I should have been a rock star…. The lullaby
Yesterday, I walked into the field house following a frustrating practice with the 9ht grade football team… picked up the phone to see Corwin, who is at U of Tulsa, had left me a text.
Of course, one of the first things a parent thinks is “What’s wrong?”
I opened the text to find this message…..
“I just listened to Rocky Raccoon. Ah, good memories. I remember when you used to sing that to us.”
Suddenly, the tension of the practice and my aggravation with the day’s actions of 15-year-old boys faded into a smile. Warm memories of a rocking chair and bedtime chased away the October afternoon chill.
The Lullabies…
One of the few times it was OK to sing out loud for me.
When the boys were small, Ash and I often held them, rocked and sang them to sleep. Spoiled them? Maybe? Should we have done the thing about just laying them down awake so they’d get used to going to sleep on their own? Maybe. But I think it was as much as a selfish thing for us as it was a soothing thing for them.
We got to hold them, sing to them and slowly coax them into sleep with a collection of songs from the past. The warm baby or toddler, pressed against your chest, or cradled in your arms, drifting slowly into soft snores while we visited old friends in the guise of familiar tunes.
Ash and I each had our own particular list of songs we sang to the boys. Ashley went for some soft classics such as “Peter Paul and Mary’s “Puff the Magic Dragon,” or even current tunes (at that time) such as the bangles “Eternal Flame.”
“Close your eyes. Give me your hand.
Do you feel my heart beating?
Do you understand?
Do you feel the same?
Am I only dreaming?
Or is this burning an eternal flame?”
Her voice was softer and more graceful than my own, as I cracked and broke through a collection of classic Beatles and Monkee tunes.
“Sing Rocky! Sing Rocky!” was something both boys demanded from time to time. So, I would start with the songs sing-song spoken intro of “Now somewhere in the black mountain hills of Dakota lived a young boy named Rocky Raccoon, “ before leading into the song about the brash young man seeking revenge for the man who stole his love away.
The Beatles white album was a treasure trove of songs for bedtime. We sang “I Will,” “Dear Prudence,” “Mother nature’s Son,” and “Honey Pie.” The Beatles also offered up “Golden Slumbers,” “Till There Was You,” “Eight days a Week,” “Let It Be,” and “Here Comes the Sun.”
The boys were introduced to the Monkees in “Daydream Believer,” “What Am I Doing Hanging ‘Round,” and “I’m a Believer.”
No doubt, the boys had their favs. Sometimes they would request “Bungalow Bill” from the Beatles. Others, it was Queen and “Somebody to Love.” Or “Bohemian Rhapsody.” Cat Stevens, Chicago, America, The Eagles, Fleetwood Mac, Leon Russell and the Moody Blues… we were the boy’s personal bedtime jukeboxes.
It was a sad moment for me, when the boys got older and the singing began to fade away. I remember the day when Corwin, falling asleep on my lap, as I began to sing softly, reached his small hand to my mouth and said “Don’t sing right now, daddy.”
He didn’t need the song to fall asleep anymore.
Our joke has always been that if we were to make the boys playlists of the songs we sang to them to rock them to sleep, it would still knock them out. After all, they both still crash into dreamland when riding in the back of the car, even on short trips to Tulsa. Those little kids comforts die hard.
“Who Knows How Long I loved you
You know I love you still
Will I wait a lonely life time
If you want me to I will.”
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Friday, October 16, 2009
I Should Have Been a Rock Star- Kicking and Screaming – dragged into the future with technology
I Should Have Been a Rock Star- Kicking and Screaming – dragged into the future with technology
I still remember buying my first Beatles LP. And the hundreds of others to follow, both Beatles and the multitude of bands and artists that I followed or test drove.
The 12-inch cardboard sleeve, covered with a sheer shrink-wrap of plastic, waiting to be opened by me. It was smooth to my touch as I turned it over and over, scanbnning the pristine cover, noting each picture and word written thereon. I read the song list and even the product number and release adte.
Finally, I would tear the plastic, unwrapping the sleeve. The, flex the sides of the LP cover to open the inside, revealing a paper sleeve and within it, the plastic that bore the Beatles very voices to me. In those days, the record companies often advertised other acts on the paper sleeve. I looked them over, noting which I knew and which I had no interesting knowing. In those early days of Beatles music, the ads might bear something a Beatles fan was unlikely to have tin their collection.
Removing the black Lp from the paper sleeve, and stacking the paper on top of its cardboard container, I held the Lp by the edges, hoping to imprint not even a fingerprint on the glistening grooves. I turned the album over and over, watching the rainbow arc of the Capitol records insignia, and reading each song title, author nd noting the length of each song. There were times I had my little brothers and sisters quiz me from the albums as to the song lengths and order on every record.
Placing the record on the turntable, which at that time was a primitive single speaker player, I clicked the speed to 33 1/3 RPM and switched on the power. As the disc rotated, I lifted the needle and carefully, set it on the edge of the record allowing me just enough time to sit back in anticipation of the music to follow.
I rated each song as it played. A few years ago, I still had the lyric sleeve of the Beatles White Album, with notes and star ratings for each song. I listened the 1st side through, then lifted the needle and carefully turned the record to play side 2, repeating the process.
Playing each album was nearly a religious experience. The cover art, which grew more and more elaborate as the years passed, and the way the songs melted one into the next. Admittedly, the early albums of the 60’s tended to pay little attention to the song listing, usually posting singles as the major source of revenue for the Company, and albums were often filled with filler.
Albums like “Pet Sounds” by the Beach boys, “Sgt. Pepper” and Abbey Road” by the Beatles set new standards for the collection of songs on each LP. Rock Operas like the Who’s “Tommy” and “Jesus Christ Superstar” made the concept album an accepted idea, and other abnds followed suit. Music shifted form single dominated sales to Album Oriented Rock, which also brought on the movement to FM radio rock stations. Rock Music became more than a feel good, teenage rebel genre, it grew sophistication.
The Moody Blues, Yes and The Kinks followed quickly. Other progressive rock acts led the way with rock symphonies. Genesis, Jethro Tull, David Bowie and Pink Floyd created LPs that were more than a collection of tunes, but something with theme and movement. “The Wall” still stands as one of my favorites, but could only have happened after “Dark Side of the Moon” which I believe still holds a record for most weeks on the Billboard charts.
The LP cover itself began to change, from the simple artists photos of early rock and pop to psychedelic works of art. “Sgt. Pepper” made you look and keep looking. Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were here.” And “Dark Side of the Moon” covers were integral to the album itself. Led Zeppelin went further with its morphing covers in “Physical Graffiti” and “In Through The Out Door.” The covers became rebellious themselves, as LP covers by the Beatles (“Yesterday and Today” butcher cover), Hendrix (Electric Ladyland” Nude cover), John Lennon (“Two Virgins” nude cover) and Blind faith (“Blind Faith” naked young girl and plane) were banned for their explicit content.
The album, even with its eventual cracks and pops, was the vehicle through which rock music sailed into my life. By the time I was in college, I had collected thousands.
Then, technology caught up.
I was an LP guy caught in a changing world. In college, I had delved a little into the world of 8 Track, but never bought my favorite stuff in it.. They came in LPs and then I would record “best of” collections to carry as an 8 Track in the crappy little car 8 track player I had rigged in the car. I had taken 2 old small speakers from a decrepit stereo, hung them in the side of my 1970 Maverick and hooked them to the 8 track player. It was purely ghetto and scary to any girl who dared enter the car, but I liked it on the long drives to and from college. Four to five hours across the Great Plains and radio twilight zone, and I had 8 Track through the crackly speakers.
But, cassette was quickly making mincemeat of the 8 Track. Not only was it more compact, easier to carry, and held music, it was not split in the middle of a track by the clicking of one track to the next. My complaint about the loss of album art was even more a part of hating cassettes. I finally got a car that had a cassette deck, but once again, the albums I really treasured, I bought on vinyl. The cassette was left to making “best of” lists and Mixes.
Admittedly, I did love to make and share mixes, but my true music passion was still tied up in the total experience of the LP> In it, there was the sound and the visual. The cassette had an even smaller area for album art, and with the slow move from the LP to the cassette, you could see the end of an era in album art. Imagine squeezing the Sistine Chapel ceiling down to photograph size? Imagine if the French had sent over a 6 ft. Statue of Liberty instead of the full size? Imagine Picasso as only greeting cards?
To me, that was what the cassette was.
No more round LP’s like Grand Fink’s “E Pluribus Funk.” No more clever LP designs like “Sticky Fingers” by the Stones. The fold out LP (any Kiss LP, or classics like the Beatles White LP), and the Box Lp ( “Harrison’s “All Things Must Pass”) all faded into just another cassette box in the store bin.
Still I hung on. I had become a musical Luddite. I was fighting a single-handed war against change and loss of the LP cover. I ws ready to grab a steel bar and rush through the factories smashing the machines that stung miles of magnetic tape on tiny plastic spools. Pounding and smashing, till the powers that be brought back the cover and back the art.
It was a losing battle.
The death blow to my record collecting came in a stealthy way, behind a smiling and loving face…. My wife and my mom.
In the early 90’s, the two of them pitched in to buy my first CD player. I opened it at Christmas, unsure exactly what to think. I was like the kid, wary of his first taste of brussell spouts. They held the spoon before me, smiling and urging me to taste. Ashley even took me to a used CD store to make the purchase of these new discs a little less of a monetary impact on my scrooge like soul. The CD did cost more than the cassette and definitely more than the LP. I was wary of it for that reason and also because even George Harrison had voiced his wariness to them in a Rolling Stone interview. “They sounded ‘cold,’ he had said. He wanted to hear the comforting sound of an LP.
