My Life With Music: '88-'94

The year was 1988.  I was restless. I was bored, exhausted, used up and maybe a little pissed at the current state of Rock music.  Let me run down a few highlights or lowlights of that year, dependent on personal taste.

* Van Halen  released 'OU812'.
* "Acid House" music rampaged the UK, later to be named 'Second Summer of Love'.
* CDs outsold vinyl for the first time.
* Zappa's last tour in Rock format.
* Roy Orbison gives his last concert.
* LA Guns, Bonnie Tyler, The Church, Living Colour, The Escape Club, Happy Mondays all release tunes.
* Billboard Magazine created a new category to their charts, "Hot Modern Rock Tracks".

A resurgence of sorts had surfaced and blasted away some old concepts to challenge listeners:  the Modern Rock movement.  Whatever that means.  I'm not one to classify and compartmentalize specific genres into neat and tidy cubicles, defining and strapping a performer by their sound.  Nu Metal.  Heavy Metal.  Hard Rock.  Christian Rock.  Jazz Rock.  Pop Rock.  Stoner Rock.  And countless more.  Please, could somebody tell me the difference between Smooth Jazz and Contemporary Jazz?  Heavy Metal and Hard Rock?  What exactly defines Post Rock?  Blues Rock?  Jazz Rock?  I had read where music journalists coined these phrases to add some luster to their writings and instill a sense of uniqueness and originality.  Maybe just to sell music with a fancy tag.  At the end of the day, Rock is Rock and Roll.  Jazz is Jazz.  World music is World.  Reggae is Reggae.  See how simple it can be? 

Somewhere in '88, I heard a strange and foreign band that completely broke my previous conceptions of Rock.  Disarray and lack of cohesiveness jumped at me.  Squalls and layers of guitars.  Odd time signatures.  Abrupt chord changes.  And a voice that was cartoonish.  My interest was piqued and horrified at the same moment.  It was fresh and confused my senses.  The band was Jane's Addiction. 

Should I tune in or tune out, accept or dismiss this band?  Because I was immersed at this time of feeling betrayed by Rock, I decided to give it a chance.  The CD was "Nothing's Shocking" and all conventions of staid Rock 'n Roll were tossed out with that first listen.  I was shocked and disturbed by it's cover: two women, maybe fused together at the shoulders and hip, nude on an oversized rocking chair, flames jettisoning out of their heads and a look that seemed to say "Are we shocking enough for you"?  I was shocked by lyrics proclaiming "I had a Dad, Big and strong, Turned around, Found my Daddy gone, Got that funny feeling, He's not there at all".  Did Dad die or abandon the vocalist/lyricist Perry Farrell; is there bitterness and hatred or compassion and acceptance?  I was moved by the simplicity of a complex emotion being crashed and slashed with ferocious intensity, not only from the whiplash guitar/bass/drums but to that voice asking or stating the obvious.  The emotional level of that one song, combined with another equally poignant "Jane Says", hit me hard.  There was passion and feelings amid the turmoil and brutality that swirled throughout this disc.

This set the stage for other strange and unique music, giving me hope that Rock was not dead, just awakening from an overdue nap.  The Red Hot Chili Peppers had been on the scene since '84, unbeknownst to me.  My first exposure was "Mother's Milk" ('89) and RHCP took the torch and blistered.  I had to fall back and enjoy their brand of whacked-out mayhem, starting with their first, self-titled ('84) and "Freaky Styley" ('85), produced and profoundly influenced by George Clinton.

Both bands were loose, disjointed at times, feeling as if every song was going over a cliff.  At times, they did.  But more often than not, there were glorious moments of violent musicianship, disruption and pure skill.  This was one thing that stood above all else: massive talent.  These guys could play.

Another annoying label started grouping bands around this time and it affectionately was called Grunge.  Ugh.  Who thought that one up?  Short and simple, it was bands that ground out working man Rock, wearing flannel/plaid/lumberjack shirts, jeans, work boots, straggly long hair and had a punk attitude.  Never mind that the core bands put out some of the best blazing and original Rock in a long time.  Nirvana: '89-'93.  Alice in Chains: '90-'94.  Pearl Jam and Soundgarden: '91-'94.  These guys helped push conventional Rock into a different direction.  And by '94, it was over.  Though a few bands are still around, I doubt if they like to be described by terms rendered obsolete.  Modern Rock and Grunge were clearly vagrant life-forms that stopped by for a few drinks and bid adieu.  It had engulfed my ears for six or seven years, shaking and nervously rocking, waiting for its own demise that was clearly of its own doing.  And rightfully so.  The general public's short attention span tightened and demanded new genres, new tags, new compartments, new titles to classify.  Too numerous to count.  And in the end, it's only Rock and Roll.  And I like it.

William Rory Gallagher

In the spring of '72, I was located in Winnipeg, Manitoba, singing as a tenor (not Alto) with our high school concert choir.  Our short jaunt into Canada was a four-day, three-night tour of high school auditoriums, provincial churches and the capitol building (Winnipeg being the capital of Manitoba).  My friend DW and myself, blended splendidly with the other 98 pair of lungs, belching forth mighty blasts of religious and pop tunes.  We performed a scintillating rendition of  "O Canada" and a rollicking version of the Stones' "Angie".  The former, a true symphonic pleasure.  The latter, not so much.  "Angie" was sung, slyly, with a slightly perverted and childish tweak on that name (I'll leave that to your imagination).  At least all the guys were in on it.

