I remember when, in sixth grade, my teacher would hold spelldowns. Spelldowns probably don't exist anymore, because, well, hurt feelings. To the uninitiated, the class would be divided into teams and each team would line up along opposite walls. The teacher would present a word to spell and the first person in line would be required to spell it. If that person F'd up, they would have to take their seat and the lead person from the other team would be given the opportunity to spell the word correctly. This exercise would go on until only one person from each team remained.
To be honest, we were indifferent to it all. It was only the fear of failure and derision that kept us in the game. And, for some of us, pride. I was a good speller; thus, I generally won the spelldowns. I was a mid-year enrollee in the school and knew no one, so spelling became my only pitiful claim to fame. When Mrs. Haas announced upon my turn, "Czechoslovakia", I knew I had the game won. I even remembered to say, "Capital C".
Then, when I'd finished, Mrs. Haas said, "incorrect". My face burned hot. I hesitated before taking my seat. I knew I'd spelled it right. Should I protest? Of course I didn't. I was eleven. But (clearly) I never forgot it.
Being accused of misspelling a word doesn't compare to being charged with sexual assault, but there is an innate human reaction to having one's integrity impugned. After all, what do we possess if not our honor? If Mrs. Haas suddenly materialized before me today, the first thing I would demand would be a tape recording of my so-called "misspelling". Barring that, it's simply hearsay. Or perhaps Mrs. Haas had a mental breakdown and confused Czechoslovakia with Yugoslavia.
Therefore, I feel (warily) good about today. It's not so much about winning as it is about unjust accusations and vindication.
Right is right. That may seem quaint in today's cosmos, but if your corpuscles fizz when you are unjustly accused, you'll get it.
In the winter of 1966, my only true friends were The Monkees. (Just thought I would end this on an "up" note):
I have a certain fascination with the hippie era. Not as in, I wish I had been there, but more as an entomological study. On the Midwestern prairie we had no Summer of Love. We had a summer of working, a summer of riding bicycles and pressing transistor radios to our ears; a summer of stretching the coiled cord of the kitchen wall phone all the way around the corner into the hall so we could have private conversations.
The war was, of course, on everyone's mind, but more urgently than college kids who had deferments and spent their lunch periods carrying signs. To my big brother the war wasn't abstract -- he had to worry if his number was going to be pulled out of the big bingo jar and if he was going to die in a rice paddy. Working class boys didn't have a lot of options. They could flee to Canada or they could join the National Guard, which is what my brother did. My brother was hardly the military type, but he ultimately did his civic duty...and he stayed alive. Meanwhile, boys with wispy goatees in San Francisco twirled around in tie-dyed tee shirts.
I was twelve that summer. On TV I saw mystified CBS News reporters chronicling the Haight-Ashbury scene. All the characters looked like dizzy dorks. I especially loved the dance of the scarves, which was a classic. One could not flip the television dial without glimpsing some barefoot bra-less chick whirling on a hillside with a multi-hued scarf. So profound!
Old hippies probably don't grasp this, but we didn't envy them. We thought they were imbeciles.
Fifty-odd years later, I wonder how many of them have managed to maneuver life with all their brain cells intact. They'd be -- well, past retirement age. Do they entertain their grandkids with tales of past acid trips? Did some get elected to congress? (yes) Did they at some point learn to appreciate the joy of bar soap and penicillin?
Sage Midwesterners always knew that life was life, and there was no escaping it. My brother didn't "drop out", and I didn't, either. We didn't have that luxury.
Marty Balin died this week. He was a founding member of Jefferson Airplane, a band that encapsulated the summer of love. Reading about him, I learned that he was a pretty good guy, but that band epitomized everything I hated about the times.
Marty solo:
In my town we weren't listening to Jefferson Airplane. This is what we were tuning in to on our local radio station:
You know me -- I don't listen to today's country. I am easily irritated by cacophonous sounds, like sirens and repetitive construction noises....and US senators preening for television cameras. So, I admit I'm not exactly "hip" to the latest sounds. But I was browsing The Federalist the other day (not actually for music news) and ran across this article regarding a new song by someone named Walker Hayes. The hook is, apparently, that the lyrics reference titles of nineties country songs.
The song was written by Shane McAnally and "LYRX", a suspicious name -- a global conglomerate like "EXXON"; a corporation that features thirty-something brunettes in sensible pantsuits in its commercials, sagely reassuring us that their cabal is environmentally-friendly, while in fact they are poisoning us.
The song is clever! And lazy! "I can't seem to write a good song, so I'll just string some titles together and voila!"
The recording itself is as far away from country music as The Captain and Tennille.
I'm okay with people saying country music is dead, because it is; but don't disingenuously co-opt the name. It's fine -- we get it -- you want country to be a lukewarm glass of 2% milk. But why not call it something else? It denigrates the name "country" when your gas-passing is lumped together with actual music.