Me? I wanted the total sensory experience. I wanted what I had the first time I heard Yes’ LP “Not Fragile” through headphones at Jerry Realle’s house. I wanted to be able to drop the needle on any song I wanted, which was not possible with 8 tracks and cassettes. I wanted to hold the LP in may hands and scan ever detail of the bigger than life art.
I owned a CD before I had a player. I had called Rockline and answered a trivia question once, and they sent me Pete Townshend’s newest rock Opera, “Ironman.” It was the first CD I played. Then Ash and I went to the CD store and picked up other classic LPs in Cd format. “Yellow Brick Road.” “Dark Side of the Moon.” “The Wall.” “Abbey Road.” “The Beatles” (White album).
Straight from Mary Poppin’s own words of wisdom, these digitalized musical classics slid down my aural canal with a spoonful of sugar. My system fought it, and I actually felt guilty for liking it. But, the sound was good. I could switch from track to track. I could even hook up my portable CD player to my car stereo! And, the CD could go with me everywhere, just like a cassette, but with the convenience of an LP.
Other people complained about a tinny sound. Some were miffed that the warmer sound of the LP with hiss, pops and needle sound had been replaced by a sterilized computer. The disc was still too small to replace the old LP art, but everything else about it seemed to be a great improvement over the 8 track and cassette. When the CD recorder came out, it seemed that my LP collection played less and less as my CD co9llection grew bigger and bigger.
I was sold. The record player went into the closet, soon followed by the dual cassette deck. I had jumped into the world of the CD, never to breath the air of the LP again. Closing the closet door on the player, and slowly moving my collection of LPs to a place in another closet marked the end of an era of music collection.
But, technology wasn’t finished yet. I admit, I am slow to change. My metamorphosis takes a while. My cocoon takes a while to spin. My butterfly wings are slow to develop.
MY sons took the step into the complete digital world before I did. In fact, both boys and Ashley all converted to the IPOD before I did. Ashley tells me that when they finally bought me an IPOD for Christmas, she and the boys agonized over it. Would I use it? Would I give up my CD collection? Was the tactile part of the music something I would miss without having a CD, a case and a cover?
I admit, when opening it, I greeted it the same way I had with the first CD player. I was wary. I enjoyed the handling of the case and reading the liner notes. I liked to feel the cover in my hands, even if it wasn’t the old LP size, but then, they tell me size isn’t everything.
At Ashley’s instruction, I began to load my CDs onto the IPOD. It started as a small thing, and then became an obsession. It became a labor of love, revisiting all the music that had laid low in the cabinet where we kept all the CDs. I reacquainted myself with some of the more obscure songs again. I would read the song list on the CD and listen once again to tunes I hadn’t heard in a long time. I created play lists and best of lists. It became a new obsession. And best of all, it traveled with me, even while I jogged which the CD played never did a good job of doing without skipping and stopping.
Like I said, my change is slow, and I still buy the CD of my favorite artists. This past year, I made my first completely digital purchase….Neil Young’s “Fork in the Road.” That began a new era in my music collection. I have yet to actually burn a hard copy of that CD… but I know I will. Old habits and obsessions die hard.
So, I have morphed through a long series of musical formats in my collecting history. I thought at one time that the LP would last forever, and now, here I am loading new tunes onto a tiny rectangular machine that carries weeks of tunes wherever I go.
Will there be another format revolution before my music collecting is over? Maybe.
I don’t know what it will be, but I can guarantee one thing. …..
I will convert slowly and reluctantly.
these are my favorite Lp cover... what shame the new generations will not be able to appreciate them as they were..... sort of like being told great grandma was a beautiful woman... but you never get to see the real thing...
Physical Graffiti- Led Zepplin
Sgt Pepper-The Beatles
E Pluribus Funk- Grand Funk
Sticky Fingers- Rolling Stones
Dark Side of the Moon- Pink Floyd
Wish You Were Here- Pink Floyd
Close to the Edge- Yes
Fragile- Yes
Tommy- The Who
All Things Must Pass- George Harrison
Bat out of Hell- Meatloaf
Goodbye Yellow Brick Road- Elton John
Houses of the Holy- Led Zepplin
Live Peace in Toronto- John Lennon
A Wizard a True Star- Todd Rundgren
I still remember buying my first Beatles LP. And the hundreds of others to follow, both Beatles and the multitude of bands and artists that I followed or test drove.
The 12-inch cardboard sleeve, covered with a sheer shrink-wrap of plastic, waiting to be opened by me. It was smooth to my touch as I turned it over and over, scanbnning the pristine cover, noting each picture and word written thereon. I read the song list and even the product number and release adte.
Finally, I would tear the plastic, unwrapping the sleeve. The, flex the sides of the LP cover to open the inside, revealing a paper sleeve and within it, the plastic that bore the Beatles very voices to me. In those days, the record companies often advertised other acts on the paper sleeve. I looked them over, noting which I knew and which I had no interesting knowing. In those early days of Beatles music, the ads might bear something a Beatles fan was unlikely to have tin their collection.
Removing the black Lp from the paper sleeve, and stacking the paper on top of its cardboard container, I held the Lp by the edges, hoping to imprint not even a fingerprint on the glistening grooves. I turned the album over and over, watching the rainbow arc of the Capitol records insignia, and reading each song title, author nd noting the length of each song. There were times I had my little brothers and sisters quiz me from the albums as to the song lengths and order on every record.
Placing the record on the turntable, which at that time was a primitive single speaker player, I clicked the speed to 33 1/3 RPM and switched on the power. As the disc rotated, I lifted the needle and carefully, set it on the edge of the record allowing me just enough time to sit back in anticipation of the music to follow.
I rated each song as it played. A few years ago, I still had the lyric sleeve of the Beatles White Album, with notes and star ratings for each song. I listened the 1st side through, then lifted the needle and carefully turned the record to play side 2, repeating the process.
Playing each album was nearly a religious experience. The cover art, which grew more and more elaborate as the years passed, and the way the songs melted one into the next. Admittedly, the early albums of the 60’s tended to pay little attention to the song listing, usually posting singles as the major source of revenue for the Company, and albums were often filled with filler.
Albums like “Pet Sounds” by the Beach boys, “Sgt. Pepper” and Abbey Road” by the Beatles set new standards for the collection of songs on each LP. Rock Operas like the Who’s “Tommy” and “Jesus Christ Superstar” made the concept album an accepted idea, and other abnds followed suit. Music shifted form single dominated sales to Album Oriented Rock, which also brought on the movement to FM radio rock stations. Rock Music became more than a feel good, teenage rebel genre, it grew sophistication.
The Moody Blues, Yes and The Kinks followed quickly. Other progressive rock acts led the way with rock symphonies. Genesis, Jethro Tull, David Bowie and Pink Floyd created LPs that were more than a collection of tunes, but something with theme and movement. “The Wall” still stands as one of my favorites, but could only have happened after “Dark Side of the Moon” which I believe still holds a record for most weeks on the Billboard charts.
The LP cover itself began to change, from the simple artists photos of early rock and pop to psychedelic works of art. “Sgt. Pepper” made you look and keep looking. Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were here.” And “Dark Side of the Moon” covers were integral to the album itself. Led Zeppelin went further with its morphing covers in “Physical Graffiti” and “In Through The Out Door.” The covers became rebellious themselves, as LP covers by the Beatles (“Yesterday and Today” butcher cover), Hendrix (Electric Ladyland” Nude cover), John Lennon (“Two Virgins” nude cover) and Blind faith (“Blind Faith” naked young girl and plane) were banned for their explicit content.
The album, even with its eventual cracks and pops, was the vehicle through which rock music sailed into my life. By the time I was in college, I had collected thousands.
Then, technology caught up.
I was an LP guy caught in a changing world. In college, I had delved a little into the world of 8 Track, but never bought my favorite stuff in it.. They came in LPs and then I would record “best of” collections to carry as an 8 Track in the crappy little car 8 track player I had rigged in the car. I had taken 2 old small speakers from a decrepit stereo, hung them in the side of my 1970 Maverick and hooked them to the 8 track player. It was purely ghetto and scary to any girl who dared enter the car, but I liked it on the long drives to and from college. Four to five hours across the Great Plains and radio twilight zone, and I had 8 Track through the crackly speakers.
But, cassette was quickly making mincemeat of the 8 Track. Not only was it more compact, easier to carry, and held music, it was not split in the middle of a track by the clicking of one track to the next. My complaint about the loss of album art was even more a part of hating cassettes. I finally got a car that had a cassette deck, but once again, the albums I really treasured, I bought on vinyl. The cassette was left to making “best of” lists and Mixes.
Admittedly, I did love to make and share mixes, but my true music passion was still tied up in the total experience of the LP> In it, there was the sound and the visual. The cassette had an even smaller area for album art, and with the slow move from the LP to the cassette, you could see the end of an era in album art. Imagine squeezing the Sistine Chapel ceiling down to photograph size? Imagine if the French had sent over a 6 ft. Statue of Liberty instead of the full size? Imagine Picasso as only greeting cards?
To me, that was what the cassette was.
No more round LP’s like Grand Fink’s “E Pluribus Funk.” No more clever LP designs like “Sticky Fingers” by the Stones. The fold out LP (any Kiss LP, or classics like the Beatles White LP), and the Box Lp ( “Harrison’s “All Things Must Pass”) all faded into just another cassette box in the store bin.
Still I hung on. I had become a musical Luddite. I was fighting a single-handed war against change and loss of the LP cover. I ws ready to grab a steel bar and rush through the factories smashing the machines that stung miles of magnetic tape on tiny plastic spools. Pounding and smashing, till the powers that be brought back the cover and back the art.
