SpinFlashBack

The Groundhogs
'Scratching The Surface'
1968, BGO records


The Groundhogs.  Doesn't exactly illicit much Rock and Roll oomph, does it?  But oomph they have.  Led by Tony McPhee (guitarist/vocalist/composer), the 'hogs were under the American radar as far as the British Blues Boom of the '60s goes.  In the U.K., however, their future acceptance included a #9 on the U.K. charts ('70, "Thank Christ for the Bomb"), #5 ('71, "Split") and #8 ('72, "Who Will Save the World?").  Hardly a ripple over here.  Except for a single American bluesman by the name of John Lee Hooker.  An early gathering of future 'hogs, The Dollarbills, found themselves opening for Hooker in '64 and quickly changed their lame name to John Lee's Groundhogs.  This was in homage to Hooker's '60 track, "Ground Hog Blues", which eventually lead to their second release, "Hooker and the Hogs" ('68).  Also in '64, though, there were some questions to be answered.  ONE: Would McPhee join John Mayall and his Bluesbreakers to replace Eric Clapton?  Two: Would McPhee join Peter Green and newly formed Fleetwood Mac?  Not many musicians would turn those offers down but he stuck to his vision.  Judge for yourselves.  His 'hogs catalog is waiting to be heard.

Their first, "Scratching the Surface" ('68), is their rawest, most unrefined and unashamedly blues release and, as its credits state: Entire album recorded live (no overdubs).  This loosey-goosey focus is what a lot of Brit Invaders tried to do.  Replicating and reinventing the blues, to much American chagrin, was a testament to their love and respect of this art form.  Many traditional loyalists of the blues were turned off as the guitars and amps were turned on.  I think more than a few Americans in the mid/late '60s were hoping that this was just a fad.  Something that would rise for awhile and then go down in flames.  Like a lead balloon. 

Starting with a nice, unadorned lead on the first track, "Rocking Chair", McPhee immediately sets himself apart.  "Walkin' Blues", with blistering guitar and sweet, laid back vocals.  "Married Men", more straight forward blues.  Chuggin' and churnin' with "No More Doggin'".  "Man Trouble" and its heavy bass/drums rumble that satisfies all 6+ minutes.  A theme of man and woman, from a British perspective, comes through loud and proud.  A raucous complement to McPhee's snarling axe and steady vocals is astounding harmonica gymnastics by one Steve Rye.  This is his only 'hog appearance as he trades fierce and armor-piercing blows with McPhee, almost upstaging him on all of the tracks.  McPhee had to work hard to be the dominant alpha-dog and this CD is much better for it.  Rye's original, "Early in the Morning", sneaks up and envelops us with his nasty harp and rock vocals.  His interpretation of the much-recorded and tweaked "You Don't Love Me", again with solid vox and solo-showmanship, made McPhee prove as to who the leader of this band was.  Sadly, Rye, who should be on everybody's list for harp God, died in '92.  He never proved himself as he fell prey to substances.  He is a virtual non-existent player that could have achieved superstardom. 

Most of these tracks resemble the blues/rock shuffle of "Sittin' On Top of the World", a '30 song by The Mississippi Sheiks and "Come On In My Kitchen", '36 by Robert Johnson.  These songs are linked because the melody of "Kitchen" is based on "Sittin'".  I guess we could compare/contrast far worse songs with than these classics.  So, today I'm proclaiming it to be Groundhogs Day.  Take that Punxsutawney Phil.

Have You Been Concussed Lately?

One late night a few years ago, I was channel surfing, finding nothing inspiring as usual, 150 channels with nothing to watch.  After about four revolutions through, I was ready to be put to sleep, thumb aching, eyeballs glazed, brain flat lining, except when I got to C-SPAN, I stopped.  This is a great channel to catch exciting Capitol Hill, White House and other political drivel.  But something compelled me to keep watching.  Standing, talking is a youngish man with a gray sport coat, light-blue shirt and a white undershirt.  Hmmm, looks like a geek.  Huge forehead.  Smooth features.  Medium skin tone.  And a slightly feminine voice.  But what really caught my glazed eye was his Harpo Marx-like hair.  Many Brillo pads.  Brown curly-cues with no particular order.  Afro, man.  I had to turn it up when I noticed the feed was from C-SPAN2's  BookTV.  My interest piqued a little more because I rarely seek out talks from authors.  How boring.  And C-SPAN?  Come on.  I must have really been out of it.  But there was something very different and appealing about this person.  He spoke about his soon-to-be-published-book, "Blink: The Power of Thinking Without Thinking".