Back at our hotel rooms, there was the usual unsupervised, teen activities in full swing.  One night, we discovered how strong Molson's was compared to Hamm's.  Singing the next morning was quite the head rush.  One night I learned the power chords to "Smoke On The Water".  And one night, along with DW, two brave choirboys, wandered around the clean streets of 'Winnie' in search of something worldly, something exotic, something not USA.  What we found were polite, white, bland, English-speaking, boring Canadians and buildings and restaurants that reminded us of our white, bland, English-speaking selves and our local Northern Minnesota businesses.  Until we ran into a record store.  We literally ran into that record store.

Shuffling around aisles of LPs that concentrated on seemingly endless Royal Mounted Police marches and displays of Guy Lombardo and Paul Anka, there was a small rock section that was 75% dominated by Neil Young.  But this is when a memory sticks with you and refuses to be forgotten.  I came upon a rather plain album sleeve, black and tan, that had a youngish, guitarist in mid-lyric, head tilted back, eyes closed with a guitar strapped on his shoulder.  Something in that photo asked me to keep looking.  So I did.

Shoulder length curlish hair.  T-shirt.  He seemed to be standing in a studio or warehouse and was frozen while strumming his electric guitar with strings curling over the headstock.  How simple.  He seemed to mean what he was singing and had complete confidence in that one picture.  Also a fragility.  In the upper left corner were the words, in red, Rory Gallagher and below that the word DEUCE, with the first 'E' in green.  I was a little taken aback.  So much cover art at this time was starting to show wild, orgasmic scenes of mind-melting proportions, that this one made me look closer, to see if there was some hidden symbol or trace of "hipness".  Nothing except this person, this Rory Gallagher.

Turning the album over, there he was again, though seated, tuning his guitar.  He had a leathery-looking jacket over that tee, eyes concentrating at his machine head and a wristwatch on his left hand.  And that Stat was chipped and beat up.  Simple.  Unadorned.  Song titles such as "Used To Be", "I'm Not Awake Yet" and "In Your Town" spoke a language uncomplicated and down-to-earth.  The players:  Rory Gallagher: vocals, guitar, harmonica  Gerry McAvoy: bass  Wilgar Campbell: drums, percussion.  I was deeply immersed in the power trio format so this was another eye-catcher.  For some reason I felt that these two photos showed me who this guy was, what he stood for, what he brought to the table.  Bare.  Raw.  I mean, how many jacket covers would really want to show a musician tuning his friggin' guitar?  I can think of one other cover that had a calm, relaxed feeling of a man sitting in a chair with his electric guitar leaning next to him.  That would be Eric Clapton on his first solo LP and that album was anything but calm and relaxed.

"Deuce" was recorded in London and produced by Rory.  I don't know about you but I usually performed this intensive inspection of an album till my eyes blurred.  Can't explain it but it was my job at that time to pour over every detail and try to unlock a mystery of what this band and its music would sound like.  Without listening to it.  Crazy?  Anal?  Sure, but I liked it, it felt invigorating and let my mind wander with wonder as to what was within.  Still looking, it was made in Canada, 1972 with the red Polydor label attached. 

[Question to self]  What kinda name is Rory?
[Answer to self]  Dunno.

[Question to self]  What kinda name is Gallagher?
[Answer to self]  European?  Where was Sir Galahad from?

[Question to self]  Is anybody listening to you?
[Answer to self]  Nope.

That was my introduction to the greatest electric/acoustic guitarist, vocalist, songwriter and performer to come out of Ireland.  NOTE: Other names came up.  Henry McCullough (Spooky Tooth, Wings), Eric Bell (Them, Thin Lizzy), Viv Campbell (Whittesnake, Dio), The Edge (U2) and the recently departed Gary Moore.  I didn't listen to Rory till I got home and he was everything I had imagined.  Gritty guitar.  Smooth/gruff voice.  Simple lyrics that convinced me that indeed, he should've learned his lessons.  Tight arrangements with little studio noodling.  They sounded live and in your face.  It was a real album and it took me on a crest of his wave every time I listened.  Slide guitar heaven.  Folk influences stretched over rock and blues, interspersed with eloquent phrasing and moods that told you his life story.  Just like one of us.  A workingman.  He felt like my friend.
 
I wouldn't have relived this Rory story if a real-life old friend (older than me anyway), JCK, hadn't suggested us listing our top guitarists, just like we did almost 40 years ago.  Maybe see if our tastes had changed.  I was shocked at his number one: Rory Gallagher.  Surely, Hendrix, Beck, Clapton, Page was superior.  Surely, Winter, Bolin, Santana.  Nope.  Now, I had loved Rory through almost all of his 11 studio LPs and a few live ones but The Best?  I put him at #12 which was pretty hot considering the 11 in front of him.  JCK then sent me some Rory DVDs. The Beat Club Sessions ('71-'72).  Live at Rockpalast ('76-'90).  Live at Montreux ('94).  Unbelievable.  Scorched-earth.  Unbridled and spectacular.  And especially "Ghost Blues, The Story of Rory Gallagher" which is interviews and photos of this great guitarist who left us at age 47, back in '95.  I have been revamping my list ever since. 