It was a losing battle.
The death blow to my record collecting came in a stealthy way, behind a smiling and loving face…. My wife and my mom.
In the early 90’s, the two of them pitched in to buy my first CD player. I opened it at Christmas, unsure exactly what to think. I was like the kid, wary of his first taste of brussell spouts. They held the spoon before me, smiling and urging me to taste. Ashley even took me to a used CD store to make the purchase of these new discs a little less of a monetary impact on my scrooge like soul. The CD did cost more than the cassette and definitely more than the LP. I was wary of it for that reason and also because even George Harrison had voiced his wariness to them in a Rolling Stone interview. “They sounded ‘cold,’ he had said. He wanted to hear the comforting sound of an LP.
Me? I wanted the total sensory experience. I wanted what I had the first time I heard Yes’ LP “Not Fragile” through headphones at Jerry Realle’s house. I wanted to be able to drop the needle on any song I wanted, which was not possible with 8 tracks and cassettes. I wanted to hold the LP in may hands and scan ever detail of the bigger than life art.
I owned a CD before I had a player. I had called Rockline and answered a trivia question once, and they sent me Pete Townshend’s newest rock Opera, “Ironman.” It was the first CD I played. Then Ash and I went to the CD store and picked up other classic LPs in Cd format. “Yellow Brick Road.” “Dark Side of the Moon.” “The Wall.” “Abbey Road.” “The Beatles” (White album).
Straight from Mary Poppin’s own words of wisdom, these digitalized musical classics slid down my aural canal with a spoonful of sugar. My system fought it, and I actually felt guilty for liking it. But, the sound was good. I could switch from track to track. I could even hook up my portable CD player to my car stereo! And, the CD could go with me everywhere, just like a cassette, but with the convenience of an LP.
Other people complained about a tinny sound. Some were miffed that the warmer sound of the LP with hiss, pops and needle sound had been replaced by a sterilized computer. The disc was still too small to replace the old LP art, but everything else about it seemed to be a great improvement over the 8 track and cassette. When the CD recorder came out, it seemed that my LP collection played less and less as my CD co9llection grew bigger and bigger.
I was sold. The record player went into the closet, soon followed by the dual cassette deck. I had jumped into the world of the CD, never to breath the air of the LP again. Closing the closet door on the player, and slowly moving my collection of LPs to a place in another closet marked the end of an era of music collection.
But, technology wasn’t finished yet. I admit, I am slow to change. My metamorphosis takes a while. My cocoon takes a while to spin. My butterfly wings are slow to develop.
MY sons took the step into the complete digital world before I did. In fact, both boys and Ashley all converted to the IPOD before I did. Ashley tells me that when they finally bought me an IPOD for Christmas, she and the boys agonized over it. Would I use it? Would I give up my CD collection? Was the tactile part of the music something I would miss without having a CD, a case and a cover?
I admit, when opening it, I greeted it the same way I had with the first CD player. I was wary. I enjoyed the handling of the case and reading the liner notes. I liked to feel the cover in my hands, even if it wasn’t the old LP size, but then, they tell me size isn’t everything.
At Ashley’s instruction, I began to load my CDs onto the IPOD. It started as a small thing, and then became an obsession. It became a labor of love, revisiting all the music that had laid low in the cabinet where we kept all the CDs. I reacquainted myself with some of the more obscure songs again. I would read the song list on the CD and listen once again to tunes I hadn’t heard in a long time. I created play lists and best of lists. It became a new obsession. And best of all, it traveled with me, even while I jogged which the CD played never did a good job of doing without skipping and stopping.
Like I said, my change is slow, and I still buy the CD of my favorite artists. This past year, I made my first completely digital purchase….Neil Young’s “Fork in the Road.” That began a new era in my music collection. I have yet to actually burn a hard copy of that CD… but I know I will. Old habits and obsessions die hard.
So, I have morphed through a long series of musical formats in my collecting history. I thought at one time that the LP would last forever, and now, here I am loading new tunes onto a tiny rectangular machine that carries weeks of tunes wherever I go.
Will there be another format revolution before my music collecting is over? Maybe.
I don’t know what it will be, but I can guarantee one thing. …..
I will convert slowly and reluctantly.
these are my favorite Lp cover... what shame the new generations will not be able to appreciate them as they were..... sort of like being told great grandma was a beautiful woman... but you never get to see the real thing...
Physical Graffiti- Led Zepplin
Sgt Pepper-The Beatles
E Pluribus Funk- Grand Funk
Sticky Fingers- Rolling Stones
Dark Side of the Moon- Pink Floyd
Wish You Were Here- Pink Floyd
Close to the Edge- Yes
Fragile- Yes
Tommy- The Who
All Things Must Pass- George Harrison
Bat out of Hell- Meatloaf
Goodbye Yellow Brick Road- Elton John
Houses of the Holy- Led Zepplin
Live Peace in Toronto- John Lennon
A Wizard a True Star- Todd Rundgren
Saturday, October 10, 2009
I shold have been a rock star- encore
Oct 8, 2007
Last night I had the chance t see Blue Oyster Cult again…..still on
the road and still cranking out the mega-decibels. It has been about
8 years since their last album; one that sill had some great BOC
tunes. Both Fletch and I are BOC fans and he drove back from OU in a
driving rain storm to go t the show with me.
The show was at the Tulsa state fair. They were supposed to play
outside at the Oklahoma Stage, an open air theater off the fairway,
but this gigantic front and rain moved into Oklahoma just in time to
mess up the show. Fletch had called, asking about the show. I checked
online, but no info there about any changes. I was ready to don rain
gear and stand out in a hurricane to hear “Don’t Fear The Reaper” and
“Cities on Flame With Rock and Roll” again.
I gathered the rain gear. Meanwhile, Fletch was running late in his
2 hour drive home. The roads were cluttered with traffic accidents and
slow moving cars due to the torrents of rain. I checked the fair web
site over and over, looking for news, and finally a report came across
the local news that BOC was in Tulsa and the show had been moved
indoors, but delayed by 30 minutes.
WE hadn’t seen the Cult in a few years. They played the Tulsa
fairgrounds another time, along with Starship, Foghat and BOC
headlining. The event was on a week night, and obviously, it drew an
older crowd. It, too, had been moved indoors to the lower level of
fairgrounds Pavilion. There was so much time in between acts, the
roadies wandering around aimlessly while the crowd grew more and more
restless. Starship opened with a lot of sound problems that muted
Mickey Thomas’ voice and performance. Foghat put on one of their
better sows, but they were without long time guitarist Lonesome Dave
Previtt, who died in 2000 after a battle with cancer. He had been
replaced by ex-Wild Cherry (“Play That Funky Music”) guitarist, Bryan
Bassett.
By the time BOC got to take the stage, the crowd had dwindled down
to a spare group…. And we crowded to the front of the stage. I was
afraid that the small crowd would be less of an incentive to play a
great show, but Eric Bloom and Buck Dharma didn’t disappoint us.
Standing just feet from the stage, singing along with “Don’t Fear The
Reaper” and “Burning For You,” we soaked in every note of the show
that seemed to be played just for us.
So, Fletch, and I, along with Dave Decker, drove through sheets of
rain to Tulsa, avoiding weather related car accidents and flooded
intersections to arrive at a deserted fairground. The water cascaded
across the pavement as we walked between abandoned rides and booths.
It was almost as if we were in a carnival ghost town.
We finally entered the only active place at the soaked fairgrounds,
the indoor exhibit area. There, we bought a greatly overpriced cup of
beer, shook the rain off our jackets and wandered thorough booths,
cars and mobile homes in which a skeleton crew of workers, fairgoers
and concert-minded people passed the time.
The newly moved show was in the Pavilion, across the fairgrounds
form the Expo building. We looked and paced until a time we felt would
still get us close to the stage, without waiting long in line. Then,
we set out across the grounds, still being pummeled by buckets of
rain.
The building was still being used. The rodeo was still going on when
we entered. We could see the lights and stage of the concert
suspended above the rodeo floor, but the horses and cattle still were
what rocked the building. An impatient young usher disgustedly
explained we would have to wit or sit in the rafter seats till the
rodeo was over.
We sat, impatiently, waiting through calf roping, clown acts and
finally bull riding. I was wondering what the New York based BOC
thought of following a rodeo. But, at last, well over an hour after
expected starting time, the rodeo bowed out after a final oratory on
freedom and the American soldier. Crew members rushed out to lower the
stage and begin setting up the band equipment.
Dave, Fletch and I made our way onto the dirt covered floor pitted
with hoof prints and truck tires. As we stood through the sound check,
Fletch asked, “How big was Blue Oyster Cult I their heyday?”
“Played Stadiums,” I told him. I saw them at big concert halls. In
fact, I had seen them in Tulsa several times, and in Wichita,
headlining both concert hall and outdoor stadium shows.
“I wonder how someone like that feels about playing a state fair
after being in the big time?” He asked. “Must love the Music.”
What is it that keeps a band like that still playing and coming
back? What makes some do an oldies tour? What drives a single guy from
a band to create a new band around them under the old name? Grand Fun
tours with basically only drummer Don Brewer from the original band.
The Guess Who is only two originals, and neither is Burton Cummings or
randy Bachman. Mick Jones is the only original in Foreigner. When is a
band no longer the band?
Is it simply for the money? Is it an inability to let go of the past?
Is it the hope that you might get back to the top?
Or is it truly for the love of the music? Could it be for that
feeling you get from the cheers and applause that come because you
wrote that song, or because they recognize the guitar solo you
created? Does the big stage even matter, or is it the fact that
people are coming because they remember you and what you meant to
them?