I learned a lot about Malcolm Gladwell after that intro six years ago.  An amazing, concise, intelligent and witty writer.  A social scientist with journalistic chops.  He had written for a couple of conservative magazines and The Washington Post as a business writer.  He is currently writing for The New Yorker, which is one of my favorite mags.  He has just published his fourth book.

Let me back up though, if I may.  Around a month ago, I had a chance to golf for the first time in four years.  With my patented right-left-tree-dub-fairway technique, I was actually doing OK.  Approaching the 16th green, as passenger in the cart (too lazy and old to walk), I got whacked with an errant tee shot.  The offending golfer was only about twenty yards away.  I was lucky.  It could have shattered my big nose, biffed my eye, busted my bad ear.  Instead it got a hard head.  My golf buddy thought it had hit a tree from the sound.  Thanks Mr. N.

I thought about this incident when the prospect of a concussion was introduced.  Is your vision bleary?  Did you lose consciousness?  Can you stand?  Can you walk?  Can you finish the rest of the 18 holes?  Are you going to finish that hot dog?  Let's see.  No. No. Yes. Yes. Yes. Nah, you can have it.  I was fine except for a slight cut and another knot on my melon.  I was going to correlate this incident with the ever-expanding coverage and recent concerns of concussions in sports.  I didn't really think that the bonk on my head was a concussion.  I have seen X-rays of a boxer's head before and after a match.  And it was frightening.  The brain was clearly pressed up against the back of the skull and somewhat misshapen after the fight.  I recently read where doctors think Lou Gehrig's Disease (ALS) was caused by his numerous concussions.  Playing football as a kid and baseball as a pro.  And we've all heard the stories of past NFL'ers who have health problems.  Not just physical health but mental also.  As for me, I was fine.  Or was I?

Here's where we get back to Mr. Gladwell.  He has written an article for The New Yorker titled "Offensive Play: How different are dogfighting and football?"  Huh?  I had to scratch my head.  And then I started bleeding again from picking the scab off.  Damn you, Gladwell.  After a damp towelette, change from white shirt (now a bit red) to a red shirt (ha, what do you think of that head wound?), a couple of Advil, a drink of water, a short nap, a bite to eat, another nap.... Now where did I put that magazine?  Who would put it there?  Ahem.  Where was I?  Ya, the article.  Basically, Mr. G. writes about CTE (chronic traumatic encephalopathy), 'a progressive neurological disorder found in people who have suffered some kind of brain trauma.'  It can mimic Alzheimer's with 'behavioral and personality changes, followed by disinhibition and irritability, before moving on to dementia.'  Also in the mix is Lou Gehrig's disease.  Sounds plausible.  I mean, getting hit repeatedly on the dome would cause most of us to say "Stop it. That hurts".  And that's where the dogfighting part comes in.  The dog will fight to the death for its master.  That's his only lot in life.  Please the master.  And when the football player, be it Pop Warner league, high school or pro, is told to "Do it for the team", is he not trying to please somebody?  His dad?  His coach?  His team?

So, a lot of little hits accumulate.  A lineman averages 1,000 head hits in a season.  If he plays 10 years in the pros, add high school and college, the total is around 18,000 hits to the head.  Talk about a subconcussive trauma headache.  Mr. Gladwell feels that football, at all levels, should take a good, hard look at itself and try not to be that dog owner that just looks at the bottom line: win at all costs.  And try to minimize the amount of times one person gets hit.  And let that person get his head back.  Doctors have recommended that after a concussion, the person should have his head examined.  I know, bad joke.  But most pro footballers will not come out due to their training and their love of the game.  Are they being used?  Former Bronco wide receiver Brandon Stokley, he of at least six concussions, said he knows the potential of future health problems.  But he would not change a thing.