So, have a hardy and rowdy St. Patrick's Day this year, with Rory Gallagher in mind.  He wouldn't want it any other way.

Drivin' and Cryin'

Editor's Note: Up until now, the author has refrained from profanity, preferring instead to take a somewhat scholarly approach.  Some have called this 'The Pollyanna Effect'.  To counter this rather vague reference, the author has decided to unveil the dark side, albeit only in small doses.  Words or statements surrounded by brackets is what the character is thinking, usually in crude vernacular.  This display, though tame to many, is an attempt at realism.  The author is taking full responsibility for any damages done to the readers' sense of purity.


She got into my SUV and swung the seat belt across her chest and locked in.  She checked the inside mirror and tweaked it.
"Is there a thingy inside to adjust the outside mirror?"
"No, it's not that fancy.  You'll have to lower the window.  That is powered, though."  [Kinda cheap piece of shit, isn't it?]
WHIIRRR.  Nudge.  Nudge.  WHIIRRRR.
"Can you raise the seat?"
"Sorry, not fancy."  [Sorry, fuckin' lame]  A smile appeared slyly on my face.  A frown formed on hers.  "You do know how to put it in gear, don't you?"
"Oh ya.  I drove it to the bank.  With Mom."
"You did?  When?"  [What the fuck?]  My smile fled.  "I didn't know about this."  [Why didn't anybody fuckin' tell me?]  My mind screamed 'Wilma!', ala Fred Flinstone, but I don't know any Wilmas.
"Ya, it was awhile back."  A wary smile leaped onto her face.  She saw or felt my temperature rise a bit.  "I did just fine."

Feeling a little left outside, I buckled in and prepared.  Prepared to let my stepdaughter, Blake, drive to work.  She had just recently acquired her learner's permit.  I prayed.  [Shit.  It's only a few blocks.  Keep calm.]  But my spidey senses were tingling.
"You did OK?"  [No mass mayhem?  Nobody dead?]
"Oh ya, no problem.  I'm a good driver."
[Ya, we'll see about that.]
"I am.  Really."

Blake's eyes were rounder and wider than I had ever noticed them before.  Her face was beaming, no, glowing, with an air of confidence, not cockiness.  I believed her.  Or at least, I wanted to.
Putting it into reverse, we slowly backed down our short, sloped driveway.  I felt weird.
"I feel weird.  I haven't sat over here very often."  [And shit, I don't like it.] 
She confidently backed out and put us into drive.

I'll stop there, if I may.  I had rarely been in a situation, such as this, that I let someone, especially a teenaged someone, put me in a vulnerable position.  Yes, there was that time in college when a fellow dorm mate took my friend and myself for a jaunt in his '68, shiny, baby blue, Chevelle SS, 396 cubes, 325 horses, Turbo-Jet V-8, wide rear tires, rear end jacked up and proceeded to scare the fuckin' crap out of me when he tromped on the gas, the noise was terrible, as if a jet had inhabited the cab, smelling of fuel, I swore I heard unknown things breaking, popping, zinging, maybe it was my ears, as each gear was effortlessly shifted, as my eyeballs blanched, I was able to force myself to glance at the speedometer, shit, it was pressing past 90, now 100, now 110, I had seen enough and, as I was in the backseat, I was able to curl into a withered ball of bones and wished it was over already.  I don't recall crying, just whimpering.  Damn pathetic, I admit.

I couldn't help but relive that horrific moment now as we puttered through our cul-de-sac and subdivision, out onto a small arterial and onward.  So far, so good.  My hands were sweaty, though.
"Your brakes feel a little weird."  Blake's eyes were still focused on the asphalt.  Myself, I had my right eye on the world outside, my left watching her.  I was temporarily cross eyed.
"Ah, what do you mean?"  [Shit, we are going to die.]
"You have to press a lot harder than Kevin's [her wise-ass boyfriend] or Mom's."  She still watched the tar.
[This is good.  She's concentrating on not slamming into anyone or anything.  Fuck, get a grip man.  It's only about four miles to her work.  What can go wrong at 35 mph?  Plenty, my paranoid mind yelled.  We could hit a little old lady, a puppy, a little old man.  Hell, we could hit a Saint Bernard.  Shit, we could go crashing through a fence and land in someone's swimming pool, water rising, trying to kick out the damn windows, fighting for air, holding our breaths, water everywhere, filling up the cab, thrashing, shit, I can't breath...........]

"Mark, should I pull into that parking spot?"
My face was drained of any remaining blood, as if I had lost a few quarts.  My hands were gripping each other in a deathly embrace, squeezing themselves together, compressed into one hand.
"Ah, sure, fine."  I unlocked my twisted hands with a grimace.  We had arrived safely at her work.
"Thanks for letting me drive.  I'll call ya when I get off.  Maybe I can drive back home?"
"Ya, maybe.  Maybe Mom'll pick you up."  [And you can terrorize your mother.]  "Have a great day at work."  I got out and walked around to the driver's side.  "That was pretty good driving."
"See?  I told ya.  Bye."

So there it was.  I not only survived, but I felt as if Blake had learned something from a guy that has been driving for 40 years, survived blizzards, ice packed concrete roads, pot-bellied dirt trails, snow drifts, blinding sunshine, a screaming drive over 100 in the hands of a speed-freak.  And still here to talk about it.

