Old Hippies

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:

And especially this:

See? We were hip, too.

And we still possess all our brain cells.

The Summer of 1967

My parents moved us in the gloomy month of December, 1966. Three kids, two of whom were barely toddlers; and me, an awkward, bashful eleven-year-old. Like most things we humans think will be magnificent experiences, reality is a letdown. Initially, in the late summer of '66, when my parents casually informed me we would be moving far away, I was elated. Country life had its virtues, but I'd experienced (tiny) city life by then, and I was sick of being isolated. All I had was my bicycle, after all, and it was a long trek into town on a bike.

In my fanciful notion of a new life, as I twirled down the dirt road on my bike, arms outstretched to the winds, I pictured a quaint town where I would window-shop, drop the kickstand down on the concrete, mosey into a little store and purchase an emerald frock. The shopkeeper would smile benevolently and perhaps pat my hand as I proffered my four dollars.

Reality was a sun-dimmed, dirty snow-pile parking lot and a musty apartment far from any town I could traverse on a bicycle. The motel my parents had laid down their life savings for was nineteen rooms laid out in a semi-circle with a cement speed bump smack-dab in the middle and a three-foot-high American elm holding on for dear life poked up through the concrete. Welcome to upward mobility!

The dank apartment attached to the motel's office had two full bedrooms with one microscopic bathroom between them. Thus, I became ensconced in a bunk-bedded room with two waifs sharing the bottom bed and me on the top. "My" room was so minuscule, I could extend my arms and touch the opposing walls.

I hadn't even met my new school yet and I was miserable. It was winter break, so I had approximately seven days to acclimate to my new home. I hated everything about it. Back in Minnesota, I had my own room (albeit shared with my tiny sister) upstairs, away from everyone, where I could play my records as loudly as I pleased, and nobody bothered me, ever. I had privacy. Now I could hear every snap of the bathroom tap; every time my dad got up in the middle of the night to fetch a drink of water.

I set up my battery-operated record player inside the three-shelf recessed closet in my room, stuffed my (two) albums in the cubbyhole above, and made believe that this was "home".

My best friend's brother had warned me that North Dakota was backward. When I spied my new sixth grade classroom, his words scorched my ears. I showed up in the tall-windowed eighteenth century chamber, settled into my third-desk-from-the-back, cracked open my fat World History textbook and pretended not to notice that everyone in the room was eyeing me. I looked around and didn't see one friendly face. It took a couple of months (which seemed like years) to find one single person who would deign to talk to me.

I desperately wanted to go back home. Sadly, "home" was now occupied by a family of strangers, which was an insult in itself. They'd probably changed things -- ruined my basement Imagine Land by turning it into a carpeted den or something. Replaced the breezy lace curtains in the living room with heavy damask draperies.

I ached to go home right up 'til the day a girl in my new classroom shot me a grin at something ridiculous Mrs. Haas had uttered, and I instantly realized this skinny blonde girl was somebody simpatico. And just like that, I had a best friend.

Life didn't suddenly become sublime -- I hated, hated my apartment (I refused to call it "home"). I hated the claustrophobia of being tightly packed among people I could barely tolerate on good days. I hated that I couldn't take a walk outside without running into complete strangers.

But, even though she lived miles away and traveled a different bus route, my breath was lighter knowing I had a friend -- Alice.

My big brother was an apparition. Some days he was there; some days no one had any idea where he'd gone. He'd ostensibly moved to North Dakota with the rest of us, but he was his own man, at age twenty. There obviously wasn't room for him in our little dormitory, so he got a motel room all his own; exactly what I yearned for, but didn't possess the requisite number of years to claim. Fortunately for me, my brother was gone a lot, and the motel office had passkeys.

I slipped the lock on his door, dropped the phonograph needle on this 45 and exhaled:

I loved The Turtles, to the point that I memorized the number of times Flo (or Eddie) sang, "so happy together" at the end of the song. And no, Ferris Bueller didn't invent this song:

I loved this one even more:

I almost feel sorry for those who weren't yet born in 1967, because they missed songs like this:

...but not really. Maybe I'm not "cool", but I was at least alive (and kicking) when some of the best music of all time burst into being.

My brother was a carpenter and an entrepreneur, and he knew a good gig when it stabbed him in the eye. He hammered together a fireworks stand and perched it on the edge of our new motel property, placed his mail order requisition, and proceeded to rake in the bucks. 

By late June the sun was hot and I was barefoot, scorching my toes on the melting asphalt. My little brother, Jay, and his best pal Royle, pedaled up to the fireworks stand on their bikes and tried to wheedle Rick out of giving them free bottle rockets (he did).

