Friday, April 17, 2015

"Now finally I know why I write this." Andre Dubus and the Essay Disguised as a Story

A week doesn't pass when I don't lament the loss of Andre Dubus, who died in 1999. His best stories powerfully dramatize ordinary people navigating loss, love, faith, and family, often tragically, as they struggle to behave their moral best in a complex, baffling, and brutal world. Dubus's sentences were never showy, never glittery with literary artifice; instead they were devastatingly simple (not simplistic), trading gaudy language for declarative statements and clear-eyed, virtually Naturalistic observations. He was a master of dialogue, too—believable, often terse and limited, as normal human conversation usually is. "A Father's Story" is one of the mammoth short stories of the century; "Killings," "The Fat Girl," many of Dubus's other stories are nearly equal its weight. These days I'm especially in love with "Rose," in part because it takes place in a dive, in part because it feels to me as an essay disguised as a story.

"Rose," which first appeared in Ploughshares in 1985, and was collected in The Last Worthless Evening in 1997, is a long story narrated by a guy at a bar—by all accounts a regular there, the middle-aged drinker comfortable hanging with the local college kids as well as with other townies. Beery and warmly, he talks to himself, and us, about a lot of things, but mostly about Rose, a recent tavern regular, an older, vexed Catholic who one night relates to him the complicated, horrendous story of her marriage to a lout named Jim. In brief: one night, at the galling end point of years of abuse, Jim threw their young son against the wall of their apartment, breaking his arm. Rose, enraged and roused from the deadening years of her marriage, spirits the boy out of the apartment to the hospital. As she leaves, Jim sets fire to the apartment, endangering the couple's two daughters. Emboldened by something larger than herself, Rose dashes in to the blaze, rescues the girls, and moments later in the parking lot, runs over her husband repeatedly with her car. She's arrested, and is let off on charges of justifiable homicide; her children are removed from her custody and placed in foster homes. She never tries to locate them, choosing instead to drink herself and her grief, guilt, and sadness into abeyance. It's a gruesome, joyless account, full of unpleasant details, and the narrator, who has to imagine much of it, fills in in the narrative blanks that Rose can't remember, doesn't know, or won't bring herself to confess. At the end of the story, Rose leaves the bar, and the narrator's left to reflect on what he's been told.

What interests me is the story's point-of-view. Why did Dubus choose a nameless guy in a dive bar to relate Rose's story? After all, her narrative, loaded with tragedy and drama, neatly if grimly satisfies the narrative arc of beginning-middle-end, of climax and denouement, of flat and round characters, and could have successfully been told in third-person. I think that Dubus wanted to give us a narrator who's essaying the story and what about it matters, what about it engages him to explore further, to intuit links among other incidents, other people. "Fiction makes sense of imagined experience," Annie Dillard says. "Nonfiction makes sense of actual experience." I often refer to this distinction. In "Rose," Dubus has it both ways.

