Bob was a restless cat. His hair was longer and wilder now. Minnesota was a dream or at best, a faded picture on a postcard from home. The Martin guitar didn’t do it for him anymore, nor did Pete, Woodie, or Joan. He hooked up with some Canadian boys with electric guitars and organs and traded the acoustic for a Fender Strat and a Super Reverb Amplifier. He was hip…he was in the scene…current and cool. He was tired of writing songs about nothing that seemed like something after a few bottles of wine and some grass. All these young hippie kids thought he was the Messiah of music..the second coming, he tried walking on water and almost drowned, all for believing the hype. He was done. Joan B. was clingy, handsy, folksy, and too natural for his taste. She didn’t shave her armpits or legs and he was sick of her traditional whiney folk music. He had been to Monterey and played grab-ass with Janis. New York can go to hell. He was going to Nashville and pick with them cats that played cool as country water. Chet Atkins invited him to dinner. Johnny Cash invited him into the fold. He was sold on country cooking and Gibson guitars. Nashville Skyline was his opus. Cash led him to the promised land. He found Baby Jesus in a snow globe at the Bluebird Cafe. He put the Menorah in his pantry and laid out the “Good Book” on his coffee table, next to the crystal ashtray and his roll-your-own cigarettes. Bob was a Christian now, his Jewish days behind him for a while, but he would revisit them often. Joanie wanted a rematch..said she would be less competitive and write even crappier songs, Bob said no way, he couldn’t take another round of her. He thought about buying another motorcycle, but just for a minute. Naw…I don’t need another broken neck and leg. He purchased a machine gun in case the Black Panthers came to Woodstock, he would be ready. He wrote ten thousand songs and won the Pulitzer Prize. He kept the money. His son, Jacob is too hip and hangs out with girls from Laurel Canyon that have no talent for anything except spending his money and wailing. Bob tells him to get a haircut and a real job, he is now his own father back in Minnesota. Bob sells his song catalog for a Billion dollars to a group of Japanese. He’s flush with cash. He calls Paul and Ringo and tells them to stick it, he’s richer than they are now. Paul writes a song about it. Ringo sends him some Kale cupcakes. He revisits the Village. All the old hangouts are now fast food joints and iPhone shops. He walks the street, but no one recognizes him..he’s good with that. His cell phone rings, it’s Joan B., and she wants to meet for a salad and mineral water lunch. He wants a burger, he tells her he loves meat, and she gags and pukes on her Samsung phone. Bob laughs and walks into McDonalds for a Big Mac. The girl behind the counter asks him if he’s that guy on that “Survivor.” TV show. He says “No, I am a survivor.”
The heart monitor returned to the Cardiologist, leaving me with a week to ponder the worst. Momo, my wife, the former Cath-lab heart nurse, was as worried as I was. She said that if the doctor had found anything unusual on the monitor, he would have called with the bad news. That somewhat calmed me down. Janice Joplin was waiting in the wings.
Dr. Squatch, my Cardiologist, is somewhat of a comedian and should be on stage in his spare time. He enters the room like Kramer on the Seinfeld show, bursting through the door in a whirl of energy. Momo and I had been sitting and waiting for an hour and were half asleep.
“Here’s the good news,” he says. ” You have about forty percent blockage, and for a guy your age, that’s not too bad, but plaque will be plaque, and a piece could break away and travel a bit and give you a massive heart attack or a dandy of a stroke. The bad news is that with your family history of heart problems, you are a good candidate for La La Land. Enjoy your bourbon while you can.” I certainly will. It looks like old, ghostly Janice Joplin will have to wait a bit longer.
I got through the night without the red light coming on, so I didn’t wake up dead, which is another misnomer. How does one “wake up dead?” I don’t care to find out. I know Jerry Garcia was always playing and talking about being part of the Grateful Dead, another messed-up name for a band. Dead folks aren’t grateful unless they have never heard a Taylor Swift record, or they are in Heaven, so we can assume the band at least gave Christianity a second thought. In the end, Ole Jerry didn’t have much to be grateful for except a body full of Heroin or whatever the hell he killed himself with. We can assume that if he made it to Heaven, the Good Lord at least put him in one of his praise bands along with Hendrix and a few others.
I had my usual cocktail last night, sitting on the patio with Momo, watching the Skunk and two Opossums come into the bird feeding area scrounging for treats. I was surprised the two critters didn’t get into an altercation, considering they both prefer the same foods: fruits and veggies. Momo says no old man in their right mind would encourage critters to come to an animal Luby’s cafeteria in their backyard. Somebody has to take care of our small furry critters. Elie Mae Clampett always had a few hanging off of her, and Granny was good at fixing them for supper when Elie Mae wasn’t around and Jed was out shooting for some food and finding more crude. Did Granny ever serve Mr. Drysdale and Miss Jane any Possum Medallions on a wooden stick with Chipmunk sauce?