Blake passed her driving test easily.  I could see it in her now even huger eyes when she came home.  Her spirit filled the room, just as mine had so many years before.  I imagined things were speeding through her mind as accelerated as mine had been.  She's a very good driver and we're all relieved that she can handle a 2,000 lb. metal battering ram on wheels.  Now, if only I could get some fuckin' feeling back in my hands, I'd be OK.

It's Great To Be (A)Live

Unwittingly (showing little or no sign of wits) and/or unflinchingly (I usually flinch a lot), I grabbed a handful of CDs and headed out to my Lamborghini ( total fantasy).  I'm not digitally 'of age' quite yet, so I still lug around the cumbersome, plastic jewel cases with the mini-LPs neatly impaled inside.  Before I hit the road (or mailbox), I try to open one up and pop in a disc.  I don't usually pay much attention to what I had chosen so I was slightly amused at my grabbings.

First up:  Staring at me was this beady, black-eyed, open-mouthed, fanged wolf.  Or I assumed a wolf.  Looks more like a stuffed, yawning Alaskan Malamute.  Above this mounted trophy proclaimed Steppenwolf  "Live".  So that's supposed to be a wolf?  Memories of 'heavy metal thunder' reverberated between my ears.  Many, many hours of slapping this on the 'table and rocking out.  However, I decided to wait on this until I felt in the mood for some 'Sookie Sookie', whenever that would be.  Next pick:  James Gang "Live In Concert".  Another brain rattler.  And more animals.  At least the three saddled horses on the cover looked to be alive.  Hard to tell, really.  I passed.  Next:  Humble Pie "Performance- Rockin' The Fillmore".  Another oldie but goodie.  Nah.  Next: Jimi Hendrix "Live at Woodstock".  If you may ask (and you may):  Mark, do you arrange your CDs in any particular fashion?  I, Mark, would have to say:  Other than a lame attempt to alphabetize, no I don't.  How curious to pick all live discs.  Might be some cosmic voice telling me to listen to this live tunage because, just maybe, I won't be around to hear them again.  Or maybe some more of these musicians will soon be gone.  Kinda morbid but I'll go with the latter.

The last pic I saw of John Kay (Steppenwolf  lead singer, writer) looked like he was already dead.  And that was 30 years ago.  Inside, the liner notes include all the band snapshots and, collectively, they might be uglier than Aerosmith.  [Note: My respects go out to the family and friends of original drummer Jerry Edmonton, who is, in fact, dead from a '93 car accident.  Kay is still somehow alive, as is the rest of the band].  This double release in '71was culled from various venues in early '70 and it showed off the fierce and fury ('Tighten Up Your Wig', 'Twisted', 'From Here To Eternity', ) as well as their more delicate ones ('Corina, Corina', 'Don't Step On The Grass, Sam).  Ending the disc is four rock anthems that are pretty worn out but still hold up.  Quick quiz: Name 2 outta 4 and you win a pat on the back.  What impressed me was the quality of the recordings, the harmonica fills and subtle hickbilly of these guys that I had overlooked way back then.  And the political tones.  The intro to Hoyt Axton's 'The Pusher' from Kay, sounds vaguely familiar.  "Despite the things that are wrong in our country, there are too many good things to let things go down the drain.  So we should get together and bring about change."  

Another '71 live release, 'Live In Concert', James Gang flat out kicks buttowski.  This is their fourth and final record with the incomparable Joe Walsh (singer/guitarist/keys/writer and general crazy man).  Fragile and gentle songs ('Take A Look Around', 'Tend My Garden', 'Ashes, The Rain and I') are surrounded by stompers ('Stop', 'You're Gonna Need Me', 'Walk Away').  This recording has some flaws but back then we didn't notice nor cared.  The ultimate goodbye from Walsh to JG was his 17+minute opus del grande: 'Lost Woman'.  Raw and unforgiving.  You could just feel a change coming from this guy.  

And yet another live '71 rocker, Humble Pie's "Performance: Rockin' The Fillmore", featured another guitar great destined for change, Peter Framptom.  Only two songs from a vastly overlooked gem, "Rock On" ('71),  made it onto this double.  The 23+minute Dr. John song, 'I Walk On Gilded Splinters' was a workout between Frampton and vastly unappreciated guitarist/singer/writer, Steve Marriott.  Humble Pie, considered a "boogie", "good-times" band, cranked out some of the most muscular and harmonic rock of the late '60s and early'70s.  Commercially, their payday would hit on their next, "Smokin" ('72).  Once again, the recording is a little dated with call and response and crowd noise but overall it charges through every song with attitude.  Sadly, Marriott ('91, house fire) and bassist Greg Ridley ('03, pneumonia) aren't around but Jerry Shirley (drums) and Frampton still grace us with their skills.

And, speaking of skills, who better than Jimi to give us "Live at Woodstock" ('69).  This two-disc '10 release is the ultimate 'stock performance.  If you're sick of renditions like 'Spanish Castle Magic' or 'Purple Haze', please listen again.  If you've heard plenty of 'Hey Joe' or 'Foxey Lady', please listen again.  All are done with precision, passion and heart.  And 'Jam Back at the House', 'Lover Man' and 'Villanova Junction', along with an informative and energetic 12 page booklet, brings us back to this experience called Three Days of Peace and Music.  Even playing in front of a sparse and muddy crowd, Jimi blazed new trails with this legendary performance.  Once again, change was right around the corner after this release.