I think Mr. G. took a huge leap from dogfighting to football.  I also think he has made a wicked point.  We know football is violent and is a choice.  We know dogfights are morally wrong and the dogs don't have a choice.  Are we, the fans, the coaches, the owners, the TV stations, are we morally wrong for letting men (and women) hurt themselves for our pleasure?  New technology for safety goes only so far.  Rules to protect keep expanding.  But still. 

Taken from Gladwell's article:  "There is nothing else to be done, not so long as fans stand and cheer.  We are in  love with football players, with their courage and grit, and nothing else - neither considerations of science nor those of morality - can compete with the destructive power of that love."

And if you go to the golf course and see somebody with a football helmet on ..................

Alto's All-Time All -Viking Team

Assembling my all-time Viking lineup was more daunting than I had expected.  So many great players have come through this franchise that I didn't know who to include and who not to.  Players like Joe Kapp, Hugh McElhenny, Stu Voight, Sammy White, Lonnie Warwick, Adrian Peterson.  The list is pretty impressive.

What really didn't impress me was my memory.  I thought I could name every player at every position by sheer recall.  Without much research.  Man, was I wrong.  Looking up the past rosters was way cool and brought vivid memories back that I had forgotten.  Which was a lot.  Football is not individualistic, but in recent years it has become just that.  My team is 98% from the Super Bowl teams.  Most of them played together for most of those years and had deep chemistry.  I loved Chuck Foreman but I couldn't name his blocking back that opened up the holes.  But Bill Brown and Dave Osborn.  Now that was a backfield. 

I have picked obvious choices that all Viking fans would probably agree with.  I also picked one team - one year that was the complete package that shoulda/coulda won a champeenship.  So, here is a slight stroll down memory lane.

Coach- Bud Grant

OFFENSE

Quarterback- Fran Tarkenton

Running Backs- Dave Osborn and Bill Brown

Wide Receivers- Gene Washington and Paul Flatley
Tight End- John Beasley

Offensive Line : Grady Alderman, Ron Yary, Milt Sunde, Randall McDaniel and Mick Tinglehoff


Kicker- Fred Cox
Punter- Bob Lee




DEFENSE

Defensive Line : Alan Page

                              Carl Eller

                            Jim Marshall

                           Gary Larsen

Linebackers : Wally Hilgenberg, Roy Winston, Dale Hackbart

Secondary : Karl Kassulke, Earsell Mackbee, Paul Krause, Nate Wright


My pick for the most powerful team that probably should have had at least a chance to win the Super Bowl was the '98 team.  They went 15-1.  Players: Randall Cunningham, Robert Smith, Cris Carter, Jake Reed, Randy Moss, Todd Steussie, Korey Stringer on offense and John Randle, Dwayne Rudd, Ed McDaniel, Jerry Ball and Corey Fuller on defense, Gary Anderson, placekicker and Dennis Green, coach.  As a team, at least for one year, they crushed teams and, on the first FG miss all season from Anderson and an overtime loss (sound familiar?), didn't quite make that game against Elway and the Broncos.  As they say, the rest is hysteria.

 

A Timeline of a Lifetime of Pro Football

This is a chronological rendering of my life in relation to the team that I grew up with, cheered for, cursed at, loved, hated, disdained, abstained, wept for, laughed at and still follow: The Minnesota Vikings.  It hasn't been easy.  Nor should it be.  Being of strong, noble, stubborn heritage, as the moniker is identified with, I also wish to conquer and vanquish all who stand in the way.  Of course, every pro football fan feels the same way as each season begins.  But this year is different, isn't it?

1955-1960
The first few years were a barren time for football.  I rarely stood up at first but as I arose and took small steps, it became apparent : What the hell is football?  I had no clue, or for that matter, why I crap my white thingies.  As I matured, I knew that the word 'ball' combined with the word 'catch' hurt my head.  Maybe my first concussion.  At age five, I think I was introduced to a football.  Not quite sure of the bizarre shape and the way it bounces crazy.  Kinda fun till you fall on it.  Maybe my first spleen injury.

1961
A banner year.  Minnesota has a pro football team.  Yahoo.  We go 3-11 but win our first game as some guy with a women's name pulls off the upset.  Don't really know what is happening, though.  Probably better that way.  Where's my Corn Flakes?

1962
A crazy season for the home team.  We go 2-11-1.  Still not quite sure what that means but I remember hearing Dad mumble something about bums.  Not sure what that meant, either.