The end of the story is worth quoting. Earlier, the narrator talks about a weak and bullied boy from the University of Chicago whom he knew in the Marines. One night in the barracks, sleepwalking, the boy lifted an enormous locker over his head, a gesture he'd never make when awake, as he was too burdened by and self-conscious of his scrawny body and its limitations. He never learned of the feat; instead, he returned home thinking himself an embarrassing washout. Reflecting on this, the narrator says,
I hope that the man from Chicago has succeeded at something—love, work—that has allowed him to outgrow the shame of failure. I have often imagined him returning home a week early that summer, to a mother, to a father; and having to watch his father's face as the boy told him he had failed because he was weak. A trifling incident in a whole life time, you may say. Not true. It could have changed him forever, his life with other men, with women, with daughters, and especially sons. We like to believe that in this last quarter of the century, we know and are untouched by everything; yet it takes only a very small jolt, at the right time, to knock us off balance for the rest of our lives. Maybe—and I hope so—the boy learned what his body and will could do: some occurrence he did not have time to consider, something that made him act before he knew he was in action.
Maybe. The narrator's working through hopeful possibilities, as unlikely as they might be. "Like Rose." he continues, his thoughts focusing now. "Who volunteered to marry; even, to a degree, to practice rhythm, for her Catholic beliefs were not strong and deep, else she could not have so easily turned away from them after the third child, or even early in that pregnancy."
So the life she chose slowly turned on her, pressed against her from all sides, invisible, motionless, but with the force of wind she could not breast. She stood at the sink, holding the children’s glass. But then—and now finally I know why I write this, and what does stand out with unity—she reentered motherhood, and the unit we all must gain against human suffering. This is why I did not answer, at the bar, when she told me she did not deserve the children. For I believe she did, and does. She redeemed herself, with action, and with less than thirty minutes of it. But she could not see that, and still cannot. She sees herself in the laundromat, the supermarket, listlessly drunk in a nightclub where only her fingers on the table moved to the music. I see her young and strong and swift, wrapping the soaked blankets around her little girls, and hugging them to her, and running and spinning and running through the living room, on that summer night when she was touched and blessed by flames.
"Now finally I know why I write this." There's the essayistic moment in "Rose"—it comes at the end, naturally. This woman has confessed something virtually unutterable, and the story expands in the narrator's mind, changes him, charges him with the need to make sense of it. The occasional direct address to the reader, the conversational tone, and the constellation of connections the narrator makes—the boy in Chicago, volunteers for yellow fever in the Panama Canal, the strangers in the bar that night, events and people in his own life that remain unspoken, or unknown—are all hallmarks of the essay, borne of a generous and patient imaginative mind. The narrator, struck, certainly drunk, but genuinely moved, intellectually as well as emotionally, enacts David Lazar's great essayist's credo: "When I become interested in an idea, I want to know what I think of it—so I write essays."

Granted, most of us aren't told gripping, ready-made stories by quasi-friends in bars. (Wouldn't that be something if we were?) Regardless, the work was still left for the narrator to relate the story back to himself, to attempt to make sense of it (after Vivian Gornick), not only because of its dramatic urgency, but because of the insight it might possess. Earlier in the story the narrator describes himself this way: "I am fifty-one years old, yet I cannot feel I am getting older because I keep repeating the awakening experiences of a child: I watch and I listen, and I write in my journal, and each year I discover, with the awe of my boyhood, a part of the human spirit I had perhaps imagined, but never had seen or heard."

Is there, I wonder, a greater definition of an essayist?

Saturday, April 4, 2015

Disrespectfully Yours: Porter at the Bottom

I've long found myself drawn to country music produced in the 1960s. As the so-called "Nashville Sound" was taking over, replacing fiddles with strings and supplementing lone warbling with female-backed choruses, there were a few men and women still devoted to the kind of honky-tonk that was quickly becoming unfashionable. In the 1970s, as the temptation of the pop crossover chart hit became too tough to resist, the music produced in Nashville became watered down, mild, its rough twangy edges smoothed over. There were, of course, rebellions: the Outlaw Country movement arose in part as a response to a market- and label-driven uniformity that was harming country music's ornery soul, though Jennings, Shaver, Willie, et al, smoked a lot of weed and to my ears (and eyes) were pretty laid-back; by the late-70s and early-80s when Gary Stewart was charting with honky tonk songs about drinking he was considered a kind of revivalist. In the mid-1960s, country music could still be commercial (aspirationally, anyway) but hard and hillbilly-twangy, its pedal steel guitars wailing; the mainstream wasn't quite so soft.