Sitting there, still in my driveway, still in my 'gini (still my fantasy), I pondered the significance of these discs.  When this music was made, there was a youthful exuberance anticipating new notes.  Expecting nothing more than being entertained.  Expecting these musicians to live forever.  I turned the key.  Click.  I turned it again.  Click whirrrrrink.  A cosmic voice was in the back seat of my '55 VW Transporter.  ' Time for a new car,  Alto.  Why don't you try a Ferrari this time?'

Hair: Chapter Two

I opened my eyes only when we were outside the door of a small shop, wind and snow pelting our bodies.  I bravely gazed with glazed frozen eyelids.  In front of me and Dad, who had arms wrapped around my five year-old frame and me, clinging to his wool chest, was a red, white and blue striped pole.  Through the glistening swirl, I thought it was moving.  We advanced through the wooden door with writing on the glass.  The jangle of a bell above me.  Closing the door with a booted foot, Dad set me down.  I glanced back out the windowed door.  Sure enough, that crazy pole was rotating.  The smell of vinegar, rubbing alcohol, cigar and cigarette smoke, mingled with Grandpa sweat, engulfed me.  Too many other unidentified foreign smells clouded my thawing eyes as I looked around.

'So, this is a barbershop.'  Not unlike Floyd's on Andy Griffith which, coincidentally, just played the previous week on TV.  A new character was introduced: Floyd the Barber.  I do remember Mom and Dad talking quietly about "a first haircut."  My first Haircut?  Up to this point, My Hair was clipped unevenly by Auntie Jenny, a robust, talkative Italian on Dad's side of the family.  She always made me nervous because of her constant chatter, bless her heart, about her roomytoid pains, new pasta recipes and the local gossip.  I knew more about suffering, sauces and Susie than anyone my age should have.  But not enough attention to My Hair.  I stood stock still, absorbing the new surroundings.  A wall of huge mirrors.  Large strange-looking chairs of black and, oooh, shiny metal things all around and on it.  I was hoisted up onto this cushy, cold, over sized high chair and buckled in.  Time for a ride?  Without warning and with a Sssnap, a long, white drape was slung over my body and an itchy, cardboardy neck collar was fastened.  It smelled clean.  My eyes bulged.  A bit snug around the throat, pal.

"First time here, huh?  Well, we'll take care of you in a jiffy."  His breath smelled of smoke and Doublemint.
"Hey Floyd."  Dad winked at me.  "Yup, first time for Mark here.  Let's give him a crew cut."
"Hot rag for his face?  Might loosen up that thick beard."
So, that's how it's going to be.  Cracking jokes.  Tying me down, raising the chair higher, higher, till I was tall and then twirled around to face the mirrors, making me dizzy.  I saw myself looking like Casper the Unfriendly Ghost.  A shock came over me, kinda electrical, kinda like just a couple of weeks ago, Christmas, when my sister Jane urged me to put my tongue on a battery for my Army truck.  A buzz-sawing-whirring sound closed in on me.  On My Hair.  That Thing in his hand making all that noise, oooh shiny, but at least not scissors.  I relaxed a bit till That Thing raked My Head.  Taken by surprise, I straightened my back and gracefully, slowly slithered down the thick, padded chair, almost hitting the floor, which I might add, had plenty of Someone Elses'  Hair.

"Whoa, there.  You almost fell."  Dad gracefully pulling me back up, 'Floyd' gracefully straightening my clean sheet, me gracefully back in the chair, my throat pinched a little tighter.
"Maybe, we'll use the board."  And out came a little wooden table, gracefully placed on my lap and under my arms.  More restraints for the squirmy boy.

Back came the grinding, noisy thingamajig.  And then something overtook me.  Time slowed down.  My heartbeat almost stopped.  In slow-mo, I felt My Hair being tugged, tingled, electrified again.  Then the clouds opened up and I shrieked, yelped, thrashed, screamed, spewed tears, clenched, arched and shrieked some more.  But gracefully.  The noise was turned off.  Dad looked at me with a stern eye and smiled.  I still cried, I couldn't help it.  I'm being scalped here.  My Hair.  And it hurt.

After sliding and writhing and squirming, I finally was too tired to slide or writhe or squirm.  I was too tired to fight.  I was all dried up.  It must have been a terrible scene.  Several older gentlemen, smelling of oil and Brylcreem, gave me a mean-old-man look and the cash register rung out.

"Thanks, Jake.  First-timers never enjoy it, do they?"

"Well, you cut it so short, he won't have to be back for a long, long time.  And we won't have to hear such racket."  Jake casually glanced at Dad and smiled.  'Floyd' was smiling.  Dad smiled.  Everybody was smiling on this painful, eventful day.  Except me.  And My Hair laying on the tiled floor like fallen soldiers, cut down in their prime, entwined with other, darker more mature veterans.  Oh, the pain.  The misery.  But, My Hair will rise again and claim victory.  Defenses were erected.  Plans were drawn up.  And the battle rages on for the  survival of the troops.  Survival of My Hair.

Oh ya, My Haircut.  It was, indeed, a crew cut.  If any of you know what that looks like, you understand, at the time, we all had a variation of this haircut.  If you don't know what a crew looks like, please refer to the chart below.  I believe it's the one on the bottom row, far right.  Nice, huh?