Finally got my heart monitor paired with my Bluetooth hearing aids and my stereo and listened to some of the drum solo from Iron Butterfly’s “Inna Gadda Da Vida,” and man, that guy could play, I got my heart to match his kick drum, and was moving and grooving in my La-Z-Boy: Momo thought I was having the big one and almost called 911 since the light started blinking yellow. If it’s green, I’m good; yellow means it’s iffy, and if it goes to red, then I’m off to La-La Land. I got a text from my Dr. Squatch to “knock it off.”
Getting older guarantees one thing for certain: each week is a new and often, rousing experience. This week was my Opus moment: I had a heart monitor installed. A nice piece of technology super-glued to my chest that tells my cardiologist, Dr. Squatch, if my heart is acting abnormally, and if sudden death is imminent. At least I now have an inkling of when it might happen.
The first nurse had the bedside patient demeanor of a prison guard. ” Lay down, be still, don’t finch, don’t breathe, don’t do anything,” she says. She applies a gooey substance to my neck so she can use a Channel 5 Doppler radar to detect blockages in my carotid arteries. I, being my lovable, imaginative, smart-ass self, asked her if it was a boy, a girl, or an alien implant? She wasn’t amused, but my Cardiac Nurse wife, Momo, got a giggle.
The Doppler imaging completed, we were ushered into another room where the second nurse explaied the device to us. It was rather smart looking, small, many lights and buttons, and had to be attached to my chest with Gorilla Super Glue. After she installed the contraption, she expalaied how it worked: Momo being a fellow nurse uderstood all of it.
She pushed buttons, sent some signals to somewhere far away, and I was in business. ” If the light blinks green, it means you are doing alright. If it goes yellow, that means you are stressed and need to slow down and don’t look at that Sydney Sweeney Eagle jeans commercial. If it blinks red and glows like ET’s finger, then the doctor will call you with instructions for your final moments on earth. If he is busy or not near his phone, you can kiss your ass adios,” I understood. ” It will also connect to your hearing aids via Bluetooth, so you can listen to the soothing sounds of your own heartbeat, or the bass drum beat to In A Gadda Da Vida.” I am impressed.
Momo drove me to Home Depot so I could get into an altercation with a salesperson to see if this thing really works. If you don’t get another post soon, you’ll know Janis took another piece of my heart, baby.
When old Rockers check out, they do it in style. Ozzy Osborne did one last concert the week before his ride up to meet Saint Peter. TV preacher, Joel ( Money Bags) Olsteen, said that Ozzy, upon being stopped at the gate by an Archangel, told God that the whole black satanic Satan thing was just an act, and he never liked the taste of Bats. I haven’t heard anything yet about whether that worked. Alice Cooper had more fun with the makeup and outfits, and Alice is a Christian, so he will likely make the cut when his time is up.
I was not a Black Sabbath fan, and couldn’t name you one tune they did, but I did watch the Ozzy and family show a few times and found it sort of entertaining and depressing at the same time. I was accustomed to the original Ozzie show, the one with his wife, Harriet, and the two nice-looking sons, and a street full of nicely dressed neighbors. Everyone cooked hamburgers on their charcoal grills every night because the weather on the back lot at California’s Desilu Studios was always so perfect. That’s the Ozzy I connect with. Much like Ozzy Osborne, Ozzie Nelson was also a musician and a television producer. Big Band music, large-scale orchestrated numbers featuring blaring horns, doghouse bass players, and hep cat drummers. Then his son, little Ricky, grew up and had twinkling blue eyes and perfectly styled wolfman hair, a nice Martin guitar, and sang teenage songs that made the young girls all jelly-legged and instantly fertile. So, the dull Ozzie could have related to the outrageous Ozzy, as he had raised a rebellious teenage musical son.
I made a list of deceased musicians and read it to Momo. She is adept at correcting me when I make a social or personal mistake. She asked for a rundown, so I gave it my all, but all was wrong. I had no idea Bruce Springsteen, Spinal Tap, Stills and Nash, Neil Diamond, Diamond Lil, Joni Mitchell, The last Monkee, Paul Simon, Simon and Garfunkel, Dave Clark and his Five, Peter the Hermit, Freddy the Dreamer, and Sir Paul were still alive. What a shock. Ringo is now a member of The Grand Ole Opry in Nashville, so I guess that “They’re Gonna Put Me In The Movies” tune paved the way. I told her to put the list in her desk drawer and check it in a few years to see if I foretold the future. The sad reality of old musicians and singers passing on is, who will pick up the torch and replace them? Please don’t even consider Taylor The Swifter and that group of cartoon music morons she spawned. I’m waiting on Dylan and Baez to go on tour.
I first posted this in 2021, November. I met Wavy at the Texas International Pop Festival, Labor Day weekend, 1969.
