Birth Of Rock And Roll Night. #3

Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Bill Haley and The Comets performing a rock national anthem, Rock Around The Clock.

CD Review

The Golden Age Of Rock ‘n’Roll:1953-63, Volume 2, various artists, Ace Records, 1993

Rock and roll was (is) big, sweaty cities, hot time summertime and the living is easy cities, New York-sized outlandish cities, be-bop cities, kids sitting around Washington Square, Central Park, Union Square, name your square or be square, be-bopping away, waiting, waiting impatiently, waiting out of their shoes impatiently for the big freeze red scare cold war night to turn warm and provide some fresh air to breath, to breath a not parentcoppriestteacherauthority, not air raid shelter, head down, ass up breathe. Clapping hands by twos and threes as some bopping horn, or better sax, always sax wails, whales, wales, away with that big beat, beat down, beat around, beat six ways to Sunday (the day exactly), some guitar riff out of Les Paul or some jazz Charlie Christian saint, trying to make sense of that off-beat Bill Haley and the Comets Rock Around The Clock beat that framed, hell, beat to hell that Asphalt Jungle movie seen down at the Majestic on that cool off Saturday popcorn afternoon. Stag (stag, meaning no girl not solo but with full corner boy regiment), later, intermission later, seeing she, Public School 63 sweet Madonna and then to Eddie Cochran Sitting in the Balcony, Zooey (not frozen Irish Madonna thank god but not caring not caring a fig just following that bath soap, could it be perfume smell that has hooked guys since, well. Adam), and off to private upstairs balcony screening. Later, maybe four o’clock later, strolling (got to learn how to get the hang of that damn thing, the stroll, if you want to hang on to Zooey, boy) off to Schrafft’s corner lunchroom and quarters for jukebox, endless cadges; play this and that six, twelve, infinite times. And our father, Elvis, Elvis, all shakes, shiver, making girls, making Zooey (he heard) sweat (and Zooey, cool bathsoap smell Zooey does not sweat even in sweaty New York cities) and do things up in cloistered rooms (so he heard) when they (boys they in case you didn’t figure that out) ran Mr. Sam’s ragged looking for just the right look, and old Mr. Mack too benefited selling combs, gels, and six other things, except correctives for two left feet.

Rock was (is) small Podunk towns, every boy knows every girl (and maybe desires each too although that would cause a scandal in monogamous protestant-driven podunk), small , sweaty towns and villages, hell, one street main street crossroads down in Texas, pass throughs for Greyhound buses and oil tankers, summertime and the living is easy crossroads, Podunk outlandishly named towns, Boise, Helena, Ponticello, Big Sur (before the invasion), Olde Saco filled with French-Canadian boys calling out the songs in patois French (no Arcadia here), be-bop (okay, half be-bop towns, dusty old towns soon, how soon, to be de-populated by every boy and girl and off to the big sweaty rock and roll cities). Kids sitting around the village green, the fourth of july bandstand, the monument to the civil war, maybe on ocean edge towns down some salty beach, be-bopping away, waiting, waiting just like big sweaty city waiting, for the big freeze red scare cold war night to turn warm and provide some fresh air to breath to breath a not parentcoppriestteacherauthority, not air raid shelter (or under old time mahogany inkwell desks for real Podunk towns), head down, ass up breathe. Clapping hands by twos and threes as some bopping horn, or better sax, always sax wails, whales, wales, away with that big beat, beat down, beat around, beat six ways to Sunday (the day exactly), some guitar riff out of Les Paul or some jazz Charlie Christian saint, trying to make sense of that off-beat Bill Haley and the Comets Rock Around The Clock beat that framed, hell, beat to hell out of that Asphalt Jungle movie seen down at the Bijou (imitation big city Majestic, really doubling for Sunday morning pancake socials too), on that cool off Saturday popcorn (popcorn addicted same as in sweaty cities) afternoon. Stag (ditto, cities, maybe corner boys, maybe no), but later, intermission later, seeing she, Olde Saco South Junior High School, for example, (no blank big city Public School X number here) sweet Madonna (same as big city on that) and then to Eddie Cochran Sitting in the Balcony, Betty (or Jane, Mary, nothing as exotic as city, city Zooey and off to private upstairs balcony screening. Later, maybe four o’clock later, strolling (got to learn how to get the hang of that damn thing, the stroll, if you want to hang on to BettyJane Mary, boy) off to Doc’s corner drugstore and quarters for jukebox, endless cadges, play this and that six, twelve, infinite times. And our father, Elvis, Elvis, all shakes, shiver, making girls, making Betty (he heard) sweat (and Betty, Zooey-like, cool Betty does not sweat even in sweaty summer midday corn-picking fields) and do things, universal do things, private girl things, up in cloistered rooms (so he heard) when they (boys they in case you didn’t figure that out) ran the Sears catalogue (and Ma) ragged looking for just the right look, and old Doc and his fuddy-duddy drugstore with odd medicines for sick people what-a- drag- to- be-old-and-it- ain’t- never- going- to- come- to- that- for- me benefited selling combs, gels, and six other things, except correctives for two left feet.