 

Question? Answer.

Step into my personal Wayback Machine.  Year: 1981  Month: June

FRIDAY, 2:30 PM 
"What would you like to write about?"  The editor, eyeing me suspiciously.
"Anything, really.  What do you want me to write about?"  Me, eyeing suspiciously back.
"Well, we do get just about everybody playing here, you know.  Either the tour is on their way to Cali and has to stop in Colorado.  Or coming from the left coast.  A logistics thing, you know.  And everybody loves playing here.  But you know that."  He's now glancing at my resume.
I want to tell him 'No, I really don't know.  I have no clue.'  But I didn't offer that information.  I had just landed in The Rockies a few months back and answered an ad for an entertainment writer.  I wanted to be a music critic, whatever that consisted of.  I shift my weight uneasily from one foot to the other, standing awkwardly in the middle of a noisy, congested newsroom.
"I see you come from Minnesota.  Pretty crappy weather.  But the Twin Cities attract considerable talent."  He still glances at my resume, flipping to my portfolio.
"I've only done freelance work for my local newspaper and a few music rags.  Pretty much on a volunteer basis.  Get a pass to the show, write up the review.  You know."  I'm trying to sound like him now.  I hope he knows what a freelancer goes through.  A mere pittance is tossed your way if your story is published.  If it fits into the publications' objective.  If it doesn't require too much editing.  If it's interesting.  If it's factual.  A boatload of 'ifs'.
"And you're from high binge Minnesota?  Where's that?"
"Hib. Een.  Northern Minnesota."
"Oh, Dylan country."  A rosy glow now illuminates his pasty pate.  "How is he these days?"
"I, I really don't know."  Wince.  "I haven't seen him lately."  A weak grin splashes my face.  I shift back onto the other foot.
The editor, Sam, looks at me in a totally different light, as if this connection will assure quality writing and profound insights into the musical world.
"Rock.  Roll.  Jazz.  Blues.  Folk.  We try to cover it all here in Boulder."  He neatly tucks my resume and published stories back into its folder.  "Audience Magazine has been informing the Front Range for over ten years now, you know."  He looks at me with brown, beady eyes.  "Tim Weisberg is playing our Boulder Theater this Saturday."  Today is Friday.  "We'll comp you one ticket.  We need a concise review, no more than 750 words and no less than 400.  Do you shoot?"
"Not really.  My camera is a little old," I lied.  I didn't even own one.
"No biggie.  We all know what Tim looks like.  We might even have a recent file pic, you know."  He eyes me again.  "Deadline is Monday.  Noon.  See you then."
I then hear myself ask "Should I get an interview?"  "You're on your own on that one."  Sam extends his hand and I clasp this soft, pudgy appendage with my bony, now-clammy one.  I then hear me say "Thanks.  I appreciate it."

SATURDAY, 1:30 PM
Mr. Weisberg was somewhat of a musical black hole to me.  I did remember his LP with Dan Fogelberg, "Twin Sons of Different Mothers" ('78), a tepid and limp recording with the hit single "The Power of Gold".  That track wasn't too bad but the rest was a snooze fest.  The late-night TV test pattern was more invigorating.  But surely, he had more to give.  I went to a local record store and started nosing around the pop/rock/light/airy/dreamy/sappy section.  Jackson Browne.  Loggins and Messina.  Bread.  America.  I asked the proprietor if he knew of any Weisberg's livelier albums and he gave me a stunned look.  "Ya, I think he jammed with The Raspberries.  Very eclectic."  Big Ha Ha.
And then it hit me like a sack of Strawberry Alarm Clocks.  I need to interview him to cover up for the boring show he's about to flay me with.  Yes, a very deep, profound and revealing insight to a true troubadour of our times.  An iconic and sincere instrumentalist with his, ah, what does he play, oh ya, the flute.  His endearing melodies melt the hearts of maidens and brings ogres to their knees.  Or something like that.

SATURDAY, 7:30 - 10 PM
But, this part you won't believe because I didn't believe it either:  He totally destroyed the place.  Set Boulder on fire with a set of unbridled power and musicianship.  The songs I knew nothing of.  His band, the same.  What album(s) he played from, ditto.  He pranced and danced and sulked and swayed across the stage effortlessly with a gleaming flute in his hands.  And he rocked.  He made his amped and reverbed flute snarl and bite.  Then he had two (two?) at once, a small one and a larger one.  Then he stomped down on an effects pedal, squalling with wah-wah and distortion.  Yowza.  All wireless.  He made Ian Anderson (Tull) sound tame.  At least for this night.

So, I had to immediately change my storyline.  He wasn't this softee.  He wasn't a bore.  He was a wild man.  And I suddenly had my story.  And I still needed to interview him.  Ask him who the hell is he, really.  What is his next LP.  Who's in the band.  What's the tour like.  But I had to get that interview.  I sprang into action with no credentials nor experience nor skill nor idea of what I was doing.  I found myself talking to a big dude by the side of the stage, telling him "I'm a writer for Audience Magazine.  I need an interview with Weisberg."  Him motioning me to another big dude.  Him telling me that nothing backstage but maybe tomorrow I can come to his hotel and interview, what was that mag, Audience, sure, tomorrow.  Noonish.