Wavy Gravy
The organizers of the SXSW Music Festival thought it would be a great throwback piece of nostalgia to invite the infamous Wavy Gravy of Woodstock fame to speak at one of their Hipster symposiums during festival week.
Mr. Gravy, while giving a book signing at the “University of Woke Texas” bookshop, had a few choice words for his admirers. His new book, ” How I Survived The Brown Acid and Made A Million,” is a New York Times bestseller and attracted a crowd that stretched around the block. Everyone in Austin thinks they are a retro-hippie.
Maya Sharona, head reporter for NPR and SXSW News caught up with Wavy as he was returning from the men’s room.
” Mr. Gravy,” she asked, microphone inches from Wavy’s face,
“Can you give your loyal throwback fans in Austin some advice on how to get through the destruction of humanity, the scourge of oil pollution that is changing our climate, killing Polar Bears and Tiddly Wink minnows, turning women into men and men into newts, and is destroying our universe while rendering all highly educated females infertile and unable to return to work because we can’t afford a Prius ?”
I kid you not, she was dead-ass-serious.
Wavy thought for a moment, took a swig of his Mylanta Antacid Margarita, lit a joint, checked the time on his Rolex, scratched his balls, cleaned his ears with a bandanna and spit, hocked a snot ball, farted, and said to Ms. Sharona,
“Take the Brown Acid kid, it did wonders for us at Woodstock.”
Read this morning that Woodstock will be back for another encore. It’s been fifty-six years since half a million young people sat in a pasture, listening to rock music, believing they had changed the world. It was revisited in the 90s and was a miserable mess, even without the rain and mud. Some things should be remembered for what they were and leave it at that. But possibly, this 56-year reboot could be a winner.
Imagine if some of the original musicians returned, and they might if asked. It would be worth the ticket cost to see Stills, Nash, and Young wheeze through a set. They could set a full size cardboard figure of Crosby next to them, since he has gone to Nirvana. Melanie could ride her little scooter onstage and croak through a few tunes. Country Joe and the Fish could do the Vietnam song again, and Joni Mitchell might even make the gig this time. John Fogarty will be born on the bayou again. Of course, Hendrix, Janice Joplin, and the mighty Joe Cocker have checked out, so Santana must fill that void. John Sebastian and Arlo Guthrie could do their hippie single-guitar thing and say “wow” a few hundred times. Wavy Gravy and the Hog Farm could run the concessions.
I’m sure the rest of the lineup will consist of current stars. Rappers, dancers, acrobats, and singers fly through the air or take the stage via a zip line suspended from a cell phone tower a mile away. It’s not about talent these days. It’s all, “look at me” and auto-tune. Katy Perry can fly in on a Game of Thrones dragon while lip-singing any of her forgettable songs. Courtney Hadwin, the fiery young reincarnation of Janice Joplin, will probably steal the show. Greta Van Fleet will wow the crowd with their spot-on imitation of Zeppelin. Wonder how that will turn out since Robert Plant will be performing?
I attended the 1969 Texas International Pop Festival and saw most of the acts at Woodstock a few weeks later, so I can say, “been there and seen it all.” It will be fitting for the old-timers to show the young fans how it used to be. ” No rain-No rain.”
I visited my Ear, Nose, and Throat doctor today. He wasn’t in the office, so I saw his PA. She escorted me to an exam room, and two techs checked my old ears for wax buildup and performed several tests by blowing air and a vacuum in both ears. Then, the PA took a microscopic robot thingy and stuck the device in both ears. When someone says, ” Hmm, oh my,” that gets my attention. Medical people have their own language. I should know; Momo is one of them. They use big words and have a secret handshake. She knew the gal from her hospital days; they hugged and did the handshake, then said some big words about my condition. When they got around to the hearing test, I was a nervous wreck.
The hearing test was easy: sit in a sound booth with headphones and a little button to push when you hear a beep. I sat there for a while in silence. Finally, I asked the tech when the test started. She said it started ten minutes ago. I failed miserably; I can’t hear jack shit, deaf as a cave-dwelling Salamander.
The PA showed me the results. She and Momo used some bigger words to describe my condition. Almost deaf in the left ear and coming up fast in the right one, my good ear.
” Doc, isn’t there anything you can do, like a transplant or a microchip or something?” She did that hmm thing again and told me to start learning sign language, stat. Crap, I’m going to be like Helen Keller, deaf and mute; it all goes hand in hand. First, the ears go, then the speech, then I’ll go blind and stagger around the family Christmas dinner, grabbing fist fulls of food off my relative’s plates. And to top it off, the PA says folks with severe hearing loss always get Dementia. So I’ll be deaf, blind, and mute, sitting in a chair with a drool sponge under my chin, and Momo will have to pull me around in a Western Flyer wagon. There has to be a better way to checkout.