Porter Wagoner is an interesting figure in this regard. By the time of his death in 2007 he'd seemed to certain generations like a permanent old-timer—the way your grandfather seemed like he was always 70 to you when you were a kid. But before Wagoner was the hit-making Svengali to Dolly Parton, the host of safe, middle-of-the road television talk shows on TNT, and the Grand Ole Opry tourism spokesmen, he cut a series of albums for RCA that took on despondency, heartache and alcohol abuse. These albums are as famous for their striking, kitschy covers—Iaan Hughes rounds them up them here—as for their music, but each album has a handful of terrific, if borderline corny, songs about the human condition. His 1968 album The Bottom Of The Bottle, a collection of "Skid-Row Joe"-delivered tunes about drinking and its sorry aftermath, is uniformly strong. The album begins with the sound of wine bottles clinking and a sorrowful recitation, and ends with a paean to the bottle—and in between is pretty much the same. The sound flirts with the contemporary mainstream, but the arrangements and playing are still tough and hard, during one of the final periods in Nashville when such a blend was possible and before it became retro. Part of the appeal to me of this record is its reflection of the culture that bore it: popular country music has always had a stagy quality, but the mid-60s loosening of cultural inhibitions particularly encouraged theatrically social narratives and striking album covers such as Wagoner's. That these images look positively quaint to us now is part of their charm, as the artists were compelled to operate within a certain level of mid-century Southern decorum. Of course, Hank Williams and many others before him were writing and singing explicit songs about the dangers of drinking and the pitiable site of a drunk in the alley, but as great as many of those songs are I'm especially drawn to the 1960s cartoonish though earnest portrayals of these sad men and women. In this same period Hank Thompson was issuing themed albums devoted to drinking and its aftermath, and together these records reflect a certain Nashville era.

The liner notes on the back sleeve, "penned" by Skid-Row Joe himself, are worth quoting in full:
Wagoner in the studio
Skid-Row Joe Remembers…

Sometimes it all comes back to me: a boy running through an open field as free. as wild and as happy as the wind that is running beside him. His whole world being wrapped up in things that interest little boys—with no knowledge of just how cruel and cold life can be to one human soul.

And so it was as I grew older: the things that life has to offer always seemed to be offered to somebody else; and everything that I turned to always turned away, except this bottle of glowing wine. The contents of this bottle can let me be anything or anyone I desire. I can go back and once again be a little boy, or I can be a successful businessman, or I can live in a pretty little house with little feet running across the floor and children calling me “Daddy.” These are things that most of us want; but some of us can never achieve these goals for different reasons. Maybe were weak or we just have a problem that’s bigger than we are. It eats away at the mind until we can no longer face life alone. So...we turn to the bottle. It is so sad to have to depend on it in order to look the world in the eye and say. . ."Look at I am!" But, sorry to say. I'm not proud of what I am.

Disrespectfully yours,

Skid-Row Joe

P.S. Porter seems to know all about how we feel down here on the Row and he songs it to the point. (If I didn’t know him better, I’d think he was one of us.) 
For added verisimilitude, the notes add Joe's "hand-written" signature, as shaky and woebegone as any alcoholic's from your most pitying dreams:


Pop a top to the era of Nashville concept albums:

Friday, April 3, 2015

Hank, The Killer, J.B., and Beck

Shortly after Hank Williams's death in 1953, MGM Records released "Kaw-Liga." The song stayed at the top spot on the Billboard Country chart for over three months. The b-side, "Your Cheatin' Heart," remained at No. 1 on the Country chart for a month and two weeks, and has become one of Williams's signature tunes.


Williams' head-hanging, desperately-confident song has been covered my countless artists since its release. These three versions suggest the vast range covered by heartache, jealousy, and bitterness:

Jerry Lee Lewis recorded a version of "Your Cheatin' Heart" during his Sun and Smash Records tenures, but it's his sorrowful reading onstage in front of the rowdy, beer-bawling crowd at the Star-Club in Hamburg, West Germany on April 5, 1964 that will stand:

In late 1969 James Brown cut an album with the Louie Bellson Orchestra, with Oliver Nelson conducting. Bellson was a jazz drummer, bandleader, arranger, and composer, usually credited with being the first to play with two bass drums, and on "Your Cheatin' Heart" his 18-piece orchestra swings hard behind Brown—J.B.'s longtime sax player Maceo Parker was along for the ride, too—amping up the swagger that was lost in the fumes of regret and pain in Williams's original. This is a ridiculously good performance, Brown at his screeching, strutting, confident best. His vocal, elevated by the orchestra's giant sound, may sacrifice some emotional subtly for brashness—but there's room in there for the heart, too.

