Back in 2019, this Texan caught myself a case of cancer. It wasn’t contagious like the flu or a Norovirus, but it was a bad case. My first doctor wanted to do the standard treatment, but my wife, a dedicated nurse, did some digging and found a new treatment available only at UT Southwestern in Dallas. We live in Granbury, and I grew up in Fort Worth, so going to Dallas was painful; it’s something we Fort Worth’ians didn’t do back in the 1950s. Fort Worth is where the West begins, and Dallas is where the East peters out; it’s an actual historical fact. So, I had to swallow my family legacy of pride and prejudice and go to Dallas to save my life.
Round two of my cancer diagnosis commenced on May 13th, 2019 at 3:45 pm. Going to UT Southwestern Oncology for treatment was a no-brainer: it’s the best. Their staff radiates positive vibes, so naturally, I feel better. It is battling this evil little demon that has invaded my beloved earthly form with its sights set on the destruction of my body that keeps me focused. This course of action is my main goal and will receive my full attention for the near future.
Today is the ” oh so” specialized 3RDT MRI. I’m amused at the Star Wars comparison to R2D2. At least R2 would show me a hologram of Princess Lea for my entertainment. As with any procedure, it is inserting the word “specialized” into the mix that assures the method will be expensive and painful. I was right.
My bright eyed and bushy tailed MRI nurse accompanies me to my changing room, where I change into a scratchy blue hospital gown accented by yellow non-skid socks. After my wardrobe makeover, he inserts an IV pic into my arm and leaves.
A young woman, maybe twenty-one or so, also wearing the blue gown sits down next to me. She has two IV pics in one arm and appears scared. At this age, my shyness with strangers is minimal, so I ask her, ” first MRI?”.
Without looking over, she says, ” no sir, this is my sixth one, and there’s more to come. It’s Cancer.”
She looks at me and asks, ” how about you.” At this point, I feel like this young girl needs a laugh, even at my expense.
In a deadpan voice, I say, ” complications from the Racoon Flu. My entire body is pulsing with it. Never saw a garbage can I didn’t love. She knows this is total BS and laughs. I crack myself up.
Ten minutes later I lay on the MRI table, IV in place, earplugs inserted, headphones on, and the nurse/tech leans over and tells me “this might be a little uncomfortable.” He smiles and snickers as he says it. I ask, ” how big is this thing you are inserting into my earthly temple.” He laughs and says, ” not too big, just enough to get close to the subject and light you up with some good old Radiation.” I plead, ” let me see it, and I’ll be the judge of that. What kind of Radiation are we talking here?” Rather proudly he exclaims, ” this is the good old American stuff, came straight from Los Alamos Labs. The same material used to build “the nuke back in 1945. It’s so pure that Dr. Oppenhimer personally endorses it. Its the bomb.”
From behind his back, he produces a probe that looks like a 1/24th scale model of the Hindenburg Blimp. Attached to the business end is an evil pigtail coil that is glowing green. This contraption is right out of the Spanish Inquisition playbook of torture, and it’s going inside of me? Fortunately, for my mental stability, the relaxation drugs I took an hour ago have kicked in, so I am defenseless to attempt escape. I accept fate and brace for the assault.
When the nurse, Mr. Smiley inserts the “little Hindenburg” into my backside, I was convinced I was either in the throes of childbirth or expelling an alien creature from my abdomen. I will never again doubt the painful stories of Alien abductees or women birthing children as “no big deal. ” I am squirming like a brain-hungry zombie, begging for mercy, offering money to end the agony, anything to stop the immobilizing pain. Then, in an instant, the suffering was gone, and I was human again. Listening to some awful hillbilly music, I drifted into La-La land.
I drift back into consciousness hearing George Jones sing ” He Stopped Loving Her Today,” possibly the saddest damn country song ever written. I choke back a tear, then realize where I am and why I’m here. Nurse Smiley congratulates me on a job well done, helps me to my feet and back to the dressing room.