Ironically, as the concert started, we were told by lead vocalist
Eric bloom that guitarist buck Dharma was not there. He had not been
able to land in Tulsa due to the storm and was currently on his way
back after a detour to Dallas. His duties and vocals would be handled
by back up guitarist, Richie Casteland.
Fletch had said he wanted to hear “The Red and the Black” for the
guitar in it. I guess the rock gods heard his young plea and BOC
opened with the very song! I know he was disappointed that Buck was
not there, but Richie did a great job filling in. His solo sizzled.
Bloom directed the band through a series of BO hits, including “Cities
On Flame,” “Burning For You,””Godzilla,” “Hot rails To Hell” and
“Don’t’ Fear The Reaper.” They even played the unlikely “Black Blade”
from the Moorcock Elric fantasy novels.
The show was over before we knew it. I was already hoarse from
screaming the lyrics, but apparently the late start and fair schedule
left them little time to do a whole set. It was a good show, but left
me wanting more. There were so many songs that were left unplayed. I
wanted to scream “dominance” to Bloom’s “submission!” I wanted to do
air guitar to “Stairway to the Stars” and “O.D.ed On Life Itself!”
But Bloom waved to the crowd, and announced they were out of time.
The band left the stage and the lights came up. We had a good meal of
BOC rock, but still wanted desert. We stood for a few moments, just in
case and then wandered slowly off the dirt covered floor and out into
the rainy night.
I love Blue Oyster Cult. I Love their music, often described as the
“thinking Man’s Heavy Metal.” I love what the remind me of. I love
the fact that they probably did permanent haring damage to me years
ago… when the show was so loud I swear my ears were bleeding as
“Godzilla” pounded through the concert hall. I love that fact that
they are probably sci-fi and fantasy nerds with loud electric guitars
from an era that is hard to describe.
Before the show, Dave, Fletch and I were getting beer from a vendor
when I spied a couple of girls from the high school. They pointed at
the beer in m hand, and laughingly said, “Coach Dugan with beer??!!” I
walked t talk with them and asked, have either of you ever listened to
Blue Oyster Cult before?” Both shook their heads “no” and then one,
Daria, thinking because the band followed the rodeo, asked “Are they
some kind of Red Dirt band?”
I smiled. “No… definitely not,” I answered. “They rock.”
Last night I had the chance t see Blue Oyster Cult again…..still on
the road and still cranking out the mega-decibels. It has been about
8 years since their last album; one that sill had some great BOC
tunes. Both Fletch and I are BOC fans and he drove back from OU in a
driving rain storm to go t the show with me.
The show was at the Tulsa state fair. They were supposed to play
outside at the Oklahoma Stage, an open air theater off the fairway,
but this gigantic front and rain moved into Oklahoma just in time to
mess up the show. Fletch had called, asking about the show. I checked
online, but no info there about any changes. I was ready to don rain
gear and stand out in a hurricane to hear “Don’t Fear The Reaper” and
“Cities on Flame With Rock and Roll” again.
I gathered the rain gear. Meanwhile, Fletch was running late in his
2 hour drive home. The roads were cluttered with traffic accidents and
slow moving cars due to the torrents of rain. I checked the fair web
site over and over, looking for news, and finally a report came across
the local news that BOC was in Tulsa and the show had been moved
indoors, but delayed by 30 minutes.
WE hadn’t seen the Cult in a few years. They played the Tulsa
fairgrounds another time, along with Starship, Foghat and BOC
headlining. The event was on a week night, and obviously, it drew an
older crowd. It, too, had been moved indoors to the lower level of
fairgrounds Pavilion. There was so much time in between acts, the
roadies wandering around aimlessly while the crowd grew more and more
restless. Starship opened with a lot of sound problems that muted
Mickey Thomas’ voice and performance. Foghat put on one of their
better sows, but they were without long time guitarist Lonesome Dave
Previtt, who died in 2000 after a battle with cancer. He had been
replaced by ex-Wild Cherry (“Play That Funky Music”) guitarist, Bryan
Bassett.
By the time BOC got to take the stage, the crowd had dwindled down
to a spare group…. And we crowded to the front of the stage. I was
afraid that the small crowd would be less of an incentive to play a
great show, but Eric Bloom and Buck Dharma didn’t disappoint us.
Standing just feet from the stage, singing along with “Don’t Fear The
Reaper” and “Burning For You,” we soaked in every note of the show
that seemed to be played just for us.
So, Fletch, and I, along with Dave Decker, drove through sheets of
rain to Tulsa, avoiding weather related car accidents and flooded
intersections to arrive at a deserted fairground. The water cascaded
across the pavement as we walked between abandoned rides and booths.
It was almost as if we were in a carnival ghost town.
We finally entered the only active place at the soaked fairgrounds,
the indoor exhibit area. There, we bought a greatly overpriced cup of
beer, shook the rain off our jackets and wandered thorough booths,
cars and mobile homes in which a skeleton crew of workers, fairgoers
and concert-minded people passed the time.
The newly moved show was in the Pavilion, across the fairgrounds
form the Expo building. We looked and paced until a time we felt would
still get us close to the stage, without waiting long in line. Then,
we set out across the grounds, still being pummeled by buckets of
rain.
The building was still being used. The rodeo was still going on when
we entered. We could see the lights and stage of the concert
suspended above the rodeo floor, but the horses and cattle still were
what rocked the building. An impatient young usher disgustedly
explained we would have to wit or sit in the rafter seats till the
rodeo was over.
We sat, impatiently, waiting through calf roping, clown acts and
finally bull riding. I was wondering what the New York based BOC
thought of following a rodeo. But, at last, well over an hour after
expected starting time, the rodeo bowed out after a final oratory on
freedom and the American soldier. Crew members rushed out to lower the
stage and begin setting up the band equipment.
Dave, Fletch and I made our way onto the dirt covered floor pitted
with hoof prints and truck tires. As we stood through the sound check,
Fletch asked, “How big was Blue Oyster Cult I their heyday?”
“Played Stadiums,” I told him. I saw them at big concert halls. In
fact, I had seen them in Tulsa several times, and in Wichita,
headlining both concert hall and outdoor stadium shows.
“I wonder how someone like that feels about playing a state fair
after being in the big time?” He asked. “Must love the Music.”
What is it that keeps a band like that still playing and coming
back? What makes some do an oldies tour? What drives a single guy from
a band to create a new band around them under the old name? Grand Fun
tours with basically only drummer Don Brewer from the original band.
The Guess Who is only two originals, and neither is Burton Cummings or
randy Bachman. Mick Jones is the only original in Foreigner. When is a
band no longer the band?
Is it simply for the money? Is it an inability to let go of the past?
Is it the hope that you might get back to the top?
Or is it truly for the love of the music? Could it be for that
feeling you get from the cheers and applause that come because you
wrote that song, or because they recognize the guitar solo you
created? Does the big stage even matter, or is it the fact that
people are coming because they remember you and what you meant to
them?
Ironically, as the concert started, we were told by lead vocalist
Eric bloom that guitarist buck Dharma was not there. He had not been
able to land in Tulsa due to the storm and was currently on his way
back after a detour to Dallas. His duties and vocals would be handled
by back up guitarist, Richie Casteland.
Fletch had said he wanted to hear “The Red and the Black” for the
guitar in it. I guess the rock gods heard his young plea and BOC
opened with the very song! I know he was disappointed that Buck was
not there, but Richie did a great job filling in. His solo sizzled.
Bloom directed the band through a series of BO hits, including “Cities
On Flame,” “Burning For You,””Godzilla,” “Hot rails To Hell” and
“Don’t’ Fear The Reaper.” They even played the unlikely “Black Blade”
from the Moorcock Elric fantasy novels.
The show was over before we knew it. I was already hoarse from
screaming the lyrics, but apparently the late start and fair schedule
left them little time to do a whole set. It was a good show, but left
me wanting more. There were so many songs that were left unplayed. I
wanted to scream “dominance” to Bloom’s “submission!” I wanted to do
air guitar to “Stairway to the Stars” and “O.D.ed On Life Itself!”
But Bloom waved to the crowd, and announced they were out of time.
The band left the stage and the lights came up. We had a good meal of
BOC rock, but still wanted desert. We stood for a few moments, just in
case and then wandered slowly off the dirt covered floor and out into
the rainy night.
I love Blue Oyster Cult. I Love their music, often described as the
“thinking Man’s Heavy Metal.” I love what the remind me of. I love
the fact that they probably did permanent haring damage to me years
ago… when the show was so loud I swear my ears were bleeding as
“Godzilla” pounded through the concert hall. I love that fact that
they are probably sci-fi and fantasy nerds with loud electric guitars
from an era that is hard to describe.
Before the show, Dave, Fletch and I were getting beer from a vendor
when I spied a couple of girls from the high school. They pointed at
the beer in m hand, and laughingly said, “Coach Dugan with beer??!!” I
walked t talk with them and asked, have either of you ever listened to
Blue Oyster Cult before?” Both shook their heads “no” and then one,
Daria, thinking because the band followed the rodeo, asked “Are they
some kind of Red Dirt band?”
I smiled. “No… definitely not,” I answered. “They rock.”
Saturday, August 8, 2009
IShoudl Have Been a Rock Sar- The Yellow Submarie in China
A Yellow Submarine in China
In March of 2004, I traveled to China as a part of a teacher and student exchange.
My fellow teacher was Betty Gibbs. We chaperoned 10 Sapulpa High Students on a trip that took us to Beijing and then on to the city of Chengdu in the foothills of the Tibetan plateau.