Rock was (is)… And thus this compilation.

From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin- Reflections On A Birth Of Rock And Roll Night. #1

Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Bill Haley and The Comets performing a rock national anthem, Rock Around The Clock.

The Golden Age Of Rock ‘n’Roll:1953-63, Volume 9, various artists, Ace Records, 2001

Rock and roll was (is) big, sweaty cities, hot time summertime and the living is easy cities, New York outlandish cities, be-bop cities, kids sitting around Washington Square, Central Park, Union Square, name your square or be square, be-bopping away, waiting, waiting impatiently, waiting out of their shoes impatiently for the big freeze red scare cold war night to turn warm and provide some fresh air to breath, to breath a not parentcoppriestteacherauthority, not air raid shelter, head down, ass up breathe. Clapping hands by twos and threes as some bopping horn, or better sax, always sax wails, whales, wales, away with that big beat, beat down, beat around, beat six ways to Sunday (the day exactly), some guitar riff out of Les Paul or some jazz Charlie Christian saint, trying to make sense of that off-beat Bill Haley and the Comets Rock Around The Clock beat that framed, hell, beat to hell that Asphalt Jungle movie seen down at the Majestic on that cool off Saturday popcorn afternoon. Stag (stag, meaning no girl not solo but with full corner boy regiment), later, intermission later, seeing she, Public School 63 sweet Madonna and then to Eddie Cochran Sitting in the Balcony, Zooey (not frozen Irish Madonna thank god but not caring not caring a fig just following that bath soap, could it be perfume smell that has hooked guys since, well. Adam), and off to private upstairs balcony screening. Later, maybe four o’clock later, strolling (got to learn how to get the hang of that damn thing, the stroll, if you want to hang on to Zooey, boy) off to Schrafft’s corner lunchroom and quarters for jukebox, endless cadges; play this and that six, twelve, infinite times. And our father, Elvis, Elvis, all shakes, shiver, making girls, making Zooey (he heard) sweat (and Zooey, cool bathsoap smell Zooey does not sweat even in sweaty New York cities) and do things up in cloistered rooms (so he heard) when they (boys they in case you didn’t figure that out) ran Mr. Sam’s ragged looking for just the right look, and old Mr. Mack too benefited selling combs, gels, and six other things, except correctives for two left feet.

Rock was (is) small Podunk towns, every boy knows every girl (and maybe desires each too although that would cause a scandal in monogamous protestant-driven podunk), small , sweaty towns and villages, hell, one street main street crossroads down in Texas, pass throughs for Greyhound buses and oil tankers, summertime and the living is easy crossroads, Podunk outlandishly named towns, Boise, Helena, Ponticello, Big Sur (before the invasion), Olde Saco filled with French-Canadian boys calling out the songs in patois French (no Arcadia here), be-bop (okay, half be-bop towns, dusty old towns soon, how soon, to be de-populated by every boy and girl and off to the big sweaty rock and roll cities). Kids sitting around the village green, the fourth of july bandstand, the monument to the civil war, maybe on ocean edge towns down some salty beach, be-bopping away, waiting, waiting just like big sweaty city waiting, for the big freeze red scare cold war night to turn warm and provide some fresh air to breath to breath a not parentcoppriestteacherauthority, not air raid shelter (or under old time mahogany inkwell desks for real Podunk towns), head down, ass up breathe. Clapping hands by twos and threes as some bopping horn, or better sax, always sax wails, whales, wales, away with that big beat, beat down, beat around, beat six ways to Sunday (the day exactly), some guitar riff out of Les Paul or some jazz Charlie Christian saint, trying to make sense of that off-beat Bill Haley and the Comets Rock Around The Clock beat that framed, hell, beat to hell out of that Asphalt Jungle movie seen down at the Bijou (imitation big city Majestic, really doubling for Sunday morning pancake socials too), on that cool off Saturday popcorn (popcorn addicted same as in sweaty cities) afternoon. Stag (ditto, cities, maybe corner boys, maybe no), but later, intermission later, seeing she, Olde Saco South Junior High School, for example, (no blank big city Public School X number here) sweet Madonna (same as big city on that) and then to Eddie Cochran Sitting in the Balcony, Betty (or Jane, Mary, nothing as exotic as city, city Zooey and off to private upstairs balcony screening. Later, maybe four o’clock later, strolling (got to learn how to get the hang of that damn thing, the stroll, if you want to hang on to BettyJane Mary, boy) off to Doc’s corner drugstore and quarters for jukebox, endless cadges, play this and that six, twelve, infinite times. And our father, Elvis, Elvis, all shakes, shiver, making girls, making Betty (he heard) sweat (and Betty, Zooey-like, cool Betty does not sweat even in sweaty summer midday corn-picking fields) and do things, universal do things, private girl things, up in cloistered rooms (so he heard) when they (boys they in case you didn’t figure that out) ran the Sears catalogue (and Ma) ragged looking for just the right look, and old Doc and his fuddy-duddy drugstore with odd medicines for sick people what-a- drag- to- be-old-and-it- ain’t- never- going- to- come- to- that- for- me benefited selling combs, gels, and six other things, except correctives for two left feet.