Yes.  I'm in.

SUNDAY, 11:00 AM
Tomorrow came quicker than I anticipated.  I made the 50-minute drive from Littleton to Boulder with some interview questions and imaginary responses keeping me company.  I arrived at the historic Boulderado Hotel with an air of excitement and trepidation.  As I approached the front desk, there was some commotion in the hallway.  A tall, lanky man with cutoffs and sweat-soaked tank top, hair wet, tennis shoes scuffed.  I immediately recognized him as his entourage escorted him up the stairs.  Weisberg.  I almost thought of going after him with pen and paper in hand, yelling questions that I needed answering.  But they were gone.  Sheepishly, I hung out.  Walking around the lobby, wondering how I could introduce myself without being a nuisance.  After 45 minutes, I asked the stodgy front desk guy if that was indeed Tim Weisberg.  "Tim Iceberg?  Who's that?"

SUNDAY, NOON
I rambled around the Pearl Street Mall, a hip, outdoor, four block, pedestrian retail center, on a crazy, sun-soaked day, thinking about my next move.  Walking past posters of bands and events attached to light poles, I just happened to see one for a celebrity/charity volleyball tournament.  And who was one of the celebs?  You guessed it: Weisberg.  It was running until two today just outside the flatirons of Boulder.  I could lurk around the hotel and spring out of the bushes.  Naw, that wouldn't be cool to get thrown in jail.  I had a story to write.  I had an interview to land, somehow.  And I had to pretend to be professional about this.  I saw a display of Audience Mag, my mag rag, and grabbed one.  This was my calling card, my badge of honor, my employer.  And I was back at the Boulderado confronting a younger, less-stodgy fellow.  Laying the paper in front of him, I told him I write for this particular piece of informative entertainment and I would like to talk with a certain Tim Weisberg.  For a very important story.  Firm.  Direct.  Professional.  "Who?  Tim Iceberg?"

SUNDAY, 2:30 PM
Sitting in the bar, waiting for Iceberg, uh, Weisberg, I felt like a writer.  Wasn't I supposed to get drunk and churn out magnificent renderings of life?  Wasn't I supposed to demand a stronger drink and then storm out, cursing everybody in my path?  I twirled the cubes of my Coke with a red plastic sword, Maraschino cherry impaled.  Yes, I might have to say 'darn' a few times and demand another cherry.  I might scowl a bit.  I drizzled back to the front desk, where, could you believe it, who was there?  Weisberg.  I almost tripped at him (too much caffeine and sugar), regained my composure and presented myself.  Sunburned, hair sagging, sand attached to his ears, he invited me up to his room.  We could talk for just a few minutes as he showered and changed for a dinner engagement.  I froze.  My cherry quivered inside my stomach.  That's OK, I said, I could talk to you later.  No time, he said.  So,  I followed him up the old, quaint, mildewed carpeted stairs, trying to squeeze in as many questions as I could.  He couldn't (or didn't want to) hear me.  Too much ear sand, I guess.  Once inside his room, he immediately shed his shirt and started with his cutoffs, when, I, temples throbbing (way too much caffeine), legs wobbling (not enough food), decided I had to put money in the parking meter and I would be back in a flash, maybe after you showered. 

By the time I had collected myself, it was too late.  Weisberg was gone.  Drats.  Doggone it.  Darn.  I even said the F word: fiddlesticks.  I was downtrodden and defeated.  Why hadn't I hung around and got some quotes?  Just a couple.  Like "My wife of 22 years is.........." or "My three kids love........"  or "I play the flute because..........."  I admit, I was scared.  My first big opportunity, lost.  But wait.  I had another braindrizzle.  How about a phone interview?  Huh?  Sounds good to me.

SUNDAY, 8:30 PM
"Tim here."
 "Hey, Mr. Weisberg.  It's Mark from Audience Magazine.  Sorry about earlier today.  I left you a message at the front desk.  Oh, you didn't get it?  I had an emergency.  Ya, my mom.  Thanks, she's OK now.  I was just wondering, with your busy schedule and my, my emergencies and all, how about answering some questions over the phone.  Oh, you're ready to leave for the airport.  Oh, we could maybe talk at the airport?  Uh huh.  You'll have some time, OK.  You just have to change out of your tux, where?  At the airport?  Uh huh.  In the airport bathroom?  I see.  Not enough time to talk anywhere else.  OK.  I'll see you then."

I sank back into my couch and poured another Coke.  I'm out of cherries.  Maybe they'll have some at the airport.

HAIR: Chapter One

Over the past weekend, along with other glazed, glassy-eyed consumers, I wandered the aisles of a department store, perusing this knack-knick, this coat, this candle, when I happened upon a display of DVDs, hundreds, perhaps thousands, but more realistically, dozens, scattered, with no discernible system of order, all at a bargain, and if you know anything about me, that I am somewhat frugal, thrifty, some say cheap, but I just love a deal, whatever that is, CDs, DVDs, SUVs, RVs, WMDs, ASAPs, RSVPs or bananas, the thrill of paying less than MSRP, has always been a kick, a joy of finding something of value at a ridiculously low price, almost euphoric in the knowledge of saving money, of scoring, which I know is borderline psychotic, but hey, that's who I am and I'm not changing now, as I crouch down, because the DVDs are towards the bottom of a chintzy metal rack, bulging under the weight of savings, knees creaking, hamstrings stretching, I, childlike, poke through a plethora of movie titles, bunches of Christmas movies destined for the garage sale, like "Elf" (Will Ferrell), "Sesame Street Does the Holidays" (Kermit, Big Bird), "Four Christmases" (Vince Vaughn, Reese Witherspoon), all varieties of religious flicks and whoa and behold, some actual movies I'd like to have in my collection, such as the director's cut of "Blade Runner" (Harrison Ford, Rutger Hauer), "House of Flying Daggers" (Ziyi Zhang, Andy Lau) and, drum roll please, "Hair" (Treat Williams, John Savage), at prices to die for, at least to this cheapskate, I mean savvy buyer, the one that leaped out, caught my eyeballs, transformed my day of bargain-hunting, chilled my spine was this musical "Hair".

Now I know I'm being a bit dramatic and downright possessed, but I needed this movie.  I'll probably watch it a couple of times in my lifetime, but boy, what a steal.  Also over this particular weekend, The Wife, Ren and myself took in the movie "Tangled", a tweaking of Rapunzel.  Thoroughly enjoyed it.  Though not at a bargain price.  [Insert grumbling noise here]  The show was about hair.  And some other heart-warming message of love, kidnapping, boy-meets-girl, yadda yadda.  But really it was about hair.  Lots of it.  And then, same weekend, quite busy I may add, I read an article about the selling of Russian hair.  In a "poverty-ridden town", "log cabins and fallow fields", Mosal'sk, in central Russia, has one precious commodity: human hair.  Much of it is naturally blond.  Because of the hair extension rage, blond hair is easier to dye to match a woman's hair color.  Really though, do blonds have more fun playing with someone else's hair?  This prized commodity, "the blond harvest", has helped poor towns in Russia become a hair-raising community.  Hair-brained idea?  A 16-inch blond braid gets $50.  I guess, hair with split ends gets double?  Just a guess.

This story, however, is about My Hair.

The very personal history of My Hair began when I was cast out into a cold, unforgiving, dry world, with nothing but long, flowing, golden locks wrapped around my trembling body, protecting me, shielding my pink and blue and slimy and bloody pudgy, squishy self, from latexed hands, glaring lights, deep, scary voices and rear-end abuse.  The shears were immediately brought out.  Shiny.  Cold.  My first haircut was about to begin.  And me, a few scant seconds old.  Talk about cruel, anti-hair, masked, gowned giants taking advantage of a mere, helpless hairy baby.  That horrible sound still resonates within me today.  The slicing, slick metallic SssNip.  The final clip.  Matter spewing out of these long tendrils of tresses.  Everything went blank.  I was told later, much later, that nary a hair on my wee person was harmed.  That I was pronounced healthy.  And that shearing, disrespectful, awful sound was the cutting of the umbilical cord and not the  downy-soft, slightly wavy, shimmering of My Hair.  I was relieved.  But that horrendous experience left me forever leery of sharpened prongs of metal.  Leery of that nauseating, clipping sound.  Leery of latex.

Soon, I was the talk of the town, as there wasn't much to talk about besides the weather, Mrs. Lundquist's boil, the lancing of said boil and Doc Hansen receiving a face full of boiled puss.  My spongy limbs, my miniscule appendages (please, don't get dirty on me), my great big head lolling about.  But that head, My Head, was not swiveling fro and to like a bobblehead because of weak and undeveloped neck muscles.  Nay.  It was but the sheer (if shear, insert winces here) magnitude and weight of My glowing, splendid, bulk of Hair.  My Hair.  Down to the dimples in my buttocks was this mane of incredible magic.  This "Ah, look at His Hair" or this "My gosh, His Hair is beautiful" or this "What is he?  Some kinda freak?"  That last quote was from my Uncle Joe, he of baldness at age 16.

For the most part life was grand.  Lovingly and tenderly, Mom would brush my hair, count the strokes (thus, getting me started on counting) and sing.  Yes, sing.  About My Hair.  About how radiant, like the sun.  About how the angels delivered a miracle.

And then, disaster struck.  I remember it was warm out, this being May and the snow had finally melted.  Spring was springing up everywhere.  I think it also encouraged My Locks to spring forth and create joy in the house.  Joy in the streets.  Just another day in the bassinet.  Just another warm bath with bubbles of soap popping or was that me?  Whatever, it was so relaxing.  And then the brush.  Once.  Twice.  Thrice and so on.  I closed my eyes, reveling in security and peacefulness.  And then horror.  I open my eyes, as I felt something foreign floating, caressing my still-spongy arm.  I glanced over.  And there.  And there.  Everywhere.  Here there.  Aft and stern.  Front and back.  My Hair.  Swirling.  Clinging to my body.  Strings of gold fastened to my neck and shoulders.  I looked up at Mom.  Hoping a metallic, shiny instrument was not in her hands.  Hoping she hadn't brushed too many numbers that I was learning.  Hoping it was just a daymare.  "Oh my, all your hair.  Look Marco Polo, your hair."  She held up her dripping hands.  Hair.  My Hair.  Draped around her hands like some recently skinned mammal was hair.  My Hair.  Everything went blank.  Again. 

This really isn't me and My Hair.  This was the cheapest model I could find.