Heading for the waiting room, I realize that scenarios like this will be my life for months to come. I think of a song from The Grateful Dead: I will get by, I will survive. Catchy little tune. Everyone needs a theme song.
Down Home Advice To Folks That Watch Too Much TV And Can’t Keep Their Faces Out Of Their Cell Phones…
The Texan
This Texan received a letter from Mrs. Olsen of Folger, Minnesota. Her grandson is having religious issues and needs some advice before he makes a big mistake.
Mrs. Olsen: Mr. Texan, I saw your page in the back of our church magazine, The Protestant Presbyterian. I figured a wise old man like yourself could help me out, don ‘cha know.
I was over having a hearty breakfast with my son and his family a few days ago, explaining to my daughter-in-law how to make a good pot of coffee, when their twelve-year-old son, little Rudy, announced that he wanted to become Jewish instead of Presbyterian. Well, by golly, by gosh, this set us all back on our heels for a moment. He recently attended a classmate’s Bar Mitzva and saw all the gifts and cash his friend received, saying it was around twenty grand or so of cash and such, and he wants the same. He said Jewish kids have more fun than we Protestant ones. Well, I’m not so sure about that. I had plenty of yippy when I was a Hippie, attended Woodstock, and dated every boy in the neighborhood. A few days later, I see him and his little pals at the mall, and he’s wearing a yarmulke and a Star of David necklace, telling all his buddies he is now Jewish and will be announcing his Bar Mitzvah soon. Now I don’t know skiddy-do about religion, outside of our little church in town, but I believe there is more to it than that. How do we get this little nimrod to listen to us?
The Texan: Well, Mrs. Olsen, a good cup of coffee is hard to find nowadays. I prefer a percolator and have been in a Starbucks only once. I will agree with your grandson, Jewish kids tend to have a lot of fun, that’s if they live in Texas and not near Palestine. I don’t have a lot of experience with that religion, except that a good friend of mine, now deceased, was Kinky Friedman, the famous, talented founder and leader of the Texas band “Kinky Friedman And The Texas Jew Boys.” Great western swing music in the vein of Bob Wills. I contacted Kinky’s good friend, Little Jewford, who carries on the band these days, and he says for little Rudy,” If he wants to be happy for the rest of his life, he should make a Jewish girl his wife.” “Little Jewford is a lifelong Jewish fella, so he knows his Matzo balls and is a wise old fella. Little Rudy will have to marry a Jewish girl and convert to Judaism, but by then, he will be too old for a Bar Mitzva, so he’s SOL. Tell him to stick to being a good, boring Presby boy, go to church, listen to his Pastor, get his education, read some Garrison Keillor books, and move to Dallas or Houston to find a nice Jewish wife. I’m sending him a CD of Kinky’s Greatest Hits and a box of Cherry Bombs to add some excitement to his life. After all, like Kinky says in his biggest song, ” They Don’t Make Jews Like Jesus Anymore,” and that’s a fact. Shalom and adios.
After a trip to Frisco Texas for a doctors visit today, Momo and me stopped off at a local Fort Worth Mexican restaurant for an early supper before taking the cattle trail back to Granbury.
Seated, beers in hand, decompressing from two hours of hell on earth Dallas traffic, our Senorita waitress stopped by to drop a bowl of chips and salsa at our table; the usual fare for Tex-Mex food.
Over the years I have told my readers that my social filters have left on the last train to Clarksville, so I’m apt to blurt out any number of insults to no one in particular. The damn music was so loud I couldn’t understand a word the young miss was saying.
“Miss, can you turn down the music, or maybe give me a tablet and a pen so I can write out my order?” I say.
She was well indoctrinated. “Sir, the music is here to add to the ambiance and to make the food more tasty. We want our customers to think they are in old Mexico enjoying a meal while gazing at the Pacific ocean or the Gulf of America.”
Momo is giving me that ” you had better not say it” look, but I did anyway.
In my best old man I mean business voice I say, ” lookey here, Senorita, your food ain’t that good, and the music sucks, I can’t speak Spanish so why do you think I can understand a word that girl is singing? As far as ambiance, I’m looking out the window at the traffic whizzing by on Hulen Street and there is not a palm tree or a beach, or a dude leading a burro with a margarita machine strapped to its back. It’s Fort Worth Texas, not Cancun.”
Thoroughly insulted, she turns and stomps away. A few minuets later, Dire Straits is playing Money For Nothing. I notice all the folks our age are tapping their feet and digging the music. A few words of wisdom: music doesn’t make the food taste better.
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 am not pretending to be a sports writer. No, sir, my knowledge of football and the NFL is as sparse as a Teralingua lawn. I possess the cutting humor—or maybe it’s cutting-edge angst—that allows me to see the man behind the green curtain and pay attention to what he does and doesn’t do.
It’s been almost thirty years since America’s team has been to a Super Bowl game. Still, I would bet the owner, Jerry “Smiley” Jones, has attended more than a few super bowl parties in his ostentatious Dallas neighborhood of Highland Park. The day that smirking hillbilly with a gold card bought my team, the Dallas Cowboys, and fired the legendary Tom Landry was a low point for that shining turd on the hill, known as Dallas, Texas. Landry was almost a saint, a winged Arch Angel in a grey fedora that stalked the sidelines like a lion, pushing his team to victory with a blend of tough love and radar-melting glares. If Landry didn’t like you, no one would. The man should have been allowed to resign instead of a quick meeting and a handful of traveling papers. Smiley Jones, the new owner of the team and the son of Jed Clampett and Ma Kettle drove into Dallas with furniture tied to his Mercedes and grandma strapped to the roof. It’s been a shavit show since.
Jimmy Johnson clashed with Jones from day one. Johnson was a football man, a brilliant coach, and had the best hairstyle in the NFL. Jones was a wannabe coach who knew nothing about football, so the mating was bound to go sour, and it did, but only after a few Super Bowls. Barry Switzer took over and coasted across the finish line for another shiny trophy. Then Jones took over, and the team has been complete crap since. The Cowgirls are on track to deliver their worst season after paying a mediocre, nice guy quarterback 60 million a year for life. Prescott is a has-been; the money has taken over his brain, and he doesn’t care; he’s got the money, and Smiley doesn’t have shavit to show for it. The days of wine and roses are over for the Jones family. What is sad is that after Jerry is laid to rest, there are two more sons, a daughter, and a surgically enhanced wife to take the helm, which should put the city out of its misery.
Sleep is a sneaky little thing, often playing hide and seek; some nights, with the right concoction of pain medications, I drift off like a mighty oak, a tree that has finally decided to take a break from standing tall. Just the other night, however, the meds turned their backs on me, and there I was, half awake and befuddled, reaching for my trusty hot Ovaltine to lend a healing hand. With my vision askew from wearing the wrong pair of spectacles, I grabbed my Bible, thinking I’d find some solace in holy verses, only to stumble upon the most thrilling tales of storms, hurricanes, and the odd musings about planting under the October moons, eventually realizing that I’d accidentally opened the pages of the Farmers Almanac instead.
Many of my readers have been transfixed or shocked by the epic tale of the Strawn family, who, in a fit of brave lunacy, decided to traipse from Fort Worth, Texas, to Los Angeles, California, all during that notorious dust bowl of the 1930s. Now, as I wipe the dust from my fingers and finish this latest chapter, I find myself staring into the abyss of forgetfulness. Is my memory playing tricks—after all, reaching 75 isn’t exactly the golden age of recall—or did my father and aunt, long since departed, keep the family secrets tucked away like old socks full of silver coins? You see, I was but a wee lad, soaking up the stories like a dry sponge around the family campfire, spinning yarns until I waded into my twenties. I do recall reading the best of my grandmother’s missives to her siblings, which was the catalyst that started this literary campfire. So, onward, I go, armed with a mighty pen and a healthy dose of ancestral curiosity, ready to dig deeper into the sands of time! If I can locate my shovel.
Last week, Mrs. Momo and I set forth on a meandering journey to the sun-drenched sands of Padre Island, where we sought respite among the company of my son Wes, his wife Yolli, and my spirited grandson Jett, along with my oldest grandson, Johnathan, who had deftly forged a new life in Corpus after escaping the relentless grip of a desolate land rife with crime, situated just east of Fort Worth. Even after the passage of years, the name Dallas invokes within me the primal instinct to spit into the dirt or a sidewalk, a ritual harkening back to the deep-rooted traditions of Amon Carter’s Texas. My grandfather, a quintessential Texan in every sense, would erupt at the mere mention of that city, a sentiment that courses through the veins of my remaining kin. The few ventures I undertook into that sprawling metropolis during my youth were begrudgingly limited to solemn funerals or the obligatory excursions with my father, who charmed the patrons as part of the house band at The Big D Jamboree. But let us return to The Island, as the locals fondly refer to it. Our ambition was to embark on a fishing expedition in my son’s Gulf Coast fishing boat, cradled comfortably in the canal behind his home; yet, as fate would have it, life had scripted a different tale. The weather was hellishly hot, and now, knowing my limitations for physical abuse, the trip will happen another time. We did, however, find the opportunity to journey to Port Aransas, where we reveled in a banquet of seafood and marveled at the garish, towering temples—those three and four-story houses, not erected for the warmth of home but serving as mere rental coffins—sprouting up like unwanted weeds in a fishing village that had cradled myself and my sons childhood, now stripped of its charm and morphed into a pale imitation of Myrtle Beach. I remember driving every road in Port A during the late sixties with my surfboard secured atop my Korean War-era jeep, Captain America. That faithful jeep has since vanished, much like my surfboards, yet Wes has preserved a fine collection of vintage longboards. I will be embarking on these new wonder pharmaceutical supplements I catch glimpses of in commercials; perhaps I’ll summon the energy to paddle out and catch a wave, allowing me to once again sit atop the world. I can already hear the Beach Boys playing my tune.
It was quite a weekend for us average Americans. A former and possibly future president was almost assassinated by a twenty-year-old anti-social nut-job, the recipient of school bullying. Take note of anyone who was ever bullied, pushed, or spoken to in a demeaning manner in your high school days. Shooting people is not the panacea.
The present commander-in-chief hesitated for two hours before delivering a statement. When it finally came, it was a brief, confused jumble, possibly crafted by (not a medical professional) Jill Biden. It urged for a reduction in the aggressive language and insinuated that this was the result of America’s conservative faction. Now that’s damn sure taking it down a notch or two, Mr. President..keep it up.
You know those individuals on the right side? They are the regular, hardworking, blue-collar folks driving the pickup trucks they use in their trade. They build our homes and buildings, repair our plumbing and electrical, check out our purchases at the grocery store, pave our roads, support their kid’s little league and soccer teams, and tithe what they can to their church. These folks are struggling to afford basic necessities under Biden’s economic H-bomb. I highly doubt they have time for violence. Just getting by consumes all their energy and money. The welder with a family of five now has to saddle the debt of some woke child’s college loan for a worthless degree in Social Media Posting or perhaps Taylor Swift Music Theory. The parents want the dependent swindler out of their home; they require the kid’s room for their podcast studio. And let us not forget the ten million illegals that have invaded our country; they are living in luxury hotels and receiving hefty benefits for being criminals. All the Democrats ask is that they vote for their candidate when they are allowed to cast a ballot. Ask the homeless mother with a few children, living in a cramped shelter, or perhaps on the streets or in her minivan how she feels about the invasion of foreign grifters draining our social services when she can’t get a damn dime, a meal, or a room at Motel 6.
I’m an old fella turning 75 come September, and I ain’t liking it at all. Every joint aches, and the fear of major organs giving out is as real as can be. Momo, my missus, is a few years behind me and is dealing with many of the same issues.
We both grew up in the 1950s and were teenagers in the 1960s. I remember I was in seventh grade when Kennedy got shot in Dallas. The teacher wheeled in a portable black and white Zenith TV, and the class watched those news fellas with their sleeves rolled up, cradling a black dial phone to their ear, a cigarette in each hand, and a stiff drink of bourbon just out of camera sight, doin’ their job. They broke the news to the world that our president, John Kennedy, was deceased from a shot to the head. Our little 1950s happy-happy world was shattered. The innocence was gone in a blink, and Dallas, Texas, would always be known as the city that killed Kennedy.
In 1968, as a high school junior, I discovered the power of the written word might actually be used to facilitate change. This era sparked within each of us the belief that we could possess the strength to change the world. We all felt we had something significant to say. During this period, I began to approach my writing with a newfound sense of earnestness. I channeled my thoughts and ideas into not only opinions for my school newspaper but also into the creation of short stories, a pursuit that became my primary focus. I would never be a Steinbeck or Twain, but I could give it one hell of a try.
When Nixon ascended to power, politics ensnared my attention. Lyndon Johnson and his Great Society pipe dream left the country in turmoil, bitterly split by his failed policies and the Vietnam War. It’s no coincidence that Joe Biden idolized Johnson and patterned himself after the arrogant bully from Texas. The familial supper table transformed into a platform for deliberating the condition of our nation. My folks remained unwavering Roosevelt democrats while I vacillated like a reed in the wind, embracing liberalism one day and conservatism the next. My loyalty belonged to no single ideology. Politicians appeared nefarious and tainted; the entirety of the government left a bitter taste in my mouth. I was not a Hippie or a Yippie, or a Yuppie, or a Guppie. Then Martin Luther King was assassinated. The good work he had done vanished within hours of his death. The lines between black and white grew wider, and violence was in the wind.
Shortly thereafter, Bobby Kennedy, the Democratic candidate for the presidency, met his tragic end in the kitchen of the hotel mere minutes after delivering a triumphant speech. The perpetrator of this heinous act, an Arab kitchen worker wielding a 22-caliber pistol, answered to the name of Sirhan Sirhan.
The Black Lives Matter movement, Antifa, and the Palestinian protest movement are powerful forces of tension in today’s society. Their intemperate assaults on our cities and citizens are vividly portrayed on our 4K television screens. Yet, when measured against the tumultuous events of the sixties, these groups appear to be more petulant young college students than Marxist terrorists.
During that era, we witnessed the emergence of formidable terrorist entities like the Symbionese Liberation Army, The Weathermen (the Weather Underground), The Students For Democratic Society (SDS), The Black Panthers, and the Ku Klux Klan, in addition to numerous other fringe groups originating on college campuses across the nation. Tossing Molotov Cocktails didn’t require a degree. These folks bombed buildings and wielded guns against Police and citizens. Patty Hearst, once the beautiful and cherished debutant darling of the Hearst publishing empire, underwent a remarkable transformation following her abduction, attributing her radical shift to the influence of the SLA’s brainwashing techniques. No, Patty, you got off on the whole terrorist ideology. Today, she is a wealthy matron with more money than she could ever spend. It leaves me pondering whether she still possesses that automatic rifle and beret from her revolutionary days.
Daddy’s little girl
The upcoming Democratic Convention is scheduled to be held in Chicago, reminiscent of its 1968 counterpart. During that time, a multitude of protesters, guided by the aforementioned organizations, flocked to the city, turning its streets into a battleground as they engaged in confrontations with Mayor Daley’s police, igniting buildings and police cars. The majority of the demonstrators aligned themselves with the Democratic party, displaying discord within their own ranks. It seems that this forthcoming convention is on track to mirror the tumultuous events of 1968.
By request, I am again publishing this post, including my 1968 recording of the band I was part of, The A.T.N.T.; formally, we were the Orphans but changed our name at the suggestion of Mark Lee Productions, our manager. Enjoy.
The year was 1968, and the rock band I played in, The A.T.N.T., recorded a 45 at Summit Sounds in Dallas, Texas. The band had been called The Orphans, but a copywriting dispute resulted in a name change. Our then-manager, Mark Lee Productions, wasn’t keen on the idea because we had been under his management and promotion for a year.
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.
The A.T.N.T. at Flower Fair 1968
Our band members in the above picture are: foreground right John P. Strawn ( me ), then Jarry Davis on rhythm guitar, Barry Corbett on drums, Danny Goode on bass, and Marshall Sartin on keyboards. Barry and Marshall have passed on, but Danny, Jarry, myself, and our wives met for lunch a few weeks back in Fort Worth. It’s obvious why we all have severe hearing loss from the large amplifiers turned up to 11.
We introduced the songs at Flower Fair 1968 but without the horns. The Doors were supposed to play the event, but last-minute scheduling got sideways, and they couldn’t make it. This was the Spencer Davis Group without Steve Wynwood in the band. LeCirque ( The Smell Of Incense Fills The Air ) was formally known as The Southwest F.O.B. with members England Dan and John Ford Coley, who would later go on to fame as a duo, both local Texas boys. Kenny and the Kasuals were also a local group managed by Mark Lee.
The record received good airplay, but we never made much money. Distribution was the key, although the local radio personalities gave it positive chatter. Hope you enjoy the tunes.
“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”…The Byrds 1967
After the family moved from Fort Worth to Wichita Falls for six painful months and then to Plano, Texas, I met a classmate and fellow guitar player who was also bitten by the “rock-a-rolla” bug. He knew another guy on his block who played guitar and owned a Fender Bassman amp, which automatically made him a band member, and he knew a neighbor across the street who was a drummer with a snare and one cymbal. He also knew a kid with another cheap Japanese guitar that would part with it for $10.00 bucks. I snatched it, bought his Sears amp for another $15.00, and was back in “the biz.” Hours of practice produced twenty songs, which we could repeat at least once or twice if they were shuffled around and changed singers and keys. Our first gig was at the Harrington Park Swimming Pool, Plano, Texas, early summer of 1965.
The Dolphins: left to right: Jarry Boy Davis, Warren Whitworth, Ron Miller, Jay-Roe-Nelson, Phil Strawn
Guitar tuners were not invented yet, so we used a pitch pipe and got as close as possible to A440, and apparently not close enough; we sounded like hammered Racoon crap on grandma’s china plate. It was a humiliating experience. In my playing frenzy, I broke my B string and had to play with five strings, and then our amplifiers went south because the outside temperature was over 100 degrees, and we were in the direct sun. Then, the drummer’s head on his snare split, his cymbal fell over and cracked, and Jerry Nelson, another guitar flanger, tripped on an extension cord and fell flat, damaging his Silvertone guitar. Our third guitar player, Warren, came into contact with water splashed from the pool onto the concrete while touching the strings of his electrified, ungrounded guitar, resulting in a bad electrical shock. Hair frizzed out, smoking from his ears, and burns on his fingers; he finished the gig, not knowing who or where he was. The grand debut ended with sympathetic applause, and the pool manager refused to pay us, which, per our contract, was free burgers and shakes. Warren, our previously electrocuted guitar player, got into a fight with our drummer, and the two rolled around in the gravel parking lot for a while with no clear victor. We thought Warren was a trooper, considering the amount of electricity that had almost fried him an hour before. Bad music tends to piss folks off. The final curtain was when my pal Jarry discovered his Mustang had a flat tire, so we had to call our parents to rescue us. Welcome to the rock n’ roll music business.
From 1966 into 1967, the band continued with better gear, a new drummer and bass player, and a different name. We were now known as “The Orphans.” A strange pick since we were all middle-class guys with full sets of parents, but Barry Corbett, our drummer, thought it sounded tough and a bit rebellious. Barry may have been the biggest rebel of the four members, listening to Frank Zappa and Spike Jones and teaching himself to play the Sitar. George Harrison’s influence led him into the realm of Indian music, which he fully embraced to the point of obsession. He developed a strange Peter Sellers-type accent, wore the red dot on his forehead, and had two high school girls follow him around town wearing white robes, playing with small cymbals attached to their fingers. He was also a rudderless musical genius and would soon lead us into the semi-big time and the really big show.
Alice Davis, Jarry’s mother, was now our official manager and did a wonderful job of it. She knew people and had connections and was not afraid to use them or to press a business contact into hiring her band. We were booked around Dallas and Fort Worth most Friday and Saturday nights. We made some good cash for high school kids but spent all we made on new equipment and clothing. Band members were in constant rotation. Teenage musicians proved to be an unreliable commodity.
Our keyboard and bass player left us for high school football, again, leaving three of us. Calls went out, Alice worked the phones and contacts, and we auditioned two musicians from McKinney, Texas. Danny Goode, a bass player/singer and former member of the Excels, and Marshall Sartin, church organist, classically trained pianist, and blues guitar player. We played a few songs as a five-member band and almost passed out. It was as if the ghost of Phil Spector had brought us into that practice room at this appointed time in the universe, which was strange because Spector was still alive and kicking in Los Angeles.
The Orphans. Left to right front: Jarry Davis, Danny Goode. Left to right rear: Barry “Lil Spector” Corbett, Phil Strawn, Marshal Sartin
Miss Alice was religiously overcome with musical emotion and experienced a spell of the rock n’ roll vapors that led to seating herself with a double Jack Daniels and branch water. Barry, our drummer and musical genius, had an epiphany and went to work on arranging our music and vocal parts, showing Marshall how to play them on his Farfisa Organ, which was another strange thing; Jarry and I didn’t know Barry could play the piano, or as we soon found out; the guitar, the trumpet, the sax, or the vibes. We dubbed him “Lil Spector” in honor of the famous Wall of Sound producer.
After the Miss Janelle Bobbie Gentry-infused tenure that ended in a puff of hair spray and perfume, the band took a vote: no females allowed. Marshall was still recovering from a severe case of the Love Fever Hubba Hubba’s, and we needed him in good condition for our upcoming gigs.
Miss Alice grew weary of working the phones, dealing with clubs and booking gigs, her realty business was suffering and needed her attention. She arranged for us to be managed by an upstart agency called Mark Lee Productions of Dallas, Texas. Mark was a go-getter and had more connections than Bell Telephone. His one and only main band, Kenny And The Kasuals, had just released a great 45 that was climbing the charts, so we were excited about working with him. We signed on the dotted line of a ten-page contract that not one of us read. Why bother? We were young and full of piss and vinegar: point us in the direction of the stage and plug us in!
Within twenty-four hours, The Orphans were booked into some of the hottest venues in the DFW: The Studio Club, LuAnns, The Pirates Nook, Phantasmagoria, and Teen A-Go-Go and The Box in Fort Worth. Mark Lee was turning down gigs because he had only two bands. We wouldn’t have a Friday and Saturday night free for two years, and even less free time in the summer when the bookings took up most of each week.
We were booked to play a Christmas party for Parkland Hospital at the famous Adolphus Hotel in downtown Dallas. Pulling up to the front in our 57 Caddie Hearse caused a stir. The bellman politely told us the bodies were picked up at the rear. We got the joke and proceeded to the loading docks. The party turned out to be for the doctors, nurses, and administration folks. In the next ballroom, Braniff Airlines was having their Christmas party, but with no band. It didn’t take long before the airline partiers spilled over into the hospital party, and that’s when it got crazy.
These people, supposedly responsible adults, were dancing on the tables, had a conga line going on the bartop, and we had our own go-go dancers on either side of the stage. Three of us were under the age of 18, but that didn’t stop the inebriated partiers from pumping us full of hooch in the form of cute little airline bottles. By the last set, we had gone from charming and talented to stupid drunk and were glad the gig ended. We couldn’t locate our keyboardist, Marshall, so we loaded up his gear and headed out. He showed up a few days later with some dumb-assed story he couldn’t talk about: the Hubba-Hubba’s got him again.
Pictured above is my first realistic gun, The Fanner 50. It had authentic steel bullets that took green stickum caps, the cylinder turned as you fired it, and cap smoke belched from the realistic barrel. All my buddies in the neighborhood had them, and we thought we were bad assed cowboys. Billy Roy, one of our buddies who turned into a hoodlum child after hanging out with the “hard guys” across the tracks, attempted to rob our neighborhood grocery store with his Fanner 50. He was arrested and sent to the Dope Farm for a few months. After that, he went on to a stellar life in crime, all because of a cap gun.
Port Aransas, Texas, 1967, My Chevy Impala with a mighty V8, 283 engine, and no air conditioning, loaded with my longboards, ready for the waves. Note all the smashed bugs on the grill and front of the hood. Texas, in the summer, is a buggy place. The board over the driver’s side is my 9 ft 6-inch “Surfboard Hawaii,” and the other is a 9ft. “Hansen”; is perfect for the surf in Texas. Leashes weren’t around yet, so if you lost your board, it was a long swim.
My first rock band, 1965 “The Dolphins.” I can’t remember who came up with that name, but I wanted to use ” Don’t Hit Your Sister,” but it was vetoed by the other members. Jarry and I stayed with the band, but had different members the following year and a new name, “The Orphans.” We were playing a gig at the Harrington Park Swimming Pool in Plano, Texas. Left to right; Jarry Boy Davis, Warren Whitworth, Ron Miller on drums, Jerry Nelson and me with my cheap Japanese electric guitar.
One of my favorite books in grade school. Most of the kids were into “Fun With Dick and Jane” and that dog of theirs, the one that bit everyone in the neighborhood. I liked a more realistic read, like Mickey Spillane’s crime novels and The Grapes of Wrath. My second-grade teacher, Mrs. Badger, confiscated this book and escorted me to the principal’s office, which resulted in me getting a butt-whooping when I got home.
1968, my late cousin, Wandering Star. Pictured here with his wife, Saphron, and their nice little hippie family. They lived in a tepe in a commune in the Colorado Rockies. True to the Indian traditions required in the commune, they named their children after the first thing Wandering Star saw when he stuck his head out of the tent after the children’s natural holistic birth. Left to right are; Morning Rain, Chattering Squirrel, Sunny Morning, and Two Dogs Screwing. I heard that later in life, the kids renamed themselves.
Texas International Pop Festival, August 1969, in Lewisville, Texas. Me and my pal, Jarry Boy Davis, are in there somewhere, as well as my wife, MoMo. A crowd of around 200 thousand kids and some adults attended. It was three days of great music, fatal sunburns, LSD freakouts, giant joints passing through the crowd, no food, no water, no sleep, 100-degree temperatures, and no shade. It was worth it; I met Janis Joplin while standing in line to buy a hot dog. This was at night, and this gal asked to cut in line, so being the gentleman that I was, I let her cut in. She turned, introduced herself as Janis with a hearty handshake, and it was then that I knew who she was. She was a fellow Texan, so we briefly talked about the heat. It was the 60s, so you had to be cool and act like it was no big deal, but I about pissed myself. She was a nice gal who had good music later that night and died too soon. This was also the night that Led Zepplin got on stage, and Jimmy Paige declared they would never return to this Hell Hole of a state because of the heat. A few months later, they played a concert in Dallas and had to eat some humble pie. It wasn’t Woodstock, but damn close.
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Notes From The Cactus Patch 