Finally, Beck's performance from the 2001 Williams tribute album Timeless goes the other way, the sound of 3 a.m., sleepless, numbed pain too late for any kind of hollow victory:

Sunday, March 29, 2015

World War II-era Jehovah's Witnesses Pamphlets

Recently I purchased a stack of Jehovah's Witnesses tracts published during the Second War. The covers' imagery offers graphic representation of the Christian denomination's stance on totalitarianism, freedom, and religious salvation in a time of global unrest.


Yellowed and falling apart, these pamphlets are relics, and the Watchtower Tower Bible And Tract Society presence in the buildings where they were produced is soon to be a thing of the past too, as Jehovah's Witnesses have sold off the bulk of its New York-area real estate holdings. (The addresses listed on the pamphlets are 117 Adams Street and 124 Columbia Heights in Brooklyn, New York.) Articles from 2013 on the exodus here and here.

Wednesday, March 25, 2015

Ms. Betty Jo Bangs, in the flesh

In 1971, Betty Jo Bangs released "Daddy Was A Preacher, Mama Was A Go-Go Girl." The early 1970s saw a few singers tackle this song, most notably Jo Anna Neel; Miss DeLoius And The Music Men also issued a version.

I tracked down a promotional photograph of Ms. Bangs. Her posture is demure and her demeanor pleasant and composed. I'm happy to be able to put a face to the singer of the song I love so much.

The photo goes a long way to make up for the brutal typos in the only advertisement I've been able to find for the single, from Billboard magazine. The title is wrong, and Bangs is given an unintentionally hilarious surname. Didn't matter, the song stiffed on the charts. It's A Giant flop.