1963-1967
Ok, things start heating up.  I'm beginning to understand all the running, throwing, grunts, groans and crunching noises.  But what's with those obnoxious whistles?  I'm grasping what it means to cheer.  And boo.  Age nine: Cheering becomes quite fun.  Going 8-5-1, I think, meant we won more than we lost.  But isn't a tie worse than kissing your sister?  Yuck.  Age ten: Sundays aren't just for church anymore.  But now my newly born sister interrupts the game frequently.  Shouldn't she be sleeping?  Give her a bottle already.

1968
Only seven seasons of life and our Vikings win their division.  I begin to hate the Bears, Lions and Packers.  "Hate is not a nice word", Mom would say.  "And booing is unsportsmanlike conduct.  Fifteen yards."  Ya, Mom is a crack-up.  It's only ten.  The Purple People Eaters arise.

1969
This year was a serious ride.  The Super Bowl?  Are you kiddin' me?  The Vikes are rolling and the 'Almost Football League' (AFL), represented by the Kansas City Chefs, er, the Chiefs, will be a cherry turnover.  Halftime: I am upstairs, in my room, door locked, doing homework.  "You come down here and watch the rest of this game", Dad yelled.  "What kind of sport are you?"  What's with all the good sport references?  We got whupped.  Can't I swear?  Can't I throw shit?  I sit and watch calmly, after which I go and pummel anything red.

1970-1972
Much pouting.  The Stupor Bowl loss still hurts.  Who cares?  The North Stars are more fun.

1973-1976
Three out of four years the Vikes go to the Bowl.  Nothin' to show for it except losses to Miami (I still hate, yes Mom, HATE you Greasy), Pittsburgh (ditto Bradshit) and Oakland (everybody hates, yes hates, the Raiders).  The term 'ViQueens' becomes popular.  My attention is turning towards girls.  That doesn't turn out much better.

1977-Present
Aside from a boatload of division titles, playoff appearances and playoff wins, Minnesota has not been back to the Super Bowl.  That might be a blessing in da skies.  I really don't want to be associated with the only team to go 0-5.  In 1981, I found myself in new football territory: Denver Broncoland.  Here was a chance to start fresh.  But the Norse Gods followed me and I had to experience three more Bowl whuppins by the Giants, Redskins and 49'ers.  So now, as of the '97 season, I am a combined 0-7 in Super Bowls.  How does that feel?  I almost got excommunicated to Detroit or Cleveland.  But wait sports fans.  The cloud was lifted as the Broncos won two consecutive championships in the '97 and '98 seasons.  Don't get me wrong.  I am still a Viking fan first and a Bronco fan second.  This year marks my 30th season as an alien (legal) football fan. 

So, here we go for another stab at a hopeful Viking season with Brat Favre, Adrian (what, me fumble?) Peterson, a high octane offense and a stout 'D'.  Our head coach, Brad 'Egghead' Childress, just may find a way, in spite of himself and his horrendous coaching decisions, to finally win one for The Land of 10,00 Lakes.  I wouldn't put too much money on it, though.  As Marlon Brando once said, "I coulda been a contenda".  Or is that pretenda?

PS  If the Vikes win a Super Bowl, I vowed to (gulp) get the above tatoo.  I guess I'll take some pain for the team.  Not that they haven't given me enough already.

With Heavy Heart

I'm typically not a bummer in my Musings, but today I will be.  A few weeks ago, I decided to help my friend, Mr. C., tackle the refurbishing of an old Victorian house here in Denver.  I tried to be upbeat and funny and will continue this approach in the future.  My Unhandy Man Chronicles, however, took an unfortunate detour.  Rick Carroll, aka Mr. C., passed away suddenly.  Doctors had found a tumor on his jawbone and neck about two years ago and he had undergone extensive surgeries, chemotherapy and radiation.  He still worked harder than anyone I have ever been privileged to know.  He would not stop "being productive", even though constant pain and treatments left him weakened.  He was a great chef, loved music, books, movies, camping, fishing, was way too intelligent and was one great surveyor.  We even went to Primus  this past Thursday at The Rocks, one of countless shows we enjoyed together. I have known this man for over 25 years.  He has left behind his wife Wendy, son Anthony and daughter Lexi.  We all pray for their strength during this difficult time.  We will celebrate his life, as he would want us to: party.  His spirit and heart will be with me and everyone he had known.  Peace.  Love.  Hope.  Rick, my friend, you will be sorely missed.