Rock was (is)… And thus this compilation.

From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin -Out In The Be-Bop 1950s Night- In The Time Before The Rock ‘n’ Roll Jailbreak –They Shoot CD Players Don’t They?

Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Sammy Kaye and his Orchestra performing Harbor Lights

Some people ask; although I am not one of them, if there was music before 1950s classic rock ‘n’ roll. Of course there was and I have taken some pains to establish the roots of rock back to Mississippi country blues, electric blues as they traveled north to the heartland industrial cities, jazz as it got be-bopped and took to swing, certainly rhythm and blues, north and south and rockabilly as it came out of the white small town South. What rock owes little to, or at least I hope that it owes little to is that Tin Pan Alley/ Broadway show tune axis part of the American songbook. That seems to me a different trend and one that was reflected in a CD review that I reluctantly agreed to do, The 1950s: 16 Most Requested Songs, which was really about the 16 most requested song before the rock jailbreak of the mid-1950s. Let’s be clear about that.

I have along the way, in championing classic rock as the key musical form that drove the tastes of my generation, the generation of ’68, contrasted that guitar-driven, drum/bass line driven sound to that of my parents’ generation, the ones who survived the Great Depression of the 1930s and fought World War II, and listened to swing, jitter-buggery things and swooned over big bands, swings bands, Frank Sinatra, the Andrews Sisters and The Mills Brothers, among others. In other words the music that, we of the generation of ’68, heard as background music around the house as we were growing up. Buddha Swings, Don’t Sit Under The Apple Tree, Rum and Coca-Cola, Paper Dolls, Tangerine, and the like. Stuff that today sounds pretty good, if still not quite something that “speaks” to me. That, however is not the high-style music that is reflected in this compilation and which, I think rightly, I was ready to shoot my CD player over once I heard it as I announced in the headline.

No, this is music that reflects, okay; let’s join the cultural critics’ chorus here, the attempted vanilla-ization (if such a word can exist) of the Cold War Eisenhower (“I Like Ike”) period when people were just trying to figure out whether the Earth would survive from one day to the next. Not a time to be rocking the boat, for sure. Once things stabilized a bit though then the mad geniuses of rock could hold sway, and while parents and authorities crabbed to high heaven about it, let that rock breakout occur and not have everything wind up going to hell in a hand basket. But this music, these 16 most requested songs were what we were stuck with before then. Sure, I listened like everyone else, everyone connected to a radio, but this stuff, little as I knew then, did not “speak” to me. And unlike some of that 1940s stuff still does not “speak” to me.

Oh, you want proof. Here is one example. On this compilation Harbor Lights is done by Sammy Kaye and his Orchestra. This was cause one for wanting to get a pistol out and start aiming. Not for the song but for the presentation. Why? Well, early in his career Elvis, while he was doing his thing for Sam Phillips’ Memphis Sun Records operation, covered this song. There are a myriad of Elvis recordings during the Sun period, including compilations with outtakes and alternative recordings of this song. The worst, the absolute worst of these covers by Elvis has more life, more jump, dare I say it, more sex than the Kaye recording could ever have. And it only gets worst from there with incipient things like Frankie Lane’s I Believe, Johnny Mathis’ It’s Not For Me To Say, and Marty Robbins’ (who did some better stuff later) on A White Sports Coat (And A Pink Carnation). And you wonder why I ask whether they shoot CD players. Enough said.
*******
Harbor Lights Lyrics
(words & music by H. Williams - J. Kennedy)

I saw the harbor lights
They only told me we were parting
Those same old harbor lights
That once brought you to me.