I didn’t know that back in the day, standing in front of a Fender Duel Showman amp playing rock music at incredible decibels would destroy my hearing? Hell, I was sixteen and heard everything just fine. Alice Cooper once said that rock music will get you, one way or the other. It took a while, and I didn’t learn my lesson; I spent another twenty years doing the same thing in the 2000s. By the end of my tenure in the American Classics rock band, all of us were almost deaf.
The good news is that these new hearing aids have Bluetooth and Wi-Fi. I can talk on my iPhone hands-free, check my voice and email, listen to my stereo, tune into Police radio, listen to air traffic control, hack other folks’ hearing aids, and listen in on their conversations. It also checks my vital signs and brain function and sends reports back to my doctor, and I can still play music with my church praise band. Who knew going deaf could be so interesting.
A friend of mine in the blogverse is a music historian. Max Gower has a blog on WordPress called PowerPop An Eclectic Collection of Pop Culture. Max and me have been trading emails and post for over two years and I greatly enjoy his side trips into the 60s music scene covering bands that maybe weren’t all that well known. Max has been writing about Texas rock music for a while now and found a few old interviews I gave many moons ago. I appreciate the shout out and hope you all enjoy his post as much as I do. Thanks again, Max.
A few weeks ago I posted about Mouse and the Traps, a Texas band formed in the 1960s. I thought my fellow blogger friend Phil from Notes from the Cactus Patch may have known them. He did…. so I thought…I would like to write about Phil’s 1960s band. I first heard of Phil from Hanspostcard… he sent me THIS link to Phil’s post about meeting John Sebastian in Texas in the sixties along with the other Lovin Spoonful. He also briefly met Janis Joplin when she cut the food line at the Texas International Pop Festival. ” I survived one-hundred-degree temperatures for three days and got to meet Janis Joplin one late night when this nice gal with a Texas twang asked me if she could cut in line as I was waiting to buy a hot dog. It took a minute for me to realize it was her, but I was cool; it was the sixties, man. That night, ole Janis “took a little piece of my heart, now baby.”
I’m get most of the info from this post. I urge you to read that because he tells a more complete story. Phil’s Dad, Johnny Strawn played with the Light Crust Doughboys so Phil was surrounded by music when he grew up. He went through a few bands on the way. He formed his first band in 1964 and they were called The Dolphins and in late 65 they became The Orphans. The Orphans lasted until 1967 and the members were Johnny Strawn, vocals and lead guitar – Jarry Davis, vocals and rhythm guitar- Danny Goode, lead vocals and bass – Marshall Sartain, vocals and keyboards- Barry Corbett, drums and vocals.
The music they played was all over the place and everything that kept people on the dance floor. The music they played was Soul Music, Beatles, Bee Gees, Rascals, Hendrix, Doors, Steppenwolf, Cream, Stones, Vanilla Fudge, and Jefferson Airplane. They played all over Texas and parts of Oklahoma…and some of the clubs he mentioned were The Studio Club, LuAnn’s, Strawberry Fields, Phantasmagoria, The Cellar, The Box, and more. This was when three of the band were still in high school.
Phil Strawn: We used to do a lot of double bills at The Studio Club and LuAnn’s; that was a big thing back then. I remember playing a lot of them with Southwest F.O.B. We were playing at LuAnn’s one weekend when during the Jimi Hendrix song Fire, our drummer put lighter fluid on his cymbals, lit his drum sticks, then hit the cymbals and ignited them. It got a little out of hand and it burned up his drums. That kind of stuff wouldn’t fly nowadays, but back then, we didn’t think of the repercussions. The crowd loved it, sort of like The Who, only with real fire and smoke. Miss Lou Ann was not pleased and banned us from the club for about six months. We eventually worked our way back into her good graces. Ron Chapman the famous DJ on KLIF and KVIL remembered us as the band that nearly burned down LuAnn’s. Some legacy.
They met a guy named Mark Lee who became their manager. After they signed with him their gigs increased. They even opened up for Iron Butterfly at a place called Strawberry Fields. The Orphans committed a cardinal sin by learning an Iron Butterfly song called Possession and nailed it while opening for Iron Butterfly. Lee put them up to it because he knew it would get under Iron Butterfly’s skin…and it did! They ended up swiping Phil’s Vox Wah Wah pedal and a velvet Nehru suit from their drummer.
In 1968 they had to change their name. The drummer, Barry Corbett, had a friend, Jerry Deaton who wanted to manage them but they were happy with Mark Lee. The guy went out and had “The Orphans” copyrighted and told the band he would sue them if they continued so they changed their name. Phil said: “We liked ATNT {Alice talks “n” talks} and Jerry’s mother was the inspiration for that name. Later, we found out that he had managed another band called the Orphans for a while, so that was the reason for all the drama. He copyrighted the name so we had to change.”