Tuesday, March 24, 2015

Roger Angell on the Ageless Dying of Baseball

Roger Angell, on baseball's quietus:
I first heard about the death of baseball one night last December. A friend of mine, a syndicated sports columnist, called me after seven o’clock and broke the news. “Hey,” he said, “have you seen the crowds at the Jets’ games lately? Unbelievable! It’s exactly like the old days at Ebbets Field. Pro football is the thing, from now on. Baseball is finished in this country. Dead.” He sounded so sure of himself that I almost looked for the obituary in the Times the next morning. (“Pastime, National, 99; after a Lingering illness. Remains on View at Cooperstown, N.Y.”) Though somewhat exaggerated, my friend’s prediction proved to be a highly popular one. In the next three or four months, the negative prognosis was confirmed by resident diagnosticians representing most of the daily press, the magazines, and the networks, and even by some foreign specialists from clinics like the New Republic and the Wall Street Journal. All visited the bedside and came away shaking their heads. Baseball was sinking. Even if the old gent made it through until April and the warmer weather, his expectations were minimal—lonely wheelchair afternoons on the back porch, gruel and antibiotics, and the sad little overexcitement of his one-hundredth birthday in July. I haven’t run into my dour friend at any ball games this summer, but I doubt whether the heavy crowds and noisy excitement of the current season, which is now well into its second half, would change his mind. The idea of the imminent demise of baseball has caught on, and those who cling to it (and they are numerous) seem to have their eyes on the runes instead of that leaping corpse. This new folk belief centers on the new folk word “image.” Baseball, the argument goes, has a bad image. The game is too slow and too private, and offers too little action for a society increasingly attached to violence, suddenness, and mass movement. Baseball is cerebral and unemotional; the other, growing professional sports, most notably pro football, are dense, quick, complex, dangerous, and perpetually stimulating. Statistics are then cited, pointing out the two-year decline in baseball attendance, as against the permanent hot-ticket status now enjoyed by football. (Last year, the National Football League played to 87 per cent of capacity in its regular season.) A recent Harris poll is quoted, which showed football supplanting baseball for the first time as the favorite American sport. The poll, which was taken last winter, indicated that football appeals most to high-income groups and to those between thirty-five and forty-nine years old, while baseball still comes first with old people, low-income groups, and Negroes. Bad, bad image.
This is not recent Angell. Certain clues give that away—no one refers to the "networks" anymore, and yeah there was a time when "image" was a fresh pop conceit. Rather, these are the opening sentences of "The Leaping Corpse, The Bombed Pill, The Shallow Cellar, The French Pastime, The Walking Radio, The Full Aviary, And Other Summer Mysteries," an essay that ran in the August 9, 1969 issue of The New Yorker. (It was subtly retitled for inclusion in Angell's first book, The Summer Game.) It's both comforting and uneasy to recognize that baseball has been on its deathbed, and has duly revived, on and off for a long time, well past any notion of nine lives. The concerns that Angell cites—particularly the rising popularity of football, and the reasons for that rise—are prescient if, in retrospect, somewhat obvious. That the game was being derided by some quarters as passé for appealing to "Negroes" is both sadly racist and ironic, given the sport's dwindling ranks of African-American players and fans and the hand-wringing that's inspired. In short—as Angell's reminded us again and again in long career—baseball is both a product and a reflector of its culture, a culture which produces generationally a large group which loves the game and a group  which believes that the game should, really, give it up finally. It didn't, hasn't, and won't, of course. Angell published this piece in the throes of a great season, when the Mets confounded all expectations, when hitting came roaring back (relatively speaking), and when the new playoff system energized the Autumn. And the Seventies were coming: Charley Finley, the A;s, Reggie, Billy Martin, Rod Carew, Pete, the Big Red Machine, Fred Lynn, Spring Training Wife Swapping, Chicago White Sox in shorts.... Well, just read Dan Epstein's books.

The first pitch of the 2015 season is days away. The game's vital signs will be interpreted widely, by professionals, quacks, and the loud guy in the bar. Baseball will make a fist, get up, do just fine.

Friday, March 20, 2015

Jim Linderman's The Birth of Rock and Roll

Coming soon from Dust to Digital, Jim Linderman's The Birth Of Rock And Roll, a collection of found photographs for which I've provided an essay and conducted an interview with LInderman.

From a review in the Los Angeles Times:
Like Take Me to the Water, The Birth of Rock and Roll will be issued by Dust-to-Digital, the Grammy-winning record label and publisher responsible for essential archival compendiums including the six-CD gospel set Goodbye, Babylon, the "Art of Field Recording" series and “Opika Pende: Africa at 78 RPM.”

The new work doesn't come with companion music, but it doesn't need it. Rather, Linderman guides the reader through a silent meditation on sounds that long ago ceased to exist, their only remaining echo courtesy of a chance encounter with the yay-sayer.

The images try to capture the chaos. An innocent tableau of two groups of people, one white and posing in front of an ice cream shop, the other black and on the next-door porch playing music, lays out the porous nature of segregation. A couple poses for a photo on a sofa, a stack of 45s on the woman's lap. A piercing shot captures white men performing minstrel music in blackface, laying out a stark truth about appropriation and racism.
Read a terrific piece about Linderman and the book by collector Lisa Hix at Collector's Weekly here.

Tuesday, March 17, 2015

"Do you still wonder why we got the generation gap?"