I watched the harbor lights
How could I help it?
Tears were starting.
Good-bye to golden nights
Beside the silvery seas.

I long to hold you dear,
And kiss you just once more.
But you were on the ship,
And I was on the shore.

Now I know lonely nights
For all the while my heart keeps praying
That someday harbor lights
Will bring you back to me.

Out in the 1950s Be-Bop Night- Bo Diddley- Who Put The Rock In Rock 'n’ Roll?

Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Bo Diddley performing his rock classic Bo Diddley.

DVD Review

Rock ‘n’ Rock All-Star Jam: Bo Diddley, Bob Diddley, Ron Woods, and other artists,1985

Well, there is no need to pussy foot around on this one. The question before the house is who put the rock in rock ‘n’ roll. And here in this one hour all-star concert documentary, complete with background backstage footage, Bo Diddley unabashedly stakes his claim to the title that was featured in a song of his by the same name, except, except it starts out with the answer. Yes, Bo Diddley put the rock in rock ‘n’ roll. And off his performance here as part of the 30th anniversary celebration of the tidal wave of rock that swept through the post-World War II teenage population in 1955 he has some “street cred” for that proposition.

Certainly there is no question that black music, in the early 1950s at least, previously confined to mainly black audiences down on the southern farms and small segregated towns and in the northern urban ghettos, centrally New York City, Chicago and Detroit, along with a ragtag coterie of “hip” whites (located in such urban oases as Greenwich Village, Harvard Square and North Beach out on the western blue-pink sky great American rim) is central to the mix that became classic 1950s rock ‘n’ roll. That is not to deny the other important thread commonly called rockabilly (although if you had scratched a rockabilly artist and asked him or her for a list of influences black gospel and rhythm and blues would be right at the top of their list, including Elvis’). But here let’s just go with the black influences. No question Ike Turner’s Rocket 88, Joe Turner’s Shake , Rattle and Roll and, I would add, Elmore James’ Look Yonder Wall are nothing but examples of R&B starting to break to a faster, more nuanced rock beat.

Enter one Bo Diddley. Not only does he have the old country blues songbook down, and the post- World War II urbanization and electrification of those blues down, but he reaches back to the oldest traditions of black music, back before the American slavery plantations days, back to the Carib influences and even further back to earth mother African shores. In short, that “jungle music”, that “devil’s music” that every white mother and father (and not a few black ones as well), north and south, was worried, no, frantically worried would carry away their kids. Well, it did and we are none the worst for it.

Here is a little story from back in the 1950s days though that places old Bo’s claim in perspective and addresses the impact (and parental horror) that Bo and rock had on teenage (and late pre-teenage) kids, even all white “projects” kids like me and my beat down corner boys. In rock birth years, like 1955, ’56, ’57 every self-respecting teenage boy (or almost teenage boy), under the influence of omnipresent black and white television, tried, one way or another, to imitate Elvis. From his off-hand casual dress, to his sideburns, to swiveling hips, to sneer. Hell, I even bought a be-bop doo-wop comb to wear my hair like his. I should qualify this statement a little and say every self-respecting boy who was aware of girls tried the Elvis trick. And, additionally, became acutely aware that if you wanted to get any place with them, any place at all, you had better be something like the second coming of Elvis.

Enter now, one eleven year old William James Bradley, “Billie,” my bosom buddy in those old Adamsville South elementary school days. Billie was wild for girls way before I acknowledged their existence, or at least their charms. Billie decided, and rightly so I think, to try a different tack. Instead of forming up at the end of the line in the Elvis imitation department he decided to imitate Bo Diddley. At that time we were playing the song Bo Diddley and, I think, Who Do You Love? like crazy. Elvis bopped, no question. But Bo’s beat spoke to something more primordial, something connected, unconsciously to our way back ancestry. Even a clumsy white boy like me could sway to the beat.

Of course that last sentence is nothing but a now time explanation for what drove us to the music. Then we didn’t know the roots of rock, or probably care, except our parents didn’t like it, and were sometimes willing to put the stop to our listening. Praise be for transistor radios (younger readers look that up on Wikipedia) to get around their madness, their cold war night parental madness that enveloped us all.