Check out this 1968 Flower Fair entertainment. ATNT played and look at the other artists as well. Spencer Davis, Jimmy Reed, Mitch Ryder, The Lemon Pipers, and Neil Diamond. The Doors were going to play but they had scheduling conflicts.
In 1966 they recorded a song that Phil wrote called “Leader of My Mind” which was a Byrds-type song with harmonica but no one can find any copies. In 1968 they recorded two songs called “No One Told Me About Her” with the flipside Cobblestone Street.
They also did a couple of appearances on Mark Stevens TV Show which they lipsynced to their songs. Phil quit in the late sixties because of a disagreement with the rhythm guitar player. He had to make a choice and his final exams were coming up and Phil decided to study rather than just practice with the band.
After that, Phil said he didn’t play much until around 1974 when he started to play in the progressive country music scene in Austin and Dallas. I played with various people around town and some in south Texas and did some pick-up and studio work. I joined the Trinity River Band in late ’79 and played with them until ’85. I also played with The Light Crust Doughboys from time to time and did some studio work on the five-string banjo. I was fortunate to play on the Light Crust Doughboys album, ” One Hundred-Fifty Years of Texas Music.”
Phil Strawn: The A side is “Cobblestone Street,” written and sung by myself and our drummer Barry Corbett. The B side is ” No One Told Me About Her,” written and sung by our lead singer and bass player, Danny Goode. The two producers, Marvin Montgomery and Artie Glenn, suggested we add horns to get a Chicago Transit Authority sound. Before the brass was added, Cobblestone Street was loud and raw with loud guitars and organs. After adding the horns, we returned to the studio and tweaked the cuts. I purposely untuned my Gibson 335 a bit to give the guitar break a bit of an out-of-tune carnival sound. Marvin, who went by the name of Smokey, was a member of the Light Crust Doughboys since the 1930s and played with Bob Wills. He produced Paul and Paula and Delbert McClinton. Artie Glenn wrote the famous Elvis hit “Crying In The Chapel” and many others; he was also a Light Crust Doughboy western swing musician. These two men were top-shelf record producers, so we listened when they suggested
Phil Strawn: It was absolutely the best time of my life. How could you not enjoy being a teenager in the ’60s and playing in a popular rock band? The people we met and played with, the experience that we will all carry with us the rest of our lives. It was just a part of life that helped shape us into what we are now – being part of that change in our country, that decade. It was a time of turmoil, but it was also the last year of the innocence we grew up with. Teenagers these days are so hardened. The music then was happy and said a lot. It would move you, whether you played it or danced to it. The music now has a meaner, harder edge, and reflects the times we live in.
Phil Strawn: I am a project manager in commercial construction, and do a lot of painting and artwork – mostly Texas art. After 35 years, Danny Goode, who I played with in ATNT and the Orphans, called me and asked me to be part of their group, The American Classics. I joined them about two years ago and that’s what we do nowadays. The band consists of Danny Goode, bass and lead vocals; John Payne, lead guitar and keyboards; Jordan Welch, drums; and me on rhythm guitar and vocals. We play about once a month or so around Dallas Fort Worth, mostly private parties. We recently played in Deep Ellum, and will probably be back down there soon. We stick to mostly ’60s music – it’s what we know well. It’s good to still be playing rock music at this age. You really never outgrow it.
I love the horns in this song but I would also love to hear what it sounded like with loud guitars as well.
Carl Benson, Jr.says:What a ‘bill’ that was! I would’ve gone to see Mitch Ryder & his band & Neil Diamond.Liked by 2 peopleReply
Badfinger (Max)says:It does sound like a great one. That was the time to grow up for music…LikeReply
Carl Benson, Jr.says:Ya’, I was 4 years old then or going on 4 but I have always loved that era of ‘Pop’ music. I love that debate on what decade was the best & the 60’s are up there…I think the 80’s myself, but I’m biased lol.Liked by 1 person
Badfinger (Max)says:I was weird Carl…I grew up in the 80s….turned 13 in 1980…I didn’t like the synth stuff and the fake drums….they still drive me up the wall… I was mostly listening to the 60s during the 80s….Now…thats not to say that I don’t like many songs from the 80s….I liked the Heartland Rockers like Mellencamp, Springsteen, Petty, and others…along with The Replacements, REM and Prince….in other words…bands and artists with guitars!Liked by 1 person