My honest review of this song? It's horrible. Don't try to make excuses. It reeks.
If one was to listen to any of the songs referenced in the lyrics, they'd slink away in shame.
Okay, since you asked for it:
Meanwhile, I'll get my new music from TV commercials.
In 1962 all everybody cared about was space. Not me, mind you. I know everyone was supposed to be in awe of space travel, but all I knew was that the "astronaut" zipped through the sky in a "capsule", of which my only frame of reference was an Excedrin my mom took for a headache. When I was still in first grade that winter, my teacher wheeled a portable TV into our classroom so we could watch John Glenn do whatever he was doing. I was more fascinated by the diorama of songbirds Mrs. Fisher had built in a back corner of the room.
I wasn't completely disinterested in space. I did like this:
My interests were simple at age seven-going-on-eight. I got a sparkly paint set for Christmas and I liked dabbing it into my coloring book--sapphires and emeralds and rubies. I loved my phonograph. I had paper dolls-- cardboard cutouts of (generally) girls or sometimes someone older, like Patty Duke, for which one would cut outfits out of the book and drape them on the cardboard figure with little paper tabs that folded across the model's shoulders and hips.
I liked TV. I never gave a second thought to the fact all the actors on television were black and white, whereas the real world bloomed with color. I would watch anything, which included my mom's soap operas. I learned that doctors led really melodramatic lives; at least Dr. Kildare and Ben Casey did. Matt Dillon was a sheriff of few words; Alfred Hitchcock was a fat scary man. Ed Sullivan had a lot of really crappy acts on his show, even a guy who talked with his hand and one whose claim to fame was spinning plates in the air. Lawrence Welk was woefully out of date, but my dad liked him. Game shows were a staple of prime time--they required you to "guess" something--what someone's job was or which one, out of three gamesters, was actually telling the truth. I lay on my stomach right in front of our big TV and absorbed every single thing that flashed on the screen. My favorite shows, by far, were Dick Van Dyke and The Andy Griffith Show.
In the fall, when I entered second grade, I transferred to Valley Elementary, which was a brand-spanking new school. I would spend four and a half years at Valley; years that would shape me into a semblance of a human person. Valley was where I would write and perform a play at the Hootenanny. Valley was where I would be chosen by my teacher to become part of the safety patrol, an awesomely responsible post in which I got to carry an official flag. Valley was where I blossomed, albeit temporarily, and learned to embrace my creativity.
In second grade, though, life was terribly mundane. I did worksheets and printed words on rough double-lined paper tablets, when I really preferred to write in cursive, which we weren't allowed to "learn" yet. I was a bit ahead of most of my classmates because my big sister had already taught me how to read and write before I even began kindergarten. However, one was not permitted to outdistance one's peers, so I was bored and fidgety. I did discover the school library, which flowered a whole new world. I devoured Laura Ingalls Wilder books, all eight of them; and then moved on to other biographies. I read every book in the library that was worth reading.
My mom bought me a lunch ticket every month, which the lunch matron punched each time I alighted the line of horizontal aluminum bars and plastic trays. I understand now why I was so skinny. Some people have fond memories of school lunches. Those people are freaks. I dumped more food in the giant trash receptacle than I ever ate. Nothing in the line ever looked appetizing--hamburger mush, gloppy mashed potatoes, possibly accompanied by carrot sticks, which were at least edible. Mini-cartons of milk were the only saving grace. Fridays were always fish sticks, in honor of the Lord. Granted, I was a very picky eater, but "Spanish rice" combined all the ingredients of horror.
The most consequential event of my second grade year was when the school caught on fire. It was a dreary sun-deprived winter day. I don't remember even smelling smoke, but our teacher hastily informed us that the "superintendent" (which was what the head janitor was called) had informed her that fire had broken out somewhere in the vicinity of the furnace room. We were all shepherded out to waiting buses (single file, of course), and a gaggle of teachers alighted the open bus doors and dumped cardboard boxes of rubber snow boots onto the slippery stairs, from which we confusedly tried to snatch a matching pair. I arrived home with two red boots, one of them two sizes too large for my feet. I guess I was lucky to escape the (supposedly) roaring blaze, but I was mostly upset that I couldn't gracefully clomp through snowbanks wearing one jumbo boot.
Apparently the school was grievously damaged, because my class ended up attending class in the hallway of a neighboring elementary building for two very long weeks, with kids who belonged there staring derisively at us as they made their way to the lavatory.