We took off one week before spring break, expecting to be away for 3 weeks. We used spring break in order to make the time out of school minimal. Each of the students had applied and also taken an 8-week course in Chinese at OU Tulsa under local High school Chinese teacher Susie Tattershall.
So, when we left, we were nervous and elated. The long plane journey was enough to squeeze and jitters out of a person by the time we reached the mainland of China. It was kida cool to watch the airline map as we traveled, arcing over the arctic circle and then south along Siberia into China.
In Beijing, we met Shaoyan, a tour guide I had met before when traveling with teachers in 2001. She took us through the Forbidden City and to see and scale the Great Wall right outside the city. Later groups would travel a little more expensively, but this was the 1st and we were on a shoestring budget. The experience would be new for both the receiving school and us as well.
Lie Wu High school in Chengdu is located in a city of nearly 11 million. A Mid sized city in China! Imagine! We were met late by a contingent of Chinese teachers and students who took us to a local hotel, just minutes away form the school. We hadn’t known what to expect. We thought we would immediately be taken to separate houses, but instead the school decided to house us the first few days with the hotel. Not bad and it helped ease some of the fears of the kids as to who and what they might expect.
On our first full day in Chengdu, we got a preview of something that was surprising to we typically uptight people from the Midwest. The school held a dinner for us and the teaching staff at LieWu. At the dinner, the principal stood up and serenaded us. After him, some of the Chinese kids came in and sang to us.
The odd thing was, I couldn’t imagine any principal from any of our schools singing to a group of Chinese visitors. Apparently, this was not an unusual thing. It turns out that these people broke into song, or karaoke without any fear of embarrassment of ridicule. Onb the other hand, most of the Sapulpa kids I knew would have been way too self conscious to do the same.
It did have an effec5t on our kids too. Luckily, the group I took was made up of some choir kids and performers. At a school assembly in our honor, they also sang song, sang karaoke and danced, much to the delight of the Lie Wu students and staff.
The thing that meant most to me was one day in English class. I was invited to teach the classes while Chinese instructors watched. Now, these classes are a bit different than US classes. There are about 65 kids piled into a class that is mostly lecture oriented. With that many kids, it is hard to do any sort of one-on-one or group work.
I started with some role playing things using kids from the class, who reluctantly played the parts of buying or selling pizza in English. Finally, they began to warm up a bit to the idea and we finished the class with some question and answer, especially about life in Sapulpa, Oklahoma.
During the exchange, one girl raised her hand and asked, “Will you sing for us?”
I was caught by surprise. Singing is not what I do. When I was a young kid, I could lie to myself and think I sounded like Paul McCartney, but now I know I have no range, no rhythm or ability to carry a melody. Maybe that’s being too tough on myself, but I haven’t sung in public in who knows how long.
Panicking to get out of the situation, I said, “I am not a very good singer, but how about you sing a song for me?”
Immediately, 5 of the girls stood at their seats and started to sing a song by the Backstreet Boys. They even had the hand motions and dance steps down. It was a spontaneous performance that was met with thunderous applause after it ended. It was pretty cool to see this American pop song performed flawlessly in a Chinese upper school classroom.
The little dark haired girl was not to be dissuaded. “Will you sing for us now?” She asked again.
I felt trapped. I began to sweat. Those old fears of ridicule and public display of ineptitude washed over me. I was much more suited to playing air guitar than to singing in front of people.
But, I had an idea.
“Let’s do a song together and make it part of an English lesson,” I said. “I will write the words to the chorus of a song on the board, and I will sing the verse to you, and we will all sing the chorus.”
Apparently the little Chinese girl was happy with this, nodding her head enthusiastically. And, so with approval of the class, I turned to the board and began to write the words..”We all live in a Yellow Submarine…”
Nervous, and nearly weak with shyness, I explained to the them the rhythm of the chorus and then, stood tall in front of the board and in a quavering voice, began to sing “In the Town Where I Was Born….” It seemed to take forever, with the smiling faces of the class and visiting Chinese teachers all on me, to reach the end of the verse, “…beneath the waves, in our yellow Submarine!”
The n I pointed at the chorus on the board and led the class though the chorus several times. At first, we were out fo sync, but with each attempt, pour voices melded better and better. Each time, they sang louder and louder and at the finish, the class applauded each other and me.
I was jittery with excitement. It was a kind of rush to sing in front of so many people without critique and without rejection. There was only a joy on unity and acceptance, and it seemed, an appreciation that I would sing for them.
There, in western Chine, to a class of 65, I, a shy Oklahoman, sand a British pop song form the 60’s and we all blended into one joyous group for a few precious moments.
My words are poor in an attempt to relay how much those moments meant to me. Surely, there is a song somewhere that says it better than I ever can. Music, so universal and so much a part of our worldwide psyche, spoke through each of us in that 3rd floor classroom. Music isn’t some distant, different thing form any of us. Even with my poor power of singing and my even poorer power of musicianship, I was music for a few moments.
In March of 2004, I traveled to China as a part of a teacher and student exchange.
My fellow teacher was Betty Gibbs. We chaperoned 10 Sapulpa High Students on a trip that took us to Beijing and then on to the city of Chengdu in the foothills of the Tibetan plateau.
We took off one week before spring break, expecting to be away for 3 weeks. We used spring break in order to make the time out of school minimal. Each of the students had applied and also taken an 8-week course in Chinese at OU Tulsa under local High school Chinese teacher Susie Tattershall.
So, when we left, we were nervous and elated. The long plane journey was enough to squeeze and jitters out of a person by the time we reached the mainland of China. It was kida cool to watch the airline map as we traveled, arcing over the arctic circle and then south along Siberia into China.
In Beijing, we met Shaoyan, a tour guide I had met before when traveling with teachers in 2001. She took us through the Forbidden City and to see and scale the Great Wall right outside the city. Later groups would travel a little more expensively, but this was the 1st and we were on a shoestring budget. The experience would be new for both the receiving school and us as well.
Lie Wu High school in Chengdu is located in a city of nearly 11 million. A Mid sized city in China! Imagine! We were met late by a contingent of Chinese teachers and students who took us to a local hotel, just minutes away form the school. We hadn’t known what to expect. We thought we would immediately be taken to separate houses, but instead the school decided to house us the first few days with the hotel. Not bad and it helped ease some of the fears of the kids as to who and what they might expect.
On our first full day in Chengdu, we got a preview of something that was surprising to we typically uptight people from the Midwest. The school held a dinner for us and the teaching staff at LieWu. At the dinner, the principal stood up and serenaded us. After him, some of the Chinese kids came in and sang to us.
The odd thing was, I couldn’t imagine any principal from any of our schools singing to a group of Chinese visitors. Apparently, this was not an unusual thing. It turns out that these people broke into song, or karaoke without any fear of embarrassment of ridicule. Onb the other hand, most of the Sapulpa kids I knew would have been way too self conscious to do the same.
It did have an effec5t on our kids too. Luckily, the group I took was made up of some choir kids and performers. At a school assembly in our honor, they also sang song, sang karaoke and danced, much to the delight of the Lie Wu students and staff.
The thing that meant most to me was one day in English class. I was invited to teach the classes while Chinese instructors watched. Now, these classes are a bit different than US classes. There are about 65 kids piled into a class that is mostly lecture oriented. With that many kids, it is hard to do any sort of one-on-one or group work.
I started with some role playing things using kids from the class, who reluctantly played the parts of buying or selling pizza in English. Finally, they began to warm up a bit to the idea and we finished the class with some question and answer, especially about life in Sapulpa, Oklahoma.
During the exchange, one girl raised her hand and asked, “Will you sing for us?”
I was caught by surprise. Singing is not what I do. When I was a young kid, I could lie to myself and think I sounded like Paul McCartney, but now I know I have no range, no rhythm or ability to carry a melody. Maybe that’s being too tough on myself, but I haven’t sung in public in who knows how long.
Panicking to get out of the situation, I said, “I am not a very good singer, but how about you sing a song for me?”
Immediately, 5 of the girls stood at their seats and started to sing a song by the Backstreet Boys. They even had the hand motions and dance steps down. It was a spontaneous performance that was met with thunderous applause after it ended. It was pretty cool to see this American pop song performed flawlessly in a Chinese upper school classroom.
The little dark haired girl was not to be dissuaded. “Will you sing for us now?” She asked again.
I felt trapped. I began to sweat. Those old fears of ridicule and public display of ineptitude washed over me. I was much more suited to playing air guitar than to singing in front of people.
But, I had an idea.
“Let’s do a song together and make it part of an English lesson,” I said. “I will write the words to the chorus of a song on the board, and I will sing the verse to you, and we will all sing the chorus.”
Apparently the little Chinese girl was happy with this, nodding her head enthusiastically. And, so with approval of the class, I turned to the board and began to write the words..”We all live in a Yellow Submarine…”
Nervous, and nearly weak with shyness, I explained to the them the rhythm of the chorus and then, stood tall in front of the board and in a quavering voice, began to sing “In the Town Where I Was Born….” It seemed to take forever, with the smiling faces of the class and visiting Chinese teachers all on me, to reach the end of the verse, “…beneath the waves, in our yellow Submarine!”
The n I pointed at the chorus on the board and led the class though the chorus several times. At first, we were out fo sync, but with each attempt, pour voices melded better and better. Each time, they sang louder and louder and at the finish, the class applauded each other and me.
I was jittery with excitement. It was a kind of rush to sing in front of so many people without critique and without rejection. There was only a joy on unity and acceptance, and it seemed, an appreciation that I would sing for them.
There, in western Chine, to a class of 65, I, a shy Oklahoman, sand a British pop song form the 60’s and we all blended into one joyous group for a few precious moments.