But see, Billie also, just at that beginning break-out time, did not know what Bo looked like. Nor did I. So his idea of imitating Bo was to set himself up as a sort of a Buddy Holly look alike, complete with glasses and that single curled hair strand.

Billie, naturally, like I say, was nothing but a top-dog dancer, and wired into girl-dom like crazy. And they were starting to like him too. One night he showed up at a local church catholic, chaste, virginal priest-chaperoned dance with this faux-Buddy Holly look. Some older guy meaning maybe sixteen or seventeen, wise to the rock scene well beyond our experiences, asked Billy what he was trying to do. Billie said, innocently, that he was something like the seventh son of the seventh son of Bo Diddley. This older guy laughed, laughed a big laugh and drew everyone’s attention to himself and Billie. Then he yelled out, yelled out for all the girls to hear “Billie boy here wants to be Bo Diddley, he wants to be nothing but a jungle bunny music N----r boy”. All went quiet. Billie ran out of the hall, and I ran after him, out the back door. I couldn’t find him that night.

See, Billie and I were clueless about Bo’s race. We just thought it was all rock (read: white music) then and didn’t know much about the black part of it, or the south part, or the segregated part either. We did know though what the n----r part meant in our all white housing project. And here was the kicker. Next day Billie strutted into school looking like the seventh son of the seventh son of Elvis. But as he got to the end of the line I could see, and can see very clearly even now, that the steam had gone out of him. So when somebody asks you who put the rock in rock ‘n’ roll know that old Bo’s claim was right on track, and he had to clear some very high racial and social hurdles to make that claim. Just ask Billie.

Not Ready For Prime Time AARP Songs- The Beatles' "When I'm Sixty-Four"

Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of the Beatles performing When I'm Sixty-Four from the animated movie Yellow Submarine.

Peter Paul Markin, North Adamsville Class Of 1964 and thus already past sixty-four, comment:

Many of my fellows from the Generation of '68 (a. k. a. baby-boomers) will be, if you can believe this, turning sixty-four this year. So be it.

When I'm Sixty-Four - The Beatles

When I get olded, loosing my hair,
Many years from now
Will you still be sending me the Valentine,
Birthday greetings, bottle of wine

If I stay out till quarter to three
Would you lock the door
Will you still need me, will you still feed me
When I'm sixty-four.

You'll be older too,
And if you say the word I could stay with you.

I could be handy mending a fuse
When your lights have gone
You can knit a sweater by the fireside
Sunday morning go for a ride

Doing the garden, digging the weeds,
Who could ask for more
Will you still need me, will you still feed me
When I'm sixty-four.

Every summer we can rent a cottage in the Isle of Wight,
if it's not too dear
We shall scrimp and save
Grandchildren on your knee
Vera, Chuck & Dave

Send me a postcard, drop me a line
Stating point of view
Indicate precisely what you mean to say
Yours sincerely, wasting away

Give me your answer, fill in a form,
Mine for evermore,
Will you still need me, will you still feed me
When I'm sixty-four.
*******
Ancient dreams, dreamed.

Ya, sometimes, and maybe more than sometimes, a frail, a frill, a twist, a dame, oh hell, let’s cut out the goofy stuff and just call her a woman and be done with it, will tie a guy’s insides up in knots so bad he doesn’t know what is what. Tie up a guy so bad he will go to the chair kind of smiling, okay maybe just half-smiling. Frank (read: future Peter Paul and a million, more or less, other guys) had it bad as a man could have from the minute Ms. Cora walked through the door in her white summer blouse, shorts, and the then de rigueur bandana holding back her hair, also white. She may have been just another blonde, very blonde frail serving them off the arm in some seaside hash joint but from second one she was nothing but, well nothing but, a femme fatale. I swear, I swear on seven sealed bibles that I yelled at the screen for him to get the hell out of there at that moment. But do you think he would listen, no not our boy. He had to play with fire, and play with it to the end.

Nose flattened cold against the frozen, snow falling front window apartment project hang your hat dwelling, small, warm, no hint of madness, or crazes only of sadness, brother kinship sadness, sadness and not understanding of time marching as he, that older brother, goes off to foreign places, foreign elementary school reading, ‘riting, ‘rithmetic places and, he, the nose flattened against the window brother, is left to ponder his own place in those kind of places, those foreign-sounding places, when his time comes. If he has a time, has the time for the time of his time, in this red scare (but what knows he of red scare only brother scares), cold war, cold nose, dust particles in the clogging air night.