Jeannie C. Riley will forever be best known for her 1968 smash hit "Harper Valley P.T.A." A lesser track of hers is "The Generation Gap," the titular song from her 1970 album, the cover of which is a time-capsule image of Nashville playing catch-up to prevailing trends in popular culture and pop art. At the time Riley was fairly unique among commercial country female performers in her sex-pot image, and she played it to the hilt, rocking the modish bodysuits and dangerously short mini skirts:

On the back cover, she moves from lady-like sophistication to go-go boot sexiness:

Though Riley appeared confident in these poses, she was largely uncomfortable with the posturing, later claiming that her manager and publicist were behind the sexy persona. Later in the decade Riley became a born-again Christian and began singing and recording Gospel songs.

But not before she weighed in on the raging Generation Gap debate in this mild but fascinating twist number, a perfect blend of late-60s cultural excess as imagined by Music Row, country music's formal conservatism, and good 'ol crass cashing-in. The song was written by Charlie and Betty Craig with Jim Hayner, and though duly promoted the single did not perform well, peaking at 62 in the Billboard Country Charts and failing to cross over to Pop. (The uneven album, which features horns, some psychedelia-lite, and searching lyrics, reached 34.) Though not a hit, "The Generation Gap" endures as a fringed relic of country music's bemused response to the Counter Culture age.

Wah, wah, wah, wah, wah
Wah, wah, wah, wah, wah

When you see a little baby sittin' on his mama's lap
Well, it's just the beginnin' of a thing called the generation gap
It's not the difference of age now everybody's talking 'bout
It's all those no no's that make up the generation gap

Well, the grown ups go out now to parties and get stoned
But that's somethin' they won't talk about around the children at home
But they ain't foolin' anybody now 'cause the kids are gonna find it out
Just another reason for the thing called the generation gap

The generation gap is a mighty mighty big hole
You ain't gonna fill it up with all the lies being told
Wah, wah, wah, wah, you'd better clean your house
If you expect to narrow the generation gap

Wah, wah, wah, wah, wah
Wah, wah, wah, wah, wah

Daddy says that drinkin' is a sin that we'll have to pay for
Well, then what's that liquor bottle doin' in the dash of his car?
And who's the man that calls mama every time that daddy's out?
Now, do you still wonder, why we still have the generation gap?

The generation gap is a mighty mighty big hole
Now, do you still wonder why we got the generation gap?

Wah, wah, wah, wah, wah
Wah, wah, wah, wah, wah
Wah, wah, wah, wah, wah
Wah, wah, wah, wah, wah
Wah, wah, wah, wah, wah
Wah, wah, wah, wah, wah


Note: I was hipped to this tune years ago by the great Hoodoo Gurus, who released a version in 1988 as a single. Dave Faulkner: "I changed a couple of lines to suit myself."

Wednesday, March 11, 2015

George Jones, Leon Payne, and the Woes of Living

Leon Payne, the Blind Balladeer
George Jones, pensive in 1971
Texas-born Leon Payne (1912-1969) was prolific country music songwriter, author of hundreds of songs. Blind since childhood, Payne attended the Texas School for the Blind for eleven years, and began writing songs in the early 1940s; Hank Williams famously covered his "Lost Highway" in 1949. In rock and roll circles he's probably best known for his beautiful, if treacly, "I Love You Because," which Elvis Presley warbled at Sun Studio in July of 1954, and for his chilling "Psycho," which Elvis Costello made his own in an unforgettable live version released in 1981. (Randy Fox tells the story of "Psycho" here.)

Country legend George Jones (1931-2013), who also hailed from Texas, released several songbook albums in his career, including collections devoted to Hank Williams and to Dallas Frazier. In 1971 he cut an album of Payne songs, and it's a terrific record. Several of the numbers are more obscure Payne efforts, and if they're not all "great" as the album title promises, there's really not a dud in the bunch. Three songs in particular capture a subject close to Payne's heart: the weakness endemic to humans. There were few country music singers who could narrate the frailties of living more expressively, and, paradoxically, more sweetly than Jones, and he really gets inside of these songs. Produced by Pappy Daily, and accompanied by the reliable Jordinaires, Jones's respectful but affecting performances make clear his affection for Payne's songwriting.