My words are poor in an attempt to relay how much those moments meant to me. Surely, there is a song somewhere that says it better than I ever can. Music, so universal and so much a part of our worldwide psyche, spoke through each of us in that 3rd floor classroom. Music isn’t some distant, different thing form any of us. Even with my poor power of singing and my even poorer power of musicianship, I was music for a few moments.
Monday, August 3, 2009
I should have been a rock star- irish pubs and tipsy tunes
In March of 2003, Ashley and I arranged a school trip to Ireland. She offered it to kids at Cascia Hall and I to kids at Sapulpa High. We ended up with a pretty good group, and with a few parents to boot. One of the girls from Sapulpa took her mom and two sets of Cascia parents went along with me, Ash and two other chaperones… Lynnann, Ash’s fellow Cascia teacher, and her husband.
Symbolically, we flew out of Tulsa on St Patrick’s Day to arrive in Dublin in the late evening as the tattered remains of raining hell on St Patrick’s Day had settled over the streets. Pubs were still lively and the streets still active. We were obviously tired from the travel, but wandered the streets seeking succor in the form of Guinness.
We spent a couple days in Dublin, touring, and drinking our way across the city. One bartender told us that the Guinness got better the closer you got to the Liffee… which is the river that runs through Dublin. I think it was true. The Stout never tasted better than taken with a whiff of Irish air and breeze from the river drifting through the pub.
Finally, we boarded the bus to begin our tour of the island. Interestingly enough, the company had given us, not an Irishman, but instead a Scandinavian woman as our guide in the Emerald Isle. Perplexing. She was sweet and knowledgeable, but not Irish.
It was in our travel that we had a couple of great pub experiences, one of which is a musical event I will never forget. This came on the day of Wednesday, March 19.
We left Dublin at a time early for any late night drinkers, 8:30 am. In fact, a time that seemed early for most Irish. We drove a long time to reach the Rock of Cashel, where stood a medieval fortress and the ancient original cathedral of St Patrick. The cathedral was in a state of disrepair and I noticed something unusual about it after wandering inside… besides the roof that was no more. The cathedral was one of the only I have ever seen in which the altar was at the west end.
Legends say that the devil threw the rock at St Patrick to dissuade him from Christianizing the Irish and instead, Patrick built his cathedral there. It was a place that was probably more interesting to me, the history teacher, than to a lot of the kids.
WE loaded the bus and drove on the town of Tipperary. A Lot of people… older people… know of it because of the famous WW I song, “It’s a long Way To Tipperary.”
It's a long way to Tipperary,
It's a long way to go.
It's a long way to Tipperary
To the sweetest girl I know!
We made a short stop there, where Ash and I broke from the group, and ran to the nearest pub. It was in the quiet of that pub that we met the Price brothers, two shaved headed brothers who mad their way as boxers. They were interested in talking to the Americans and drinking a pint with us. Ash and I were late getting back to the bus.. and the driver was not pleased.. but it was worth it to us.
Finally, we pulled into the town of Limerick. We nested into the hotel and I fell asleep for a Guinness induced nap. The nap rejuvenated me and prepared me for the night to follow.
After dinner, we milled around debating our course of discovery and pub debauchery for the evening. First, as a group, we wandered 9into the hotel bar where a three-man band played. They sat in chairs, beers perched at their sides, each playing guitars. The three wore long hair in an almost 70’s style and they played rock songs from across the eras of pop music.
I sat at the bar, directly beside the band, watching them strum, pick and sings through a list of hits I was well familiar with. I think they realized that I too, after a few more beers, was singing along with them as they played. Soon, we were engaged in a running conversation between songs. We exchanged names, and shook hands and talked music as they played.
Soon, a lot of our group wandered on to more teenage places and I stayed and became drinking buddies with the band. A few more hotel patrons and some locals wandered in as well.
The band gave us music advice about Irish bands. Of course, you can’t go wrong with U2, but never, never listen to anything played by MYTOWN… they are a disgrace to the Irish!! The band said, listen to the Frames… a great but underrated band.
Later I would find a lot of music by the Frames and the band was right… they ere good; Serious and somber, and good. Iun fact, in recent years, the lead singer, Glen Hansard would star in and write the oscar winning soundtrack to the independent movie “Once.” Like the band, it is an understated and beautiful work of art.
I have still not listened to MYTOWN.
After many beers and songs, John Steele, the lead singer, got up to go take a piss. He and I staggered to the toilet, talking about how much we both disliked George Bush and his war… the 2nd Iraqi war had just begun while we were in Dublin. Pissing and politics.
Back in the bar, John sat to play and said to the crowd, I’d like to dedicate a song to my new friend and intelligent human being, Charlie Dugan.” Then the band played a spectacular version of the Beatles “Don’t Let Me Down.”
I stayed until the band finished for the night. I shook hands and patted backs with my newfound musical friends. I appreciated their talent, and I think they appreciated being appreciated. It was a wonderful night… my m body softly buzzing with the Irish drink and my mind buzzing with a thousand songs and singers.
How I wish I could find that band again, drink to the music, share a piss and musical trivia. Tip a brew and buy a round for them.
It was that moment I felt the true words spoken to me in another pub. An older gentleman, after finding out that my name was “Dugan”, an obviously Irish name, said as he raised his glass, “Welcome Home Charlie Dugan. We4lcome home.”
Symbolically, we flew out of Tulsa on St Patrick’s Day to arrive in Dublin in the late evening as the tattered remains of raining hell on St Patrick’s Day had settled over the streets. Pubs were still lively and the streets still active. We were obviously tired from the travel, but wandered the streets seeking succor in the form of Guinness.
We spent a couple days in Dublin, touring, and drinking our way across the city. One bartender told us that the Guinness got better the closer you got to the Liffee… which is the river that runs through Dublin. I think it was true. The Stout never tasted better than taken with a whiff of Irish air and breeze from the river drifting through the pub.
Finally, we boarded the bus to begin our tour of the island. Interestingly enough, the company had given us, not an Irishman, but instead a Scandinavian woman as our guide in the Emerald Isle. Perplexing. She was sweet and knowledgeable, but not Irish.
It was in our travel that we had a couple of great pub experiences, one of which is a musical event I will never forget. This came on the day of Wednesday, March 19.
We left Dublin at a time early for any late night drinkers, 8:30 am. In fact, a time that seemed early for most Irish. We drove a long time to reach the Rock of Cashel, where stood a medieval fortress and the ancient original cathedral of St Patrick. The cathedral was in a state of disrepair and I noticed something unusual about it after wandering inside… besides the roof that was no more. The cathedral was one of the only I have ever seen in which the altar was at the west end.
Legends say that the devil threw the rock at St Patrick to dissuade him from Christianizing the Irish and instead, Patrick built his cathedral there. It was a place that was probably more interesting to me, the history teacher, than to a lot of the kids.
WE loaded the bus and drove on the town of Tipperary. A Lot of people… older people… know of it because of the famous WW I song, “It’s a long Way To Tipperary.”
It's a long way to Tipperary,
It's a long way to go.
It's a long way to Tipperary
To the sweetest girl I know!
We made a short stop there, where Ash and I broke from the group, and ran to the nearest pub. It was in the quiet of that pub that we met the Price brothers, two shaved headed brothers who mad their way as boxers. They were interested in talking to the Americans and drinking a pint with us. Ash and I were late getting back to the bus.. and the driver was not pleased.. but it was worth it to us.
Finally, we pulled into the town of Limerick. We nested into the hotel and I fell asleep for a Guinness induced nap. The nap rejuvenated me and prepared me for the night to follow.
After dinner, we milled around debating our course of discovery and pub debauchery for the evening. First, as a group, we wandered 9into the hotel bar where a three-man band played. They sat in chairs, beers perched at their sides, each playing guitars. The three wore long hair in an almost 70’s style and they played rock songs from across the eras of pop music.
I sat at the bar, directly beside the band, watching them strum, pick and sings through a list of hits I was well familiar with. I think they realized that I too, after a few more beers, was singing along with them as they played. Soon, we were engaged in a running conversation between songs. We exchanged names, and shook hands and talked music as they played.
Soon, a lot of our group wandered on to more teenage places and I stayed and became drinking buddies with the band. A few more hotel patrons and some locals wandered in as well.
The band gave us music advice about Irish bands. Of course, you can’t go wrong with U2, but never, never listen to anything played by MYTOWN… they are a disgrace to the Irish!! The band said, listen to the Frames… a great but underrated band.
Later I would find a lot of music by the Frames and the band was right… they ere good; Serious and somber, and good. Iun fact, in recent years, the lead singer, Glen Hansard would star in and write the oscar winning soundtrack to the independent movie “Once.” Like the band, it is an understated and beautiful work of art.
I have still not listened to MYTOWN.
After many beers and songs, John Steele, the lead singer, got up to go take a piss. He and I staggered to the toilet, talking about how much we both disliked George Bush and his war… the 2nd Iraqi war had just begun while we were in Dublin. Pissing and politics.
Back in the bar, John sat to play and said to the crowd, I’d like to dedicate a song to my new friend and intelligent human being, Charlie Dugan.” Then the band played a spectacular version of the Beatles “Don’t Let Me Down.”
I stayed until the band finished for the night. I shook hands and patted backs with my newfound musical friends. I appreciated their talent, and I think they appreciated being appreciated. It was a wonderful night… my m body softly buzzing with the Irish drink and my mind buzzing with a thousand songs and singers.
How I wish I could find that band again, drink to the music, share a piss and musical trivia. Tip a brew and buy a round for them.