Carl Benson, Jr.says:Awesome…I think that I mentioned before that when I was a kid my Dad was in the music business when after we moved to Ft. Wayne in ’67 & my little brother was born later in that year. Both of my parents were college graduates from ’63 & ’64 so they were hip parents. They put a radio & a television in my brother & I’s room (bunk beds) so we could chose what we wanted to watch & hear. He had a television show on what became the PBS station which was a 1-hour music show (R&B) & he & a fraternity brother owned a nightclub & were managing groups. So I got to hear a lot of R&B as a young kid & meet some of those folks who did his show. But, I always had an earl for ‘Pop’ music & when we moved to Idaho in ’74 my buddies were into the other side of ‘Pop’ & of course guitar based ‘Rock & Roll’. I graduated from high school in ’82 & had been listening to a lot of 60’s music (& funk) my jr. & sr. years & then I got the bug for synthetic dance ‘New Wave’ music. Thompson Twins, The Human League, The Talking Heads, The Tom Tom Club, The B-52’s etc., I was always a ‘Minneapolis Sound’ dude. I always heard from my musician friends that they hated ‘Tech’ back then with the electronic drums & stuff & I can appreciate that Max. I generally loved the ‘Moog’ sound then…I was into dancing back then.Liked by 1 person
Badfinger (Max)says:See I liked The Talking Heads and The B-52s…so there were a few I liked…yea the Minnesota sound was huge…Prince, The Replacements and others came out of there. Also Carl…it’s normal for teens to like the era they grow up in….so like I said…I was wierd…I liked the timeless sound. You grew up in the perfect time Carl! You got to experience the best of the 60s – 80s in real time! Plus your parents sound great dude.Liked by 1 person
Carl Benson, Jr.says:Ya’, I remember that they had ‘hippie’ friends that were white folks before we moved to Idaho when I was 10 in ’74. My little brother & I had an unusual childhood for a couple of black kids in our era Max. That’s why my musical tastes are so eclectic Max.Liked by 2 people
Badfinger (Max)says:And that is a great thing Carl! I think it’s rewarding to be eclectic.Liked by 2 people
newepicauthorsays:One of your longer posts Max and I thought it was interesting learning about this obscure group.Liked by 1 personReply
Badfinger (Max)says:Yes I usually don’t go this long but Phil was in some interesting spots and bands. He knew a lot of those Texas bands that did have some hits…plus I was in one of those local bands two decades later…heck…may do mine one day!Liked by 1 personReply
glyn40wiltonsays:Light Crust Doughboys was a great name for a band. I liked the list of the groups they played songs of in their set.Liked by 1 personReply
Badfinger (Max)says:Thanks Glyn…they were a country band legend.Liked by 1 personReply
Davesays:Great post Max! It’s so cool that one of our online friends has such a great musical history. I’ve heard that ‘Cobblestone Street’ before…it’s very ’60s but very agreeable. Sounds very British Invasion to me, I wouldn’t have pegged it as being from Texas. Phil makes a good point about how rock, and teens, then were so much more optimistic than nowadays. Phil, good job and if you have the b-side, hope you let us hear it!Liked by 2 peopleReply
Badfinger (Max)says:I loved when they opened for Iron Butterfly and then played one of their songs! LOL. That takes guts and I’m glad they did it.LikeReply
obbversesays:Agree with all you say here Dave. And I really do believe for a lot of the kids teen years (these days) are more a journey of joy and learning than a rite of passage.Liked by 1 personReply
obbversesays:Sorry Dave, less joy, more passage! Doh! (Note to self; Proof read, O.)Liked by 1 personReply
randydafoesays:Well I knew a bit of Phil’s musical past and this post is a great enhancement. I agree with Dave on that British Invasion sound for sure.Liked by 1 personReply
Badfinger (Max)says:I played 2 decades later but I can relate to this…I mean every successful band usually starts out like this…sometimes it just works out but most of the time it doesn’t as far as the big time….but it keeps music alive in communities across the globe with local bands….yes it’s very sixties.Liked by 1 personReply
randydafoesays:Yes I am sure this is very close to home for you. I probably mentioned by oldest brother is a bass player and while he did play with some recording artists he never ended up on one himself. He has played in bands for over 50 years and still does, but he does it for himself, because he loves it. So these stories are in some ways a vicarious look that scene.Liked by 1 person
Badfinger (Max)says:I tell people…once you learn music you keep it for the rest of your life. You don’t have to be famous…but no one can take it away from you. The only recording artist I played on the same bill with? The Royal Guardsman in the late 80s early 90s…lol…but hey it still counts! Our claim to fame was outdrawing Richard Sterban (singer for the Oak Ridge Boys) at a theater….we played a week later….lol.Liked by 2 people
obbversesays:Max mentioning the Royal Guardsmen- Christmas and ‘Snoopy’s Christmas’ must be on the horizon!Liked by 1 person
Badfinger (Max)says:It’s gotta be! I never thought of posting that one…but I must now.Liked by 1 person
obbversesays:Love these ‘I was there’ bits of history. Phil sure got around, and what a great decade to grow up in. And as for Phil- letting Janis grab what should have been his hot dog, rubbing shoulders with John S, rubbing Mike Love the wrong way- great stories.Liked by 1 personReply