A cloudless day, a cloudless Korean War day, talk of peace, merciless truce peace and uncles coming home in the air, hot, hot end of June day laying, face up on freshly mown grass near fellowship carved-out fields, fields for slides and swings, diamonded baseball, no, friendlier softball fields the houses are too close, of gimps, glues, cooper-plated portraits, of sweet shaded elms, starting, now that he too, that nose-flattened brother, has been to foreign places in the time of his time, to find his own place in the sun but wondering, constantly wondering, what means this, what means that, and why all the changes, slow changes, fast changes, blip changes, but changes.

Nighttime fears, red-flagged Stalin-named fears, red bomb unnamed shelter blast fears, named, vaguely named, Julius and Ethel Rosenberg hated stalinite jews killed fears, jews killed our catholic lord fears and what did they do anyway fears against the cubed glass glistening flagless flag-pole rattling dark asphalt school yard night, alone, and, and, alone fears avoidance, clean, clear stand alone avoidance of old times sailors, tars, sailors’ homes AND deaths in barely readable fine- marked granite-grey lonely seaside graveyards looking out on ocean homelands and lost booty. Dead.


Endless walks, endless sea street seawall walks, rocks, shells, ocean water-logged debris strewn every which way, fetid marsh smells to the right, mephitic swamps oozing mud splat to the left making hard the way, the path, okay, to uptown drug stores, Rexall’s drug store, grabbing heist-stolen valentine, ribbon and bow valentine night bushel, signed, hot blood-signed, weary-feet signed, if only she, about five candidates she, later called two blondes, two brunettes, and a red-head, sticks all, no womanly shape to tear a boy-man up, would give a look his way, his look, his newly acquired state of the minute Elvis-imitation look, on endless sea streets, the white-flecked splash inside his head would be quiet.


Walks, endless waiting bus stop non-stop walks, up crooked cheap, low-rent, fifty-year rutted pavement streets, deeply gouged, one-lane snow-drift hassles, pass trees are green, coded, endless trees are green secret-coded waiting, waiting against boyish infinite time, infinite first blush of innocent manhood, boyhood times, gone now, for one look, one look, that would elude him, elude him forever such is life in lowly spots, lowly, lowly spots. And no dance either, no high school confidential (hell elementary school, man), handy man, breathless, Jerry Lee freak-out, at least no potato sack stick dance with coded name brunette. That will come, that will come.

City square no trespass standing, low-slung granite buildings everywhere, granite steps leading to granite doors leading to granite gee-gad counters, hated, no name hated, low-head hated, waiting slyly, standing back on heels, going in furtively, coming out ditto, presto coming out with a gold nugget jewel, no carat, no russkie Sputnik panel glitter for his efforts such is the way of young lumped crime, no value, no look, just grab, grab hard, grab fast, grab get yours before the getting is over, or before the dark, dark night comes, the dark pitched-night when the world no longer is young, and dreamed dream make no more sense that this bodily theft.

A bridge too far, an unarched, unsteeled, unspanned, unnerved bridge too far. One speed bicycle boy, dungarees rolled up against dog bites and geared meshes, churning through endless heated, sweated, no handkerchief streets, names, all the parts of ships, names, all the seven seas, names, all the fishes of the seas, names, all the fauna of the sea, names. Twelve-year old hard churned miles to go before sleep, searching for the wombic home, for the old friends, the old drifter, grifter, midnight shifter petty larceny friends, that’s all it was, petty and maybe larceny, hard against the named ships, hard against the named seas, hard against the named fishes, hard against the named fauna, hard against the unnamed angst, hard against those changes that kind of hit one sideways all at once like some mack the knife smack devilish thing

Lindo, lindos, beautiful, beautifuls, not some spanish exotic though, maybe later, just some junior league dream fuss though, some future cheerleader football dame though, some sweated night pasty crust and I, too slip-shot, too, well, just too lonely, too lonesome, too long-toothed before my time to do more than endless walks along endless atlantic streets to summon up the courage to glance, glance right at windows, non-exotic atlantic cheerleader windows. Such is the new decade a-borning, a-borning but not for me, no jack swagger, or bobby goof as they run the table on old tricky dick or some tired imitation of him. Me, I’ll take exotics, or lindos, if they every cross my path, my lonely only path

Sweated dust bowl nights, not the sweated exotic atlantic cheerleader glance nights but something else, something not endless walked about, something done, or with the promise of done, for something inside, for some sense of worth in the this moldy white tee shirt, mildewy white shorts, who knows what diseased sneakers, Chuck Taylor sneakers pushing the red-faced Irish winds, harder, harder around the oval, watch tick in hand, looking, looking I guess for immortality, immortality even then. Later, in bobby darin times or percy faith times, who knows, sitting, sitting high against the lion-guarded pyramid statute front door dream, common dreams, common tokyo dreams, all gone asunder, all gone asunder, on this curious fact, no wind, Irish or otherwise. Who would have figured that one?