It was that moment I felt the true words spoken to me in another pub. An older gentleman, after finding out that my name was “Dugan”, an obviously Irish name, said as he raised his glass, “Welcome Home Charlie Dugan. We4lcome home.”
Monday, July 20, 2009
I Should Have Been a Rock Star- The Stuff Tapes
The Stuff Tapes
In 1986, I began courting Ashley Peck. I was teaching at Sapulpa Junior High and she was a student at the University of Oklahoma.
Ash had been a student of mine years before. After her graduation, she went to University of Oklahoma in Norman. That summer I ran into her as she worked at the fireworks stand belonging to her boyfriend’s family. We gossiped. I found out she was going to Tulsa junior College for some summer courses and I was driving back and forth to Stillwater working on some Master’s degree stuff. I asked her to look for a source for me at the TJC library.
That year at OU, Ash and her boyfriend broke up. She dated several other guys after that, but when she returned for the next summer, she started working at the Elk’s Lodge as a lifeguard. The lodge was just 3 blocks away from the duplex I shared with another coach, Wade Mosley. Ash started coming over during her breaks to drink my lemonade. At least that’s what I first thought.
It wasn’t until July that I worked up the nerve, with the incredible urging and massive insults form my buddy Mo, to kiss her for the first time.
Weird thing for me. I wasn’t the world’s biggest dater and spent a lot of my time with my brothers, a cousin, a couple buddies from college and the coaches I worked with.
We started to see each other. She brought over pizza. She actually asked me out to a movie and dinner. I said I was a little slow in the dating department.
But, football season rolled around and school started at OU. I went back into coaching all day long and Ash left for OU and her sorority.
Her mom and dad were not my best supporters in this romance. Dad didn’t want her dating her ex-teacher, even though she was out of school, in college and I wasn’t exactly an old fart. Meanwhile, I was thinking that the long distance romance was probably going to be tough. I knew from previous experience with long distance romance, that football season is a very unforgiving thing. It takes all of your time, weekends and evenings, and drains you to a point of exhaustion. And, that’s in a good year!
I started sending Ashley mix tapes. They were filled with romantic songs from almost every era of music. I couldn’t think of a better way than to keep me in her mind than by providing the background music of her fall semester.
I called the tapes “Stuff Tapes.” It was a reference to a comment one of us made, and now I can’t quite remember the context, about love and all that stuff. I flooded the US mail with cassette tapes bearing my musical courting. Sometimes, I would leave a little whispered message at the end of the tape.
Now, here’s the tough part. A Mix tape is not just a collection of music. It must be carefully put together, flowing form one song to the next. You can’t just follow a tender, heart breaking song like Cocker’s version of “You Are So Beautiful” with something filled with wailing guitars and screaming voices.
It’s like the movie, “High Fidelity.” In fact, years later, my wife bought me that novel because the guy, his perchance for making mix tapes and his obsession with lists seemed to mirror my reason for existence. John Cusak’s role talks about the importance of the well designed mix.
You also have to be careful that you actually know the lyrics to the song. Just because the Police made the seemingly romantic song, “Every Breath You Take,” doesn’t mean it is romantic. The song is actually sort of a stalker song about the woman who broke his heart. Not good to send to a potential sweetheart.
A mix tape, and especially one with romantic intent, shouldn’t be an overt hump soundtrack…like AC/DC’s “Shook Me All Night Long,” or even a soft song, with soaring vocals like the Air Supply version of the Jim Steinman song “Making Love Out of Nothing At All.” AC/DC is what you sing to the local streetwalker. The Air Supply tune, like a lot of Steinman tunes, has a twist in it. Sounds romantic, but has that little dark side in it. Like Asia’s “Heat of the Moment.” Turns out to be about the girl who squandered it all and ended up lonely.
Now, the best romantic song ever, according to old crooner Frank Sinatra, was George Harrison’s Beatles tune “Something.” Simple, but powerful lyrics… whew…
“Something in the way she moves,
Attracts me like no other lover.”
For your romantic mix, I have a few suggestions. Some are well known. A few others a less popular, but no less right for that perfect mix tape, or CD, or play list in the modern IUPOD.
“Something” by the Beatles
“Maybe I’m Amazed” by Paul McCartney
I Loved You Before I Knew You” by Savage Garden
“Love Reign Over Me” by the Who
“Heaven” by Yusuf Islam , the old Cat Stevens
“A Certain Girl” by Warren Zevon
“Eternal Love” by Utopia featuring Todd Rundgren
“A Dream Goes On Forever” by Todd Rundgren
“Hot Summer Night” by Meat Loaf
“Tattoo” by Novo Combo
and many more….
Funny, when the Beatles broke up, one of the caustic things that Lennon said about McCartney was that he wrote “silly Love Songs.” So, McCartney wrote one of that name and made a million seller of it. And, it’s true, he did write a lot of happy love songs. Maybe the nearly 30 years he was married to Linda was some indication of that.
Of course, Lennon had his love songs too. “Dear Yoko,” “Oh My Love”, “(Just Like) Staring Over,” and “Grow Old Along With Me” would fit on anyone’s love mix.
Well, apparently, the “Stuff” tapes did their job, and we were married in Jan. of ’87. We have two great sons. We are headed toward our 23rd anniversary soon. Music is still a big part of every day for us. We still make pal lists for each other…for encouragement, for love, for hope.
Ashley recently made me one titled “The Bottom of The Box.” It refers to the bottom of Pandora’s box after she had let the evil escape. In the bottom, there was still Hope. Things had been kind of rough for me, and that music was to give me some hope, help and inspiration. It included songs like U2’s “Sometimes You Can’t Make IT on Your Own.”
Music… what is it to us?
Why do we listen to it when we are happy? Why do we listen when we are sad? Why do we listen to it when we use it to psych us up for competition? Why do we use it to set the mood?
Ever see a movie without a musical background? It seems deathly quiet and gray. Ever jog without music when you’ve been using it to run to for a while? Try working out with and without. Which is better?
Our music is hardwired into us. It begins in the womb with the heartbeat of our mother and continues with the throb of our own pulses. There is a rhythm to everyday life; clicking, pounding, whirring, blaring and croaking. The sounds are all around us, and they blend into our daily life, only evident in their absence.
I read an article once, in Discover magazine, about a musician who had a brain injury. He had been a composer, but after the injury, when he heard music, to him it sounded like jangling racket. His rhythm and music was hardwired into his very brain. It is more than an emotional part of us. It is us.
AUM, Harmony OF The Spheres, etc… whatever you call it, people have recognized that for millennia. When it comes from an IPOD or cell phone, is it no less a connection to the universal?
It is still that innate thing in us.
The Stuff tapes were just that. As I tried to send to her in song the feelings I had, it touched, in both of us, something universal. Something cosmic.
Who would have thought that a small Memorex tape could bear something of cosmic importance?
It did.
Music, Love, and the seeds of our present family all traveled across the state of Oklahoma, borne by Eros in the guise of the US Postal service.
And, what did it contain? Love and all that Stuff.
In 1986, I began courting Ashley Peck. I was teaching at Sapulpa Junior High and she was a student at the University of Oklahoma.
Ash had been a student of mine years before. After her graduation, she went to University of Oklahoma in Norman. That summer I ran into her as she worked at the fireworks stand belonging to her boyfriend’s family. We gossiped. I found out she was going to Tulsa junior College for some summer courses and I was driving back and forth to Stillwater working on some Master’s degree stuff. I asked her to look for a source for me at the TJC library.
That year at OU, Ash and her boyfriend broke up. She dated several other guys after that, but when she returned for the next summer, she started working at the Elk’s Lodge as a lifeguard. The lodge was just 3 blocks away from the duplex I shared with another coach, Wade Mosley. Ash started coming over during her breaks to drink my lemonade. At least that’s what I first thought.
It wasn’t until July that I worked up the nerve, with the incredible urging and massive insults form my buddy Mo, to kiss her for the first time.
Weird thing for me. I wasn’t the world’s biggest dater and spent a lot of my time with my brothers, a cousin, a couple buddies from college and the coaches I worked with.
We started to see each other. She brought over pizza. She actually asked me out to a movie and dinner. I said I was a little slow in the dating department.
But, football season rolled around and school started at OU. I went back into coaching all day long and Ash left for OU and her sorority.
Her mom and dad were not my best supporters in this romance. Dad didn’t want her dating her ex-teacher, even though she was out of school, in college and I wasn’t exactly an old fart. Meanwhile, I was thinking that the long distance romance was probably going to be tough. I knew from previous experience with long distance romance, that football season is a very unforgiving thing. It takes all of your time, weekends and evenings, and drains you to a point of exhaustion. And, that’s in a good year!
I started sending Ashley mix tapes. They were filled with romantic songs from almost every era of music. I couldn’t think of a better way than to keep me in her mind than by providing the background music of her fall semester.
I called the tapes “Stuff Tapes.” It was a reference to a comment one of us made, and now I can’t quite remember the context, about love and all that stuff. I flooded the US mail with cassette tapes bearing my musical courting. Sometimes, I would leave a little whispered message at the end of the tape.
Now, here’s the tough part. A Mix tape is not just a collection of music. It must be carefully put together, flowing form one song to the next. You can’t just follow a tender, heart breaking song like Cocker’s version of “You Are So Beautiful” with something filled with wailing guitars and screaming voices.
It’s like the movie, “High Fidelity.” In fact, years later, my wife bought me that novel because the guy, his perchance for making mix tapes and his obsession with lists seemed to mirror my reason for existence. John Cusak’s role talks about the importance of the well designed mix.