RICK CARROLL  (B) 12/25/63  (D) 8/17/10

                                                                

Head Case

 Photo of Hibbing Ski Jump Taken 2/20/38 by Al Heitman


As kids, we all have had our bell rung, our head scrambled, our 'he doesn't know if he's on foot or horseback' moments.  If you hadn't, you weren't playing hard enough.  Years later we might regret that head-butting contest with "That Guy Thor". Cranially speaking, an exciting and equally dangerous part of growing up in the Frozen Tundra was to go hurtling down an ice slide aptly named The Bumpity Bump.  Sounds kinda childish, doesn't it?  The name was coined by some Scandanavian joker, who, according to ancestors and next-of-kin, named it this, which in his native tongue Hurtinlongin Avter Servivinin, really meant 'near death experience'.

The foggy memory of my one and only descent into nightly nightmares, daily daymares and occasional bed-wettings (those were terror-tears, honest), was on one gorgeous winter day when I was five or six or seven or five or, around that time.  I was in the custody of my older sister and her girlfriend, Snookie.  The sky was its usual slate gray, overcast and dull with a hopeful chance of stray, sunlit particles being reflected by a passing plane.  The top of the slide was where once a long condemned ski jump had existed (condemned for no good reason, said local entrepreneur, ski jump owner and sado/masochist, Thijs Johansen).  The view was staggering.  On this hill, maybe 200 feet above sea level or the height of Mt. Kilimanjaro, whichever is higher, you could see another country.  No, not Russia.  Close though.  Canada.  If the clouds would break open and if you squinted just right.  You were so high that during migration, the Canadian geese could not achieve enough lift and slammed into this hill.  Not a pretty sight when all the town's dogs brought remnants home.  So that's where my official Indian headdress with authentic bald eagle feathers came from, huh?

Yes, quite a scene.  Look over there.  The Blessed Sacrament Church.  How glorious and comforting.  I wish I was in its confines, praying.  Praying that I might somehow survive this Bumpity Bump or whatever Pelle Lundqvist (joker) named it.  Or there.  The Memorial Building.  And there.  The town dump.  The snow and ice covering made it shimmer and move.  Or are those rats?  But enough of this panoramic diorama.  It was time to have some fun.  Fun and death were interchangeable in practically everything involving speed, downhill and ice.  Yes.  Claude Vorhinski was hosing down the slide with a thick water hose.  We waited, only a few seconds, until the water was now ice.  I tugged at my sister's arm for reassurance.  I looked at Snookie for reassurance.  I looked at Claude, thinking 'stop putting so much water on the damn thing'.  I glanced at the church's steeple and quietly said a prayer, something about if I survive, my comics should never go to H. Lindstrom.  He had way too many already.


"There you go.  Enjoy."  I swear Claude did the sign of the cross, even though we all knew the Vorhinski's were heathens.  Sending us to hell, I bet.  My sis had the most up-to-date sliding vehicle available: a new sheet of cardboard.  This beige, multi-corrugated sled was aerodynamically sound, smooth on both sides and wide enough to compensate our wool pants, wool jackets and Sorels.  Oh, and look at that ice slide.  "Grab on."  Interpreting this to mean hold on to something other than the cardboard, I grabbed my sister.  She shrugged me off with a "No, the sled".  With sis in the lead, behind her, Snookie and behind her, me, trying valiantly to grab onto the sled with frozen oven mitts, we all jumped on.  More precisely, we sat down and I held onto air.  As we went over the edge, all three butts on the inch-thick cardboard, I distinctly remember that my head, probably weighing in at half my body weight, snapped back and I was suddenly laying down with that slate gray, overcast sky looking down on me.  My melon hit every bumpity and bump as I leg-clamped onto Snookie.  My teeth were clinking, my eyes were being juggled and my neck acted like a Slinky.

After I was dumped off the sled, I tried to stand.  Only to get knocked down by other sliders.  I guess I was a little disoriented, I was told, and I tried to walk.  Suddenly, I was lifted out of the way.  "Get out of the way, kid.  You might hurt someone."