Badfinger (Max)says:Yes they are… I can’t imagine meeting those people especially Janis…he said she was really tiny in person… Opening up for Iron Butterfly…pretty cool and having your wah wah pedal stolen by their crew…not cool!Liked by 1 personReply
obbversesays:Well, with Iron Butterfly, they weren’t exactly your easy-going peace love and pass the reefer 60s band, or so I’d imagine, going by their sound. (PS, I’ll be mentioning ‘Snoopy’s Christmas’ in an upcoming musically related post soon. Music and Christmas carols based? Yes. Harmonious and in the best spirit of Christmas? Nooooo.)Liked by 1 person
Badfinger (Max)says:Cool… I will soon echo Snoopy… I would not expect any other from you…I would be quite dissapointed if you showed too much cheer…obbverse sellout? Never.Liked by 1 person
cincinnatibabyheadsays:I’ll echo Dave and say “Great post”. Phil covers a lot of territory (He’s from Texas. Makes sense). I’m sure I could spend an evening hanging with Phil and be entertained on a lot of levels. Lots I like, his sense of humor not the least. Enjoying the listen. Blue ribbon post Max and PhilLiked by 1 personReply
Badfinger (Max)says:Thanks CB…it’s much longer than I wanted but to get everything in it had to be. Hanging out with Phil for a while would be really cool.Liked by 1 personReply
Christian’s Music Musingssays:It sounds like Phil Strawn has met many interesting artists and has some intriguing stories to tell. “The Cobblestone Stone Street” is a great song. Perhaps not surprisingly, I had never heard of A.T.N.T. before.Liked by 1 personReply
Badfinger (Max)says:Yea…Phil has some great stories… his story about meeting the Lovin Spoonful is great…and opening up for Iron Butterfly was really cool as well.Liked by 1 personReply
Phil Strawnsays:Max, thank you for the great write up and kind words. It does my old heart good to hear from so many of your followers that dig the 60s sound. I happened to be in the right place at that time and it all fell into place. My friend, Danny Goode who I played with back in the 60s and again in the 2000s lives in Granbury too. We hung up the axes in 2019 after a 19-year run with The American Classics Band, doing much of the same music we played back in “the day.” Thanks again, Max.Liked by 2 peopleReply
Badfinger (Max)says:Phil, I just hope I got it mostly right for you. I want to thank you for letting me do it. I had a good time writing it. We might not have been in huge bands that had a lot of hits, but we entertained a lot of people and that is what matters plus the the adventures we got out of it. Thanks again, Phil.Liked by you and 1 other personReply
Phil Strawnsays:You are welcome kind sir. We all have to admit that after doing live shows for a while, it brings out the hambone in all of us. I can’t recall a time that I was nervous onstage except the time my Fender amp blew a fuse and I didn’t have a spare, now that was scary.Liked by 1 person
Badfinger (Max)says:I wasn’t nervous either except for my first gig but it went away quickly. THAT would be scary. Our lead guitar player’s amp went out so I plugged him into mine and we shared…not a great sound…but the show went on.Like
Nancy Homlitassays:Your music bio of Phil Strawn was a thoroughly enjoyable read, Max. Of course, I’m partial to 60’s music and can appreciate how good “Cobblestone Street” is compared to other songs in that genre. You did a good job making Phil appear to be a focused and serious musician. We both know he’s a crazy fun-loving hoot! 🙂LikeReply
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I wrote this story in 2012 after a visit to Threadgill’s on Barton Springs Road. During the Armadillo Headquarters days, I often went in and out of Austin and knew many of the musicians responsible for its progressive music scene. No one can remember who, what, or how it started, so why not make it an Armadillo?
A. Dillo influenced a generation of Texas musicians and tunesmiths. On a scorching Saturday in September 1970, a group of dazed and confused hippies found this precocious little Armadillo digging for grubs on the lawn of the state capitol. They were lounging on the grass, sunning themselves, drinking Lone Star beer, and smoking pot, recuperating from a busy week of doing absolutely nothing, which was what they did best.
He was a sad Armadillo, lost and searching for his family unit after being separated from them in Zilker Park a few days earlier during a vicious thunderstorm and a frog-floating flood. A happy reunion was not to be. His mother and father were tits-up on Congress, and his siblings had been lunch for a pack of wild dogs. He was an orphan.
The dazed but kindly hippies were drawn to the friendly little tank. They took him back to their pad just off Congress and raised him as one of their own. He was christened A. Dillo.
One of the more studious hippie chicks in the house was majoring in animal behavior and journalism at the University of Texas and saw a spark of something in the wee critter. Wading into uncharted territory, the twinkle in his tiny red eyes caused the two of them to connect magically. After a few weeks of sputtering starts and misses, she was soon tutoring the ardent little critter in reading and writing.