You also have to be careful that you actually know the lyrics to the song. Just because the Police made the seemingly romantic song, “Every Breath You Take,” doesn’t mean it is romantic. The song is actually sort of a stalker song about the woman who broke his heart. Not good to send to a potential sweetheart.
A mix tape, and especially one with romantic intent, shouldn’t be an overt hump soundtrack…like AC/DC’s “Shook Me All Night Long,” or even a soft song, with soaring vocals like the Air Supply version of the Jim Steinman song “Making Love Out of Nothing At All.” AC/DC is what you sing to the local streetwalker. The Air Supply tune, like a lot of Steinman tunes, has a twist in it. Sounds romantic, but has that little dark side in it. Like Asia’s “Heat of the Moment.” Turns out to be about the girl who squandered it all and ended up lonely.
Now, the best romantic song ever, according to old crooner Frank Sinatra, was George Harrison’s Beatles tune “Something.” Simple, but powerful lyrics… whew…
“Something in the way she moves,
Attracts me like no other lover.”
For your romantic mix, I have a few suggestions. Some are well known. A few others a less popular, but no less right for that perfect mix tape, or CD, or play list in the modern IUPOD.
“Something” by the Beatles
“Maybe I’m Amazed” by Paul McCartney
I Loved You Before I Knew You” by Savage Garden
“Love Reign Over Me” by the Who
“Heaven” by Yusuf Islam , the old Cat Stevens
“A Certain Girl” by Warren Zevon
“Eternal Love” by Utopia featuring Todd Rundgren
“A Dream Goes On Forever” by Todd Rundgren
“Hot Summer Night” by Meat Loaf
“Tattoo” by Novo Combo
and many more….
Funny, when the Beatles broke up, one of the caustic things that Lennon said about McCartney was that he wrote “silly Love Songs.” So, McCartney wrote one of that name and made a million seller of it. And, it’s true, he did write a lot of happy love songs. Maybe the nearly 30 years he was married to Linda was some indication of that.
Of course, Lennon had his love songs too. “Dear Yoko,” “Oh My Love”, “(Just Like) Staring Over,” and “Grow Old Along With Me” would fit on anyone’s love mix.
Well, apparently, the “Stuff” tapes did their job, and we were married in Jan. of ’87. We have two great sons. We are headed toward our 23rd anniversary soon. Music is still a big part of every day for us. We still make pal lists for each other…for encouragement, for love, for hope.
Ashley recently made me one titled “The Bottom of The Box.” It refers to the bottom of Pandora’s box after she had let the evil escape. In the bottom, there was still Hope. Things had been kind of rough for me, and that music was to give me some hope, help and inspiration. It included songs like U2’s “Sometimes You Can’t Make IT on Your Own.”
Music… what is it to us?
Why do we listen to it when we are happy? Why do we listen when we are sad? Why do we listen to it when we use it to psych us up for competition? Why do we use it to set the mood?
Ever see a movie without a musical background? It seems deathly quiet and gray. Ever jog without music when you’ve been using it to run to for a while? Try working out with and without. Which is better?
Our music is hardwired into us. It begins in the womb with the heartbeat of our mother and continues with the throb of our own pulses. There is a rhythm to everyday life; clicking, pounding, whirring, blaring and croaking. The sounds are all around us, and they blend into our daily life, only evident in their absence.
I read an article once, in Discover magazine, about a musician who had a brain injury. He had been a composer, but after the injury, when he heard music, to him it sounded like jangling racket. His rhythm and music was hardwired into his very brain. It is more than an emotional part of us. It is us.
AUM, Harmony OF The Spheres, etc… whatever you call it, people have recognized that for millennia. When it comes from an IPOD or cell phone, is it no less a connection to the universal?
It is still that innate thing in us.
The Stuff tapes were just that. As I tried to send to her in song the feelings I had, it touched, in both of us, something universal. Something cosmic.
Who would have thought that a small Memorex tape could bear something of cosmic importance?
It did.
Music, Love, and the seeds of our present family all traveled across the state of Oklahoma, borne by Eros in the guise of the US Postal service.
And, what did it contain? Love and all that Stuff.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Should Have Been a Rock Star- Dec 8, 1980
December 8 1980
The day we lost Lennon
I think it is the recent death of Michael Jackson, and the outpouring of grief of people who were his devoted fans that really draws me back almost 30 years to the day that I lost one of the icons of my youth. I remember when Elvis died. Both of my then sister-in-laws were he Elvis fans. I had a hard time comprehending why they were so upset over the loss of a pop singer, and probably said some joking things that I, then, thought was funny, but in retrospect, were cruel to those were his devotees.
I learned that lesson on December 8, 1980.
I was about 1 ½ years into my first teaching job. In August I had moved into a house in Sapulpa with my asst. coach and friend, Bud Sexson. We shared a small rental house and spent most of our free time around sports. We both coached Junior High football and he coached wrestling in the winter. I was free until spring track.
On Monday nights, we settled in the living room, Monday Night Football on the television. I usually had on headphones, listening to music and grading as I watched the visual part of the game. I must admit I had never been a big fan of the broadcasters who narrated the games. Especially Howard Cosell. This was his era in Monday Night Football.
Sometime around 10:30 pm, Bud shook my arm… saying “hey.. you’ve got to hear this. “ I took off the head phones and listened to Cosell make the announcement that apparently John Lennon had been shot.. Bud knew that I was a huge Beatles fan, as evidenced by my Beatles collection, both as a group and solo artists. I was stunned. I left the headphones off waiting for more news about John and the attack.
IT was just a few moments later that Cosell came back on with the tragic news.
“This, we have to say it, remember this is just a football game, no matter who wins or loses. An unspeakable tragedy, confirmed to us by ABC News in New York City: John Lennon, outside of his apartment building on the West Side of New York City, the most famous, perhaps, of all The Beatles, shot twice in the back, rushed to the Roosevelt Hospital, dead on arrival.”
I was stunned. John, the leader and rebel of the Beatle years was gone. He had just recently released his first new LP in 5 years, “Double Fantasy.” The song, “Just Like Starting Over” was frequent on the airwaves. John, after an absence that he spent as a househusband, caring for his new son born in 1975 on John’s own birthday, was gone.
The television that night was filled with news of Lennon’s death, and very little information about the event. ABC broke into programming to make the announcement. Walter Cronkite relayed the news to a watching population. I sat, switching channels, trying to find out if somehow there had been a mistake in the reporting. Maybe, it was all a big mistake.
I received two calls that night. The first call came from the girl I dated, Cas, who was a student at Kansas University. Cas had seen the news and knowing my feeling about the Beatles, called me to see how I was doing. A then student of mine, Ashley Peck, also called me. She, too, knew of my connection to the Beatles and called to talk with me about the shooting, in case I ahd not heard. Interesting, that today, after nearly 30 years, cas and I are still good friends and Ash and I have been married for 22 years.
The next few days, grieving fans swallowed the area around the Dakota apartments, where Yoko and son, Sean, lived. Flowers and pictures decorated the entrance to the apartments where the fatal shooting had occurred. People sang John’s songs and stood, in mass shock at the loss of a cultural icon. Who, alive then, did not have some memory attached to a song by John or the Beatles?
There was no funeral for John. He was cremated two days later. Yoko had made this announcement to the world…
"There is no funeral for John. John loved and prayed for the human race. Please do the same for him. Love, Yoko and Sean.”
She also requested that the thousands who thronged the area around the Dakotas re-convene on Dec. 14th for a 10 minute, world wide silence for John. 30,000 gathered in London. 100,000 filled Central park. I, along with my cousin, Rob, his sisters and others joined scores of people in a silence sponsored by KMOD, the local FM rock station. Me met, somber and quite, as music played form loud speakers, and as the time grew near, the crowd bowed heads in silent remorse, shared by a chain of fans from around the globe.
More news came out about John’s assassin, Mark David Chapman. He had been a Lennon imitator, as far as dress, granny glasses and even marrying a Japanese wife. He sometimes signed his name as John Lennon. But, in Dec., of 1980, Chapman bought a plane ticket from Hawaii to NYC with the twisted plan of killing the man he felt had sold out to materialism.
Chapman waited outside the Dakota apartments the day of the 8th. Lennon was visited by Annie Leibowitz, Rolling Stone photographer who took candid shots of Lennon and Ono. Lennon also gave an interview in which he said that he liked being older and making music for everyone who survived the 60’s. He had just turned 40 on October the 8th of the same year.
At 5 pm, Lennon and Ono left the apartments for a studio session to remix tracks. On the way to his car, Lennon stopped to sign autographs from fans. One of those fans was Chapman, who had Lennon sign on his copy of “Double Fantasy.” Lennon left. Chapman drifted near the apartments, sitting and reading a book.
They were at the studio for several hours and returned to the Dakota at about 10:20 pm (EST). Later, the Dakota doorman said he saw Chapman standing in the shadows nearby. As Ono and Lennon passed by, Chapman stepped out and fired 5 shots, 4 of which struck Lennon in the back. He was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital, even though he was still alive when the rushed him into a car.
Chapman was arrested without a struggle. The doorman had taken his gun and he sat silently waiting for the police. Chapman had been reading the book “The Catcher in The Rye.” Chapman apparently saw himself as the Catcher in th Rye, protecting others from Lennon.
People all over the world mourned John. The remaining Beatles made public statements about John. Paul recorded “Here Today” about John. George recorded “All Those Years Ago” with the help of both Paul and Ringo. Elton John, good friend of John and Yoko, released “Empty Garden (Hey, Hey Johnny).” Even bands like Queen (“”Life is Real”-song for John”), Molly Hatchet (“Fall of the Peacemakers”) and close buddy Harry Nilsