Tag: music

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Say It Ain’t So Billy Joe…An Ode To Teenage Love


After a few months of rehearsals and gigs with our new members, Danny and Marshall, Alice, our manager, announced that she had arranged an audition for a female singer for the band. No consulting the boys on this one; it was full ahead. Alice had good ideas, so we rolled with them. She thought some femaliaty would add depth and make us more audience-friendly, since we were a bunch of surly young men with longish hair and the attitude to accompany our looks.

She knew someone who had a neighbor who knew another neighbor of a family who lived next door to a lady who attended church with a woman who had a daughter who sang in the choir at school and did solos at church, so Alice, one step ahead of us, escorted her into the practice room and announced, ” Boys, this is Miss Janelle.”

In walks, this teenage girl with a full-grown woman’s head of long hair piled up in a big bump on top and then down past her shoulders. She was a dead-ringer for Bobbie Gentry. But could she sing?

A TV dinner tray sat by Marshall’s organ, used for drinks and lyric sheets, so the auditioning singer pulled from a Coppertone beach bag a few record albums, a book of lyrics, a TAB cola, and a framed 8×10 autographed photo of Bobbie Gentry. Now we knew why she looked so much like Bobbie Gentry…she dug the gal.

Danny asked Miss Janelle what songs she knew. ”

Do ya’ll know any Dusty Springfield, Petula Clark, Diana Ross, LuLu, Sonny and Cher, Marianne Faithful, April and Nino, Dione Warwick, Lesli Gore, Ronnie Spector?” she asked.

Danny said, “Nope” we are a rock band, not the Ed Sullivan Show.

That kind of busted her bubble a little bit. “Well,” she says, ” How bout some Bobbie Gentry? I just love her and she is my favorite singer in my whole life.” We had already figured that out from the picture and the hair-du.

Our inquisitive drummer, Barry, interrupted her, ” Isn’t that the song where she and the boyfriend throw a baby child off a bridge into the muddy river?”

Miss Janelle whirled around and yelled, ” No, moron, she didn’t throw no itty-bitty-baby off a bridge; it was a bouquet of Mississippi wildflowers to solidify her big love for her man Billy Joe Macallister, but then he got caught dating his aunties pet sheep, causing him to jump off the old bridge into the muddy Tallachee river. Bobbie sent me a letter, along with this picture, explaining the whole song, but I promised to keep it a secret. We’re friends, you know.”

She thinks hard for a minute, then says, ” The only Rock-N-Roll song I know is Gracie Slick’s Somebody To Love. Ya’ll know that one?” We sort of knew it, so we gave it a go.

The lass let loose and was jumping around like Tina Turner, hair flying everywhere, strutting and shimmying, doing the Bug-a-loo, the Monkey, The Watusi, and a few others while singing. When we ended the tune, Marshall, our organ player, was staring her down with those big pansy-boy watery Puss-N-Boots eyes. He clearly had a severe case of the “Hubba Hubba’s” for this gal. Danny told us that this happens about once a week and he will be alright once he gets home and eats his mama’s hot supper. Alice announces she is marvelous and is now part of the band. Okey-dokey.

The next rehearsal, Miss Janelle comes in with red eyes and mascara trails down her cheeks. All sniffily and weepy, she says, ” My boyfriend said I can’t sing with a bunch of degenerate rock musicians. We are in love, big-time, and I must quit the band now.” Still in the grip of the Hubba-Hubba’s, Marshall puts a consoling arm around her shoulders and tells her, “it can’t be all that bad.”

She barks at him, ” Shut up, Moon Doggy….It’s my party, and I’ll cry if I want to.”

And with that, she packed her Coppertone beach bag with her albums, lyrics book, TAB cola, and the autographed picture of Bobbie Gentry and left, leaving the air heavy with teenage perfume, hair spray, and juicy fruit gum. Then…..More to come in my series.

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“So You Want To Be A Rock N’Roll Star!” Part 1


Part 1 of a series about becoming a rock n roll musician in the 1960s

Every boy fondly remembers his first; be it a gun, an armpit hair, a pimple, a girlfriend, a school dance, a beer, his first shave, a car, or his first electric guitar. Well, maybe most boys never got an electric guitar, or there would be no Beatles or Beach Boys, and there would not have been anyone hearing or dancing to the music because all the teenage musicians would be on the stage playing for each other; just an opinion. Not me; I did receive one, much like the Japanese-made instrument in the picture. I remember mine had maybe one more pickup and a few more knobs that did nothing, as well as three of the pickups. But it looked so darn cool.

I had graduated from a Gibson J 45 acoustic to needing an electric guitar and amp so I could become the American equivalent of George Harrison: thanks to Ed Sullivans having the Fabs on his variety show and tricking me into believing mere mortal teenagers could replicate the lads from Liverpool. Having been in the music biz, my father knew others who owned music stores. He procured me a nice-looking Japanese-made instrument, along with a Sears amplifier. The neck had no truss rod, so within a week, it warped; a case would have been nice, but nope, it might cost a few bucks. My pop wasn’t known as Mr. Cheap-O because he was a philanthropist. The amp was pure junk: five watts of power on a good day, a 10-inch speaker, which blew out in a few weeks, and it stopped working completely after a month, leaving me to bang away with no sound. It didn’t matter; the strings were a good 1/4 to 1/2 inch from the fretboard, so I could only play for a few minutes before my fingers spasmed and locked up. My left arm had the muscles of Popeye.

Duane Eddy I was not, nor anything near George Harrison. My father, upon examining the condition of my gear, realized his frugal ways may have bitten him and me in the butt. He apologized, sent the guitar to a shop, procured me an even worse amp and the cheesy guitar returned in the same condition. I saw the reflection in my crystal ball, accepted my defeat, and went back to the acoustic, which I couldn’t find, and was told my father had loaned it to one of his cousins for a while. The guitar was missing. It seems the cousin thought it was a gift and sold it to a friend, who sold it to another, and so on. I was now stuck with an unplayable doorstop. Some years later, I did track the J45 down and got it back, only to lose it again in an unfortunate accident involving the Gulf of Mexico. More on that later.

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Hey Kids! Let’s Watch The Newest Sitcom…”All In The State of The Union Family” Show


Momo made me promise to write less politically charged posts, and for the better part of a year, I have struggled but accommodated her request. There have been maybe two that I sneaked in under the radar during the wee morning hours under my assumed name, which I can’t divulge for fear of repercussions or worse. Only Mooch and Hi-Ho Steve-A-Reeno know my secret squirrel identity. A few of my blog non-regular readers ratted me out via the WordPress comments boxes, threatening to reveal my real name and where I live. The address on my blog, personal information, and stats are fake, so take your best shot, little Deputy Dogs. I will admit that since I have become a political newt, I sleep better when I manage to sleep. My appetite has returned to my favorite diet of tomato soup and chocolate pudding, so there is an upside to depriving myself of the joy of skewering, defaming, harassing, extorting, and embarrassing all politicians, especially the ones in my home state of Texas.

I watched the State of The Union sitcom tonight, one eye covered, no hearing aids, and a triple Jim Beam on the rocks. I was hoping for at least forty-five minutes of ranting, lying, clenched fists, frothing, spitting, and deranged behavior, but I was surprised when I got a one-hour and seven-minute performance that met my recently lowered expectations. The gal from Georgia, the blonde that is fit, with a cutting witt, and possesses Bull of the Woods size gonads, was a breath, or maybe it was a yell of fresh air. Over the decades, I’ve watched many of these “rah-rah” pep rallies, and this one took the tiny trophy of being the most pitiful and lamest of them all. The newest, so far, Speaker of the House may have a career in comedy when he leaves politics. His facial expressions were brilliant, with Lenny Bruce’s reincarnated sense of timing. The man has sad eyes, bright eyed bushy tailed eyes, rolling eyes, smirky smiles, sad teary trembling lip smiles, hang-dog head down, side glances, serial killer stares; Yoda, the force is with me smiles, and drill baby drill looks into the back of old Joe’s hair plugged head; he’s the best I’ve seen. Plus, he is a coon-ass from Louisiana…ahhh yeee.

I felt bad for the Supremes, sitting there, all dressed in their tailored black gowns, looking all professional and deliciously judicious. If looks could maim a man, then all nine of them had the same expression for old Joe when he told them he was going to reverse their constitutional decisions, scolding them like naughty schoolchildren caught cussing on the playground. Hey, Joe, those folks know where you and Hunter live, and now they are pissed off.

Why did most of the Democratic women representatives wear white pantsuits? Are they now re-born virgins? Are they Hulu Hand Maiden’s? Anna Rittenour should phone and remind them you aren’t supposed to wear white after Labor Day; I’m an old guy, but I know that bit of fashion sense. And why are these youngish, sour-faced women holding little personal cardboard signs to their chests when the camera pans them? I thought that behavior and personal protest were prohibited in the chamber. Well, I guess since Rummy Eyed Ice Cream Queen Pelosi tore up an official State of the Union address, which I believe is against some sort of arcane law, any type of behavior is acceptable. If so, the house speaker should have set off a cherry bomb behind old Joe and see how long it would take for Jill and the clean-up crew to make it to the podium. Now that would have been funny.

I figure I’ve got about four or maybe five summers left, then it’s adios, little doggies, and I’m heading to the last roundup up there in them-thar clouds. Momo and the rest of my extended family will have to understand when something as good as we watched tonight comes along, I gotta do what I do. I promise, no more politics until at least November.

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I’m Going To Graceland,Graceland,Memphis Tennessee


The Mississippi Delta was shining like a National guitar

I am following the river down the highway

through the cradle of the Civil War

I can’t think of a better opening lyric than the first verse of Paul Simon’s song, Graceland, from his acclaimed album of the same name. I’m a Simon fan from way back in the caveman days when he and Art Garfunkle made all the hippies and folkies stop and listen to their lyrics. Simon and Garfunkle were cerebral before it was cool or hip; holdovers from the coffee house Greenwich Village days. One guitar and two voices, no feedback, no pounding drums or wall of sound, just pure, beautiful talent. One could say that Paul and Art ” knew their groceries.” An old Beat term used by the hep-cats.

I’ve played a National Guitar, and it’s a tough hombre. Made from shining chromed steel with a resonator instead of a sound hole, the instrument is a beast that will shred your fingertips in record time. The sound, like the guitar, is unique, so I can see why Simon weaved it into the lyrics. The guitar does shine like the Delta, which I have seen from the air, and it does glow to the point of breaking out the Raybans or at least a $10.00 pair of gas station shades.

Graceland, yes, I have been there too, but it was “back in the day” while Elvis still called it home and was in and out of his kitchen making “peanut butter and nanner” sandwiches when he wasn’t shooting up color televisions or yukking it up with his entourage of buddies.

Memphis, back in the 1960s, when I used to visit, was once a happening city, and Graceland was in a good part of town. Now, you had better be packing if you visit that neighborhood. Beall Street was legendary, Sun Records was still operating, and the best rock n roll acts came to town like clockwork. Perhaps the city intrigued Simon when the boys played there in the 60s. He was biding his time, waiting for the right moment to pen a great tune about the southland. Having South African musicians on the album was the mint in the julip.

Paul and Art are old men now; aren’t we all that played music back then? I doubt there is much more left in the two of them, but man…those guys gifted us with some great music and lyrics that made us stop and think about a winter day in a deep and dark December, being an island, riding a bus while watching the moon rise over an open field, and writings on subway walls. Let’s see if anybody beats that.

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The “Swifter Bowl” Is Coming


Yes, Dear Hearts, she has now taken over the Super Bowl. It’s not about football anymore; it’s about a singer with an average voice who knows four chords on a guitar and always holds her microphone near her rear end. What is up with that? We can be assured that the camera will show her face every few minutes; maybe they can catch her squeezing a zit. Poor Kelce, there will be a song about him in the near future, and he knows it: what an unlucky schmuck. I have no plans to watch the “Swifter Bowl:” there are too many good movies on Netflix and Amazon.

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Ain’t Dead Just Quite Yet!


American Classics playing our acoustic set at The Georgetown Winery, Georgetown, Texas 2012. L to R: John Payne, Jordan Welch on drums in the window, Danny Goode, and myself.

My back is killing me, and my left hand and fingers may never be the same, but damn, it was fun. Last Saturday, my friends Jordan, our drummer, and his wife, Jonelta, hosted a Mardi Gras party in their home. Jordan is a certified Coon-Ass from Louisiana, so he always makes two types of gumbo, shrimp and sausage, which I love both. Add homemade bread, cajun cake with a baby inside, pralines, wine, and a good group of friends, and you have the perfect setting for an impromptu reunion of the American Classics Band. We haven’t played together since April of 2019, and since then, our good friend and lead guitar and fiddle player, John, has passed away, so now we are three old guys wondering what happened and who’s next. We had a good run of it, the same four pickers playing together since 2001.

After eating ourselves into a Gumbo-induced coma, the three surviving members of the band took the stage in our old practice room. This is not a cheesy garage band setup; it’s a large room in Jordan’s home with a stage, a kick-ass recording studio sound system with a board, and speakers mounted on aluminum trusses suspended from the ceiling. My pal, Jordan, didn’t hold back in giving the band a good practice room.

Not me, but very close….

After a mic and instrument check, we kicked off some of our old tunes that we could play without a lead guitar. Our vocals were always the strongest part of our music, and we missed John’s third harmony voice and his guitar and fiddle. It was a bit of a sad shock at how different our songs sounded, with a large part missing, but we made the best of it and played for two hours without a break. After that, we collapsed in a heap. Voices shot, fingers on the verge of falling off and Jordan, behind his drum kit, was huffing and puffing. We all agreed that for us, men in our middle and upper 70s, any gig outside of this practice room would not happen.

We hope for a repeat performance soon because we ” Ain’t dead just quite yet.”

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Born On A Mountain Top In Tennessee…


Christmas, 1955, and I found this under the tree: my first stringed instrument, made by my Coonskin cap-wearing hero, Davey Crockett. My father, a musician, tuned it up and put it in my tiny hands. I must have been a musical savant because I played and sang, with no mistakes, the theme song to the Disney show Davey Crockett. My parents, flaber and gasted, grabbed the Brownie Box camera and took my picture while I was wailing on my miniature ax, mailing it the next day to The Arther Godfrey Talent Hour in New York City. I continued to give impromptu recitals around the neighborhood for my buddies until Georgie accidentally sat on my Davey guitar and crushed it to splinters. After that, I couldn’t remember the words to the song and forgot how to play, and wouldn’t you know it, a week later, Arther Godfrey called my folks for an audition. I could’a been a contender!

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Christmas Tuneage, Demanding Birds, and Deer Zombies


I ran into old buddy Mooch at H.E.B. on Christmas Eve. I stopped by to pick up a few things Momo forgot: Eggnog, Milk, Cedar Fever Elixer, and more birdseed. Our Avian friends have been a demanding lot as of late since the flock of Crows moved in. They sit on the fence and Caww-Caaww until I load the flat feeder with peanuts, their favorite. The poor Cardinals and the Dove have to wait until the big boys leave. The Crows like shiny trinkets, so I left a quarter in one flat feeder and a Crow took it. The next day, there was a dime in the feeder. I have no idea what the Crow spent the other fifteen cents on.

After fighting off the food sample ladies, I spotted Mooch staggering around in the frozen food aisle with a hand-carry basket full of Red Baron pizzas, his favorite. I eased up beside him and wished him a Merry Christmas, but no response. I tapped his shoulder, but no acknowledgment. I stepped in front of him and gave him a friendly stare, glazed eyes, and a stream of slobber on his chin. In desperation, I shook his shoulders, and he snapped back into the moment.

” Sorry old buddy, I’ve been drifting in and out of it for a few days,” he says.

I am worried, so I ask, ” Don’t you think a visit to Doc Bones is in order, I thought you might have stroked out on me pal?”

” He was apologetic and explained, ” Nawww…I went Deer hunting last week and shot me a big ole Buckster. We ate some Deer chicken fry steak yesterday, and now I think I’ve got the Deer Zombie disease. Mrs. Mooch is convinced I’m a Deer Zombie but without the ten-point rack of horns.”

Momo requested some Christmas music this morning so I dug around in my vinyl stash looking for my Elvis Christmas album; I couldn’t find it… must have given it away. I did run across a Perry Como and a Sing Along With Mitch Christmas, but I couldn’t bring myself to spin them, and I have no idea why they are in my collection. I streamed some Vince Guaraldi Charlie Brown Christmas tunes, which did the trick.

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One More Semester, Please! I Promise I’ll Do Better!


To all of you, parents and grandparents, who are totally paying for or supplementing your children’s and grandchildren’s college education, In case you haven’t heard, many universities in the Northeast and Washington State are offering accredited classes on “Taylor Swift.” yes, that one. There is no planned curriculum or testing, just hysterical discussions and listening to her screeching music. Students must bring their own auto-tune devices so the rest of the class can understand the coded “swift-ease” language. As for the folks paying for the little darlings’ education? Well, your daughter is a moron and will likely be living at home in her childhood bedroom until you pass on and leave her the house and your 1996 Buick. At least the Dixie Chicks and Alanis Morrisette could actually sing.

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Tuesday, October 3rd Update On The Future Saint Swift


Not In My Lifetime, Kiddo!

The Question Everyone Wants To Know…

Doe’s Taylor Swift use Autotune when she talks?