Opening my eyes, I was staring into glasses, a nose and a shiny metal thingy.  I focused and the glasses, nose and thingy belonged to our family doctor, Doc Adams.  He was pronouncing me good to go and have a great day but no roughhousing  and go have fun and by the way, did you hear? they closed the Bumpy Bump down, yes, it's a shame really, all the kids sure loved the speed and out of control, slamming into each other, yes sure sounded fun, I wish I was a kid again and I have another patient coming in, it was nice seeing you Joanne, and Mark, you have fun this Christmas vacation and oh, here he is, hi Thor, you back again so soon, not feeling too good, what a nasty bumpy bump on your head, no, not from the slide, oh, you shouldn't be head-butting, it's not so good on your head, we'll take care of that, did you hear about the Bumpy Bump?, closed her down, yup.

This is the new and improved Bumpity Bump

-- Recent Listens --

J. Geils Band
The Morning After, '71


Forget the crappy 'Centerfold' and 'Freezeframe', which made huge green for this Jewish, Massachusetts, blues/rock band in '81.  The real deal was 'Whammer Jammer', off this, their 2nd LP.  Magic Dick's harmonica, sounding like no other mouth could, hit high, vibratory, staggering runs, Peter Wolf's barren vocals, tight, bittersweet odes to lost love, gained love, leave me alone love and live shows made JGB one helluva fun band.  Listen to their first ('70) and this one back-to-back to give you a feel of their power.  And, if you're in the Boston area, Aug. 14, 2010, you might want to check out JGB and Aerosmith at Fenway Park.  Blow your face out.

Fleetwood Mac
Fleetwood Mac, '68

This first LP, lovingly referred to as 'dog and dustbin', is steeped in the Brit Invasion blues/rock.  Instead of relying on all blues redos, Peter Green and Jeremy Spencer (both guitar, vox, writing) wrote 8 of the 12 tunes with a sincere and ballsy recklessness that still rocks.  On this revamped CD, there is 19 tracks of various takes and masters that give you the feel of being in the studio with them.  Songs like 'Long Grey Mare', 'My Heart Beat Like a Hammer' and 'I Loved Another Woman' prove that early Mac was not 'Rhiannon' or 'Landslide'.  Thank you Peter Green.  The first three Mac had Green at the helm and all are worthy of repeated listens at maximum volume.

The Lounge Lizards
The Lounge Lizards, '81

The cover gives you an idea as to why they described themselves as 'fake jazz': white shirts, skinny ties and '50s hair.  Sax man, John Lurie, incredibly harnesses his punk/no wave/rock/jazz/everything else licks in a rambunctious display of challenging tunes, such as 'Ballad', 'Wangling' and 'Demented'.  Lurie is a monster as is complicated guitarist Arto Lindsay.  A wild and wooly ride.  Not ordinary.  Extraordinary.

Arcade Fire
The Suburbs, '10


You know you're in trouble when "the critics" all claim a band is "the best" and they receive all "the awards".  Arcade Fire did that in '04 with 'Funeral', a bleak, depressing trudge through, well, a funeral.  How fun is that?  The 3rd CD from this Canadian, "critically acclaimed" group is as bland as a bowl of cream of rice.  I like the idea of violin, cello, xylophone, glockenspiel, mandolin and hurdy-gurdy as much as the next indie snob, but with only a few exceptions, this release needs a lot of honey, cinnamon, butter, pecans, milk and raisins to make it more palatable.  And way more fire.

Slade
Whatever Happened To, '77

Just looking at my 8-track copy of Slade's 1972 classic, "Slayed?", gives me the glam bumps.  How could you not like original classics such as 'Gudbuy T'Jane', 'Mama Weer All Crazee Now' and 'How D'You Ride'?  Seeing them about 10 times in concert in those early 70s made me a die-hard fan.  In the 70s.  So, I felt some allegiance to purchasing this, their 7th.  No silly song titles or playful lyrics, this one romps and rolls with hard rock ferocity without sounding dated.  Other than scoring 17 straight Top 20 hits in those 70s, their 'Merry Xmas Everybody' (single, '73) is the most iconic Christmas pop song in the UK.  I wonder if I can get that on 8-track.