Dad had invested in an outdoor swimming pool to drive new business, so I reveled in this new windfall. I slipped on an orange two-piece, donned my cheap plastic Woolworth sunglasses, tiptoed across the driveway in front of Rick's little kiosk and settled on a chaise lounge beside the turquoise waters, flipped up the volume on my transistor, and heard this:

And meanwhile, Felix sang this:

This song was so sixth grade:

Not to be outdone by Ray Kazmarek's organ riffs, Procol Harem showed they were no slouches. The only quibble I have with this track is that it unnaturally fades. They could have tacked on another 30 seconds or so, because it seems to end weirdly:

Another of my clandestine break and enters featured this song (which was, in fact, the only song by Herman's Hermits I ever actually liked):

Yes, I liked this one a lot. The Grass Roots don't get the acclaim they deserve. Aside from being the first live rock 'n roll concert I ever attended, these guys had scores of hits in the sixties:

The best thing Graham Nash was ever a part of:

God bless you, Neil Diamond -- you're still going strong -- and you had one of my favorite singles of 1967. I still remember that black and yellow BANG! record label:

So, while 1967 personally sucked mostly for me, I can still say that the music was awesome, and I was there.

So life, in essence, is a series of yins and yangs; searing pain and soaring heavens.

We take what we get and try to remember the joys.

Ray Manzarek

Do you know that if you do an image search for "The Doors", you get a lot of pictures of Jim Morrison alone?  It's as if the Doors were a solo act.  Nothing could be further from the truth.

I wonder what "Light My Fire" would sound like without that organ intro.  I think it would be indistinguishable from every other song that was released in 1967.

I'm no Doors historian.  A lot of rock 'n roll people know a hell of a lot more about the Doors than I do.  I can tell you that the Summer of Love wouldn't have been all that memorable if it wasn't for Light My Fire. And if it wasn't for that organ solo.

Here's the truth about Jim Morrison.  He was a pretentious fool who thought he was a "poet".  If Ray Manzarek hadn't stumbled upon him on Venice Beach one summer day, he'd probably have drank himself to death up there on that roof where he was living.  No offense.  Jim Morrison was photogenic, though.  And he had a distinctive voice.  Not necessarily a good voice; not necessarily a bad one.  Sort of like Johnny Cash, Jim Morrison had personality.  Charisma.

Defining the Doors by Jim Morrison is like saying that the John, George, and Ringo were Paul's backup band.  It's ludicrous.  Robby Krieger wrote Light My Fire, even though everybody thinks Jim wrote it.  John Densmore socked it to them (a dated reference, to be sure) by putting his jazz drumming on the tracks.

And Ray?  Well, the band was either too cheap or too broke to hire a bass player, so Ray got to play organ and bass simultaneously on all their records.  Ray was a master at classical music,  jazz, R and B, cabaret and ragtime.

The Doors were the sum of the whole.  

Jim Morrison took the alcoholic's way out, and managed to off himself in Paris in 1971; thus robbing the band of many years of making music and being relevant.

Listen to this song and tell me how memorable it would be without Ray Manzarek.

Here, at least, are Ray's hands:

Ray, speaking about the Doors' Ed Sullivan appearance:

It just seems to me that Ray Manzarek was the brains of that outfit.  No offense to the other guys.  

For a band that shimmered for only a brief time, the Doors have managed to live on forever.  

That's kind of saying a lot.

We'll miss you, Ray.

Which Artist Do You Wish You'd Seen Live Before It Was Too Late?

Entertainment Weekly posed this question after the passing of George Jones:  Which artist do you wish you'd seen live before it was too late?

I can giddily say that I"m not very deficient in the concert category.  I've seen a whole bunch.  I've seen so many that I've forgotten some of them.

I've seen Dwight Yoakam twice.  I've seen Marty Stuart.  I finally (finally!) got to see George Strait.

I saw artists in their prime, which is the best way to see them:  Merle Haggard, George Jones, Buck Owens, Tammy Wynette, Loretta Lynn, Faron Young, Marty Robbins.

Alan Jackson, Ronnie Milsap, Vince Gill, Gary Stewart (although hardly anyone even, sadly, remembers him), The Oak Ridge Boys, Highway 101, Gordon Lightfoot; Garth Brooks.

Paul McCartney.

Brian Wilson.

I, too, though, have a list of artists I wish I'd seen.

1.  THE BEATLES

When John Lennon was killed, I realized my chance would never come.  Up until 1980, I'd held out hope that the four lads would reunite; maybe for a final goodbye tour.  I've read that their brief foray into live performing was unsatisfying for both the band and the fans.  Too much screaming; too little actual sound.  A goodbye tour, though, could have been different.  More efficiently managed.  I think I would have mortgaged my house to buy Beatles tickets.  Some bastard put a swift stop to all that, though, didn't he?