In music, my tastes were influenced by my big sisters -- actually one big sister. My oldest sister was mercurial. She flitted in and out of the house like a sprite, mostly unseen. She was eighteen after all, and soon to march down the aisle. My sisters shared a record collection, however -- all '45's. My brother had yet to blow my mind with actual reams of astounding LP's. So I lived in a world of little vinyl discs. And unlike my brother, my sister didn't care if I played her collection. Her tastes, however, leaned heavily toward Elvis Presley, who I always wanted to like, but for the life of me just couldn't.
I think my favorite record my sister owned in 1962 was this, and I don't quite remember why:
One of the few times I remember my oldest sister being around, she and Rosemary did a little demo on our kitchen linoleum in front of Mom and me of this dance; and Mom, by the way, was mightily impressed (although in reality, it's a pretty easy dance, and I don't know why they called him "chubby"):
But, as the early sixties could do, popular music often devolved into syrup. I don't know anything about Bobby Vinton, except that he recorded the cheesiest songs this side of Bobby Goldsboro. But, hey, it worked for him. Bobby Vinton was an early-sixties phenomenon, with recordings like this:
One artist Rosemary liked a lot that I could get on board with was Dion. She had good taste.
My sisters shared an album that was, I think, one of two long-playing records they owned (I wonder how they divided their record collection once Carole was married). It's sort of funny in hindsight that this was considered pop music, when in actuality it foreshadowed my immersion into country, but, truly, it was pop in 1962:
This was neither pop nor country nor anything other than, I guess, Broadway, but Gene Pitney was a sensation in 1962. And rightfully so:
Every era produces timeless artists (so they say). My sister can claim these as hers:
The truth is, we and radio were a bit behind the times. So the hits of 1962 were probably not on any of our radar until '63. Not that it matters. My family owned a circular cardboard ice cream container of 45-RPM records, some of which I have no doubt my parents picked up at rummage sales, and we played them all on a scratchy phonograph.
It wasn't so much a year as a feeling. A reminiscence of soot and red rubber snow boots and twisting in the kitchen.
My sister and brother-in-law were married on September 12, 1963 ~ fifty-five years ago!
I vaguely remember the day. Mom, Dad, me and I think perhaps my little brother and sister motored to Fort Worth, Texas for the big day. I was eight years old. I don't remember a lot about the ceremony itself, but I do remember that I was left alone that night with (I think) my new brother-in-law's nephew and niece as the adults celebrated the occasion. Kids make friends wherever they find them, and the boy was suitable as a new pal. He and I decided to cook. Neither of us actually knew how to cook (me especially), but in my sister's apartment, we managed to whip up some fried potatoes and something....
In September of 1963 the apparently most awesome of all time president presided over the country. I wasn't into politics at age eight, but I knew who President Kennedy was, because his picture was all over the TV and newspapers.
On TV, little Opie Taylor was a featured character on the Andy Griffith Show, Doctor Richard Kimble was searching for the one-armed man. Laura Petrie was sobbing, "Oh, Rob!". Patty and her cousin Cathy Lane were switching identities and causing all manner of madcap confusion. Ray Walston (the future Mister Hand) was a martian.
A loaf of bread cost twenty-two cents. Gas cost twenty-nine cents a gallon. Something called "zip codes" were introduced. Gordo Cooper launched into space from Cape Canaveral. In England a new band became popular ~ four so-called "mop tops" that we in the US were completely oblivious to.
The top hits of 1963:
This new group ~ The Beach Boys ~ had no compunction about ripping off Chuck Berry, and it worked for them, so hey! (until the inevitable lawsuits were filed).
Skeeter Davis (the only person I am aware of who was named after a mosquito) had the number two hit of 1963. Recitations were a big thing during that era, and were in actuality quite cheesy, but tastes change...
Speaking of lawsuits, the Chiffons had the number four song of 1963, which George Harrison felt obliged to steal. It's not like there weren't a million songs waiting to be written. But apparently stealing was another pop culture touchstone of that year:
A group called The Cascades had a huge hit that year, which essentially sums up music for me in 1963. You can have your Beach Boys and your Chiffons, but this is what top-forty radio was actually like then:
And don't forget this:
My sister always liked Dion, and I can't blame her. I love Dion and the Belmonts:
Ray Stevens did it better, but this was the original:
Any era's music can be ridiculed. That's part of the fun of looking back on music. The fact is, though, every year has at least one gem.
This is 1963's jewel:
Happy 55th anniversary, Ronnie and Rosie. Dang, that's a long happy marriage!
I'm not saying they only have one song, but there's one that seers their heart. They probably don't even know what song it is until they hear it on the radio.
It's the rare artist who has many songs that live up to the lofty promise of a weighty career. For me, I can only name a few -- the Beatles, George Strait, Dwight Yoakam, Roy Orbison -- these are the artists who trip off my tongue.