Main street walked, main street public telephone booth cheap talk walked searching for some Diana greek goddess wholesale on the atlantic streets. Diana, blonde Diana, cashmere-sweatered, white tennis –shoed Diana, million later Dianas although not with tennis shoes, really gym shoes fit for old ladies to do their rant, their lonely rant against the wind. Seeking, or rather courage-seeking, nickel and dime courage as it turns out; nickel and dime courage when home provided no sanctuary for snuggle-eared delights. Maybe a date, maybe just a swirl at midnight drift, maybe a view of local lore submarine races, ah, to dream, no more than to dream, walking down friendly aisles, arm and arm along with myriad other arm and arm walkers on senior errands. No way, no way and then red-face, alas, red-faced no known even forty years later. Wow.

Multi-colored jacket worn, red and black, black and red, some combination reflecting old time glories, or promises of glory, cigarette, Winston small-filtered, natch, hanging from off the lip at some jagged angle, a cup of coffee, if coffee was the drink, in hand, a glad hand either way, look right, look left, a gentle nod, a hard stare, a gentle snarl if such a thing is possible beyond the page. Move out the act onto Boston fresh streets. Finally, that one minute, no not fifteen, not fifteen at all, and not necessary of the fame game, local fame, always local fame but fame, and then the abyss on non-fame, non- recognition and no more snarls, gentle or otherwise. A tough life lesson learned, very tough. And not yet twenty.


Drunk, whisky drunk, whisky rotgut whisky drunk, in some bayside, altantic bayside, not childhood atlantic bayside though, no way, no shawlie way, bar. Name, nameless, no legion. Some staggered midnight vista street, legs weak from lack of work, brain weak, push on, push on, find some fellaheen relieve for that unsatisfied bulge, that gnawing at the brain or really at the root of the thing. A topsy-turvy time, murder, death, the death of death, the death of fame, murder, killing murder, and then resolve, wrong resolve and henceforth the only out, war, war to the finish although who could have known that then. Who could have know that tet, lyndon, bobby, Hubert, tricky dick war-circus thing then.

Shaved-head, close anyway, too close to distinguish that head and ten-thousand, no on hundred-thousand other heads, all shave-headed. I fall down to the earth, spitting mud-flecked red clay, spitting, dust, spitting, spitting out the stars over Alabama that portent no good, no earthy good. Except this-if this is not murder, if this is not to slay, then what is? And the die is cast, not truthfully cast, not pure warrior in the night cast but cast. Wild dreams, senseless wild dreams follow, follow in succession. The days of rage, rage against the light, and then the glimmer of the light.

The great Mandela cries, cries to the high heavens, for revenge against the son’s hurt, now that the son has found his way, a strange way but a way. And a certain swagger comes to his feet in the high heaven black Madonna of a night. No cigarette hanging off the lip now, not Winston filter-tipped seductions, no need, and no rest except the rest of waiting, waiting on the days to pass until the next coming, and the next coming after that. Ah, sweet Mandela, turn for me, turn for me and mine just a little. Free at last but with a very, very sneaking feeling that this is a road less traveled for reason, and not ancient robert frost to guide you… Just look at blooded Kent State, or better, blooded Jackson State. Christ.

Bloodless bloodied streets, may day tear down the government days, tears, tear-gas exploding, people running this way and that coming out of a half-induced daze, a crazed half-induced daze that mere good- will, mere righteousness would right the wrongs of this wicked old world. But stop. Out of the bloodless fury, out of the miscalculated night a strange bird, no peace dove and no flame-flecked phoenix but a bird, maybe the owl of Minerva comes a better sense that this new world a-bornin’ will take some doing, some serious doing. More serious that some wispy-bearded, pony-tailed beat, beat down, beat around, beat up young stalwart acting in god’s place can even dream of.