 2.  THE DOORS

Granted, I don't smoke anything besides nicotine cancer sticks; and one probably needs to be smoking something else to fully appreciate a live concert performance by Jim Morrison and the Doors; but wouldn't that have been something to talk about?  They all say that Jim Morrison wasn't a good singer, but I don't get that.  I think he was as good a singer as anybody; and he most certainly had a stage presence that could not be denied.

3.  BUDDY HOLLY

Admittedly, I would have had only a short window of time to see Buddy Holly live, since he died in 1959.  And, had I seen him between ages one and four, I may not have had a lucid recollection.  I bet the teens, then, though, had a rockin' good time, jitterbugging in the aisle during his concerts.

4.  WAYLON JENNINGS

I was what you'd call an early Waylon adapter.  Way back in 1967, I thought Waylon Jennings was an undiscovered fruit just waiting to be plucked.  Weirdly, it took until about 1975, when Waylon had let his hair grow out, and had visited Willie in Austin a couple or three times, for people to acquire some common sense and notice him.  I wasn't keen on the scraggly Waylon, but my son sure liked him showing his hands and not his face on TV, during the Friday night Dukes of Hazzard opening.

5.  CHARLIE RICH

As a non-cool kid listening to country radio in the late nineteen sixties, I heard a few records by a guy named Charlie Rich.  I liked him.  He was soulful; a standout from the regular country fare.

Little did he, or anybody else, know that all it would take was a six-bar piano intro to turn him into a huge star.  

Charlie Rich was a bit dangerous.  I remember him as a presenter on the CMA Awards, announcing John Denver as Entertainer of the Year; and pulling a cigarette lighter out of his pocket and setting fire to the envelope containing Denver's name.  We all felt a bit of catharsis when Charlie did that.  I wonder what the hell Charlie would make of somebody like Taylor Swift.  Don your hazard-mat suit, Taylor!

6.  EDDIE RABBITT

Just because Eddie Rabbitt died young is no reason to forget him.  In a short span of time, Eddie created songs that are earworms to this day.  Drivin' My Life Away; I Love a Rainy Night.  Those were the eighties hits.  Eddie Rabbitt, though, had other songs that nobody but country fans would know.  Better songs.   He was a New Jersey boy who must have aimed his radio antenna toward WSM in Nashville on late school nights; because he sure did get it right.

7.  JOHNNY CASH

Nope, I never saw him.  But one has to put it all in perspective.  Sure, Johnny had a hit TV show starting in, what?  1969?  That's when the Man in Black persona took root.  Before that, though, Johnny Cash was just a guy who did three-chord songs, backed by a three-piece band; and mostly, all the songs sounded the same.  Johnny Cash was famous for who he was; not for what he sang.  More power to him.

I still wish I could say I'd seen him live, though.  I think (in the recesses of my memory) I actually had the chance to see him live once.  I don't know why Alice and I passed up the opportunity.  We weren't exactly picky about who we would see.  Maybe the fact that even I could strum Folsom Prison Blues on my acoustic guitar led me to an attitude of disdain.  I can't speak for Alice.

8.  HANK WILLIAMS

Granted, Hank Williams died in 1953; two years before I was born.

That doesn't make me wish any less that I'd seen him in concert, though. 

The absolute biggest, best thing that ever happened to country music; when the farmhands were contenting themselves listening to Hank Snow and Red Foley; was Hank Williams.

Finally!  Somebody who could write a decent song; and who had the balls to perform it properly!

Yea, I would have liked to see him.  I believe he would have put on a hell of a show.

9.  PATSY CLINE

I was nine years old when Patsy Cline was killed in a plane crash, and I didn't even know who she was!  (Granted, I was a kid.)

I think it must be hard for girl singers.  Everybody wants something to aspire to.  Something they can do better than anybody else.  But when the bar was set about 60 years ago, that has to be disheartening.  "No matter how good I do, I'm never gonna be better than Patsy Cline."

Well, sometimes life sucks.  And sometimes we have a video record like this:

One would think that I could come up with an even ten; but I honestly can't.  

Funny, I never wanted to see Elvis.  I guess it was a different generation.     

There are performers still alive that I haven't seen; and wish I could.  Time's running out, though:

Ray Price

Jerry Lee Lewis

I think maybe I should look at the glass as half full.   I've been damn lucky; or I was in the right place at the right time.

I honestly need to appreciate those experiences more.