The stories these three numbers navigate are as old as time: the bottle, egotism, and dissolution. You pick the cause-and-effect order in your life; here's the sequence in which they appear on the album.

Sunday, March 8, 2015

Gordon Spaeth, 1951-2005

Photo by Eric Fusco
Gordon Spaeth died ten years ago. The longtime Fleshtones sax, harmonica, and organ player had left the band in 1988 for mental and physical health reasons; he'd last played on a Fleshtones record in 1998 ("Blow Job," on More Than Skin Deep) and last played with the band live in 2001. He'd been living for some time in Manhattan at the Prince George Hotel, on 28th Street between 5th Avenue and Madison, a former welfare inn refurbished as supportive housing for low-income and formerly homeless adults. He fell from the roof of the Hotel on the snowy evening of March 8, 2005.

It was in Gordon's clean, tidy room at the Hotel where I lengthily interviewed him for Sweat: The Story of the Fleshtones, America's Garage Band. I found him to be guarded but very funny, leery of saying too much about his chaotic personal history but talking a lot, even offering me a hand-written list of the drugs he'd abused in his lifetime, for inclusion in the book. Gordon was kind, generous with his time, always polite and unfailingly patient with my questions, even the probing ones, and I was grateful to have become a latter-day friend of his, happy that he came to trust me. Gordon was a good sax and harmonica player and a greater raconteur, a dangerous presence on and off stage when he was drinking, which was often, more of a danger to himself when he was using hard drugs, which he'd managed to stay away from in his final years. He was very knowledgeable about R&B, rock and roll, and pop music—I cherish our walk around his neighborhood, leavened with his stories about Brill Building history—a lover of music and sharp style, and a hilarious guy, brimming with episodes of wackiness and mayhem from his drinking and drugging days, always quick with a self-effacing remark as with a cutting jibe aimed at someone else. He seemed tough, and he was, but the posture was part-ironic, borne of b-movie juvee ethos and a toxic and unhappy childhood and adolescence, a protective layer from his own self-destructive demons. His heart was pure, if his body was, by the end, compromised. I tell the whole story in Sweat. Gordon Spaeth is still very much missed.
June 2001: Gordon, far left, holding forth on a roof in Brooklyn for (l-r) Ken Fox, Joe Bonomo, Keith Streng. Photo by Anne Arbor

1983 or '84: downstairs at the 9:30 Club, Washington D.C.. Photos by Jimmy Cohrssen.

There are plenty of videos online of Gordon Spaeth in action. This from 1986 is terrific fun, as is this 1982 show. Perhaps my favorite is a riotous lip-synched performance of "Return Of The Leather Kings" (from 1987's Fleshtones Vs. Reality) filmed for Andy Warhol's Fifteen Minutes on MTV. The whole band's hamming it up, and Gordon's at his mock-serious best.

Here's Gordon letting it rip on the Fleshtones' cover of Champion Jack Dupree's "Let The Doorbell Ring," from 1997's Hitsburg USA!

Finally, here's "(Legend Of A) Wheelman," one of Gordon's signature songs, from 1983's Hexbreaker:

RIP, Rooster.

Tuesday, March 3, 2015

Billboard Country Music ads, ctd.

More fun with the traditions and tropes of 1960s country music, via Billboard.

Johnny Bond's wrestling old demons, his sympathetically-portrayed wife looking on unkindly:

 Hank's down at the pawn shop again:

While Buck Owens and Sheb Wooley (not to mention Jimmy Dean) are looking sharp:

Little Jimmy Dickens is prideful:

While Norma Jean's singing about the blue-collar gals:

And Carl Smith's going under:

Meanwhile, from 1971, Betty Jo Bangs—not "Bongs," though the misprint is hilarious—might've been hopeful, but "Daddy Was A Preacher, Mama Was a Go Go Girl" was destined to be a cult hit, and one of my all-time favorites:

Thursday, February 26, 2015

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