Chill chili nights south of the border, endless Kennebunkports, Bar Harbors, Calais’, Monktons, Peggy’s Coves, Charlottetowns, Montreals, Ann Arbors, Neolas, Denvers by moonlight, Boulders echos, Dinosaurs dies, salted lakes, Winnemuccas flats, golden-gated bridges, malibus, Joshua Trees, pueblos, embarcaderos, and flies. Enough to last a life-time, thank you. Enough of Bunsen burners, Coleman stoves, wrapped blankets, second-hand sweated army sleeping bags, and minute pegged pup tents too. And enough too of granolas, oatmeals, desiccated stews, oregano weed, mushroomed delights, peyote seeds, and the shamanic ghosts dancing off against apache (no, not helicopters, real injuns) ancient cavern wall. And enough of short-wave radio beam tricky dick slaughters south of the border in deep fall nights. Enough, okay.

He said struggle. He said push back. He said stay with your people. He said it would not be easy. He said you have lost the strand that bound you to your people. He said you must find that strand. He said that strand will lead you away from you acting in god’s place ways. He said look for a sign. He said the sign would be this-when your enemies part ways and let you through then you will enter the golden age. He said it would not be easy. He said it again and again. He said struggle. He said it in 1848, he said it in 1917, he said it in 1973. Whee, an old guy, huh.

Greyhound bus station men’s wash room stinking to high heaven of seven hundred pees, six hundred laved washings, five hundred wayward unnamed, unnamable smells, mainly rank. Out the door, walk the streets, walk the streets until, until noon, until five, until lights out. Plan, plan, plan, plain paper bag in hand holding, well, holding life, plan for the next minute, no, the next ten seconds until the deadly impulses subside. Then look, look hard, for safe harbors, lonely desolate un-peopled bridges, some gerald ford-bored newspaper-strewn bench against the clotted hobo night snores. Desolation row, no way home.

A smoky sunless bar, urban style right in the middle of high Harvard civilization, belting out some misty time Hank Williams tune, maybe Cold, Cold Heart from father home times. Order another deadened drink, slightly benny-addled, then in walks a vision. A million time in walks a vision, but in white this time. Signifying? Signifying adventure, dream one-night stands, lost walks in loaded woods, endless stretch beaches, moonless nights, serious caresses, and maybe, just maybe some cosmic connection to wear away the days, the long days ahead. Ya that seems right, right against the oil-beggared time, right.

Lashed against the high end double seawall, bearded, slightly graying against the forlorn time, a vision in white not enough to keep the wolves of time away, the wolves of feckless petty larceny times reappear, reappear with a vengeance against the super-rational night sky and big globs of ancient hurts fester against some unknown enemy, unnamed, or hiding out in a canyon under an assumed name. Then night, the promise of night, a night run up some seawall laden streets, some Grenada night or maybe Lebanon sky boom night, and thoughts of finite, sweet flinty finite haunt his dreams, haunt his sleep. Wrong number, brother. Ya, wrong number, as usual.

White truce flags neatly placed in right pocket. Folded aging arms showing the first signs of wear-down, unfolded. One more time, one more war-weary dastardly fight against Persian gulf oil-driven time, against a bigger opponent, and then the joys of retreat and taking out those white flags again and normalcy. The first round begins. He holds his own, a little wobbly. Second round he runs into a series of upper-cuts that drive him to the floor. Out. Awake later, seven minutes, hours, eons later he takes out the white flags now red with his own blood. He clutches them in his weary hands. The other he said struggle, struggle. Ya, easy for you to say.

Desperately clutching his new white flags, his 9/11 white flags, exchanged years ago for bloodied red ones, white flags proudly worn for a while now, he wipes his brow of the sweat accumulated from the fear he has been living with for the past few months. Now ancient arms folded, hard-folded against the rainless night, raining, he carefully turns right, left, careful of every move as the crowd comes forward. Not a crowd, no, a horde, a beastly horde, and this is no time to stick out with white flags (or red, for that matter). He jumps out of the way, the horde passes brushing him lightly, not aware, not apparently aware of the white flags. Good. What did that other guy say, oh yes, struggle.

One more battle, one more, please one more, one fight against the greed tea party night. He chains himself, well not really chains, but more like ties himself to the black wrought-iron fence in front of the big white house with his white handkerchief. Another guy does the same, except he uses some plastic hand-cuff-like stuff. A couple of women just stand there, hard against that ebony fence, can you believe it, just stand there. More, milling around, disorderly in a way, someone starts om-ing, om-ing out of Allen Ginsberg Howl nights, or at least Jack Kerouac Big Sur splashes. The scene is complete, or almost complete. Now, for once he knows, knows for sure, that it wasn’t Ms. Cora whom he needed to worry about, and that his child dream was a different thing altogether. But who, just a child, could have known that then.