Within six months, A. Dillo had mastered penmanship and was writing prose. Within a year, he wrote short stories and speeches for the university’s professors and a host of prolific student protesters who hung around the house.
He experimented with strange illicit substances and began hanging out with artist types and deep thinkers, writing about current events, political science, theology, and music with the best of them. He was, in a sense, humanized.
A. Dillo’s popularity grew, and he was invited to give readings of his work at weekend hootenannies, parties, and student gatherings. He was the critter version of Alan Ginsburg.
Being an Armadillo, he had no clothing, only his armored shell, so he employed an artist friend to decorate his tough covering to resemble a fashionable tie-dye t-shirt. He then wore round rose-colored sunglasses and various pins and peace symbols. He was beyond incredibly cool and a perfect fit for Austin. A problem arose within the house. A few of his adopted Bohemian family members harbored a bone of jealousy. Though quietly envious of the little fellow, they accused him of selling out to “the man.” Perplexed and hurt, he asked his tutor who this “man” he sold out to was. She shushed him, explaining it was anyone who did anything better than themselves.
The bad vibes from his former adoring family were a downer, so unable to create and win back their adoration, he packed his few belongings in a Piggly Wiggly grocery bag and returned to Barton Springs and Zilker Park for peace and tranquility among the Oak trees and dancing waters.
While shuffling down Barton Springs Road, he happened upon a recently opened venue called The Armadillo World Headquarters. Delighted to find a place that openly celebrated his kind, he scurried through a hole in the fence and took up residence beneath the beer garden stage, enjoying the clamorous musical atmosphere and the continual supply of spilled Lone Star beer that flowed through the cracks of the wood floor.
A group of guitar-picking musicians who frequented the club’s beer garden befriended A.Dillo, and soon, he was anointed as the “official mascot” of the headquarters. He was cool again but didn’t understand this new scene where long-haired Hippie types wore cowboy hats and listened to country music. He kept copious notes, sensing that a reversal of attitudes was happening. Cowboys and Hippies learning to fraternize in a peaceful manner.
The little poet was inspired by his energizing surroundings and began putting his thoughts and prose to paper. In a moment of trusting innocence, he exposed his talent and shared his library of work with a few of the beer garden musicians, hoping for a morsel of recognition.
The coterie of musicians was so impressed with his talent that, without asking permission, they confiscated his poems and lyrics and made them their own. That this library of written work came from an Armadillo seemed utterly reasonable. After all, it was Austin in the early 70s, and it’s a well-documented fact that if you remember that time, you weren’t really there.
Within a few months, the musicians and wailers at the headquarters were singing songs about Austin and everything Texas. A handful of local artists were drawing A. Dillo’s likeness on their concert posters to promote the rapidly changing musical landscape. The times were a-changing.
Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings took up residence at the headquarters and became the shaggy royal ambassadors of Austin music. It was a heady time for Texas music.
A. Dillo was heartbroken. He had been bamboozled by the “love your brother and sister” preaching musicians, who were scoundrels, thieves, and false profits. His trust had been violated. The soaring soliloquies, his enlightening prose, his ramblings about Texas, all stolen and plagiarized with no hope of recovery. One cruel musician blatantly took his favorite poem and made a song about “Going Home With The Armadillo.” That was the deepest cut of all. He was a broken critter. ” Oh, the pain of it all,” he wailed.
He soon left the headquarters, again packing his Piggly Wiggly bag and stealing away into the night.
A. Dillo returned to his home burrow in Zilker Park. He reconnected with the inhabitants, giving nightly readings of his new poetry to an enthusiastic and adoring crowd. He was elevated to Homeric status among the park’s animal population, and his name was known to all creatures. He was at peace with himself and his life.
A. Dillo was the unappreciated spark of inspiration for Austin’s progressive music scene of the 1970s. Without his influence and the spread of his stolen words, tunesmiths, musicians, and vocalist all over Austin would still be writing and singing those dreary Three-chord hillbilly songs or tripping out to psychedelic brain fuzz. Jerry Jeff, Willie, Waylon, and the boys would have needed to seek inspiration elsewhere, and the city would not have evolved into Austin as we know it today.
Tall tales have it that some years later, on a stormy night similar to the one that started his journey, A. Dillo was hit by a vehicle while attempting to cross Barton Springs Road.
An elderly lady living in the Shady Grove trailer park scooped up his remains and fed them to her two Chihuahuas. She used the decorated shell as a planter, adorning the steps of her Air-Stream trailer.
The small shell’s bright colors faded over time and sat on the steps of that old trailer for decades. Couples with gray hair walking to one of the many restaurants on the street, grandchildren and dogs in tow, would sometimes notice the shell full of colorful flowers and pause to take a photo. Austinites who had known the little poet or knew the legend would approach the unassuming shrine and pay homage, explaining to their grandchildren the true story of the “real father” of Austin music.
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Notes From The Cactus Patch 