An age-old question is, "If you were stranded on a desert island and could only possess one album (and apparently something to play it on), what would it be?" I always think, well, I'd get tired of it really fast. But if I had to choose only one album to take with me to that castaway experience, I'd most likely pick an artist whose voice soothed me (because being stranded, with no hope, on an isolated mound of terra firma could, I imagine, rapidly plunge me into a deep depression). I'd rather take a mix-tape of songs I like best, although that's not a panacea, either. Hearing the same songs ten thousand times will quickly devolve into utter hatred.
I was thinking about artists who had just one good song. If an artist has one good song, that's quite enough. That's more than the other quadrillion artists out there have ever accomplished. It's not that they were necessarily one-hit wonders -- they most likely had other songs -- but maybe they just had that one good one.
I can't possibly list all my favorite one good songs, but here are a few:
These are some of my "ones". Kind of a lot, as I peruse them, but that's how music goes. I could write a completely separate post with my "ones". I like ones, though. I like songs -- good songs.
I need a long-playing tape for my desert island playlist.
I tend to become friends with people who are better than me. Maybe it's because they are better people that they deign to allow me into their lives. I don't have much to offer other than an occasional snappy riposte, and perhaps an accepting nature.
Laurel makes friends easily. She has an outgoing nature -- she envelops people, and before you know it, you are her friend and you're not sure how it happened.
I met Laurel sometime around 1995. My company was doing another one of its shuffles; trying out different blends of supervisor and staff. Laurel was yet one more stranger I would oversee. As one of the first thirty employees hired for the brand new company branch in 1990, I was as territorial as the other twenty-nine. We were clique-ish. We were the veterans, and those who came after didn't have the cache of being first. Laurel didn't give a damn about any of that. Laurel owned the room. She was everything I wasn't -- outspoken, bold, baldly inquisitive. She was a deep exhale in a world of tight-assed introversion.
I quickly recognized that she would be an ally in the cloak and dagger world of office intrigue. Our new overseer, Phil, was a passive-aggressive (emphasis on passive), sloth. Phil reveled in playing mind games -- just as I allowed myself to celebrate one of my unit's achievements, Phil would pop in, slump into my visitor's chair and slyly intimate with a wink that he knew we had somehow cheated. Laurel would somehow read my body language through the smeared glass of my encased supervisor "office" and show up after Phil had sauntered off, to console and commiserate with me.
I came to rely on Laurel to tackle any new, complicated project. She and I collaborated and became something loftier than supervisor/employee. At some point I learned that we shared the same birthday -- how often does one make a friend who shares your birthday? We could have enjoyed outings outside of work except for my steadfast dictum of never fraternizing with someone I managed. I frankly didn't need the headaches such an arrangement would elicit. I deferred many friendships because of that rule, but I still maintain I was right.
Somehow in 1997 Phil The Sloth determined that I would be the perfect choice (or the sacrificial lamb) to implement a new company initiative. We would begin pre-entering claims into the system so the lofty claims examiners would no longer be bothered with the drudgery of keying in the claims and then adjudicating them. I became the leader of the dregs of the corporate flow chart. On the positive side, I eventually got to choose my supervisory staff, and Laurel was my number one. Apparently identifying talent is some deep-dark corporate mystery -- except it's not. I never made one mistake in picking the right people, and I didn't over-think it. Perhaps that is an advantage of being an introvert who studies people.
My mission while at the Big Corporate Conglomerate was to right wrongs. Those who deserved recognition and never got it became my undertaking. Laurel needed little coaching; she instinctively knew how to do the job.
Another advantage of choosing Laurel was that we could actually become friends who did things together outside of work. And we did. Our little town had little to offer in the way of activities, but we made the most of those that were available. We attended free concerts of artists who were a bit past their sell-by date, and we perched high in the bleachers and laughed and reveled in the music. Laurel knew next to nothing about country music, but she was always game. We showed up at beer gardens that featured piped-in music or sometimes live cover bands and we danced in our seats and drank only enough to elicit giggles.We shopped at street fairs.
We entertained our staff at Halloween. It quickly became an expectation, which isn't necessarily conducive to creativity, but we never failed to impress, with our performances of Sonny and Cher and eventually a full-blown production of Grease, with slicked-back hair and Rydell High varsity sweaters.
(Laurel is the blonde on my arm as Danny and Sandy stroll the promenade.)
Laurel was always on board -- whether it was work or fun-related. That's not to say she was a yes man. She wasn't. Her completely original outlook made everything that much better.
The best gift she ever bestowed on me came at a crossroads of my life. In 1999 I made a life decision to follow my heart, not my head. Everyone I knew condemned me. Only three people supported me -- my little sister, my mom (believe it or not), and Laurel. The mark of a true friend is that they prop you up, even if they think you're utterly, devastatingly wrong. No recriminations. No judgment.
I've never had a friend like Laurel. A true-blue steadfast friend.
I would like to think I'd be that kind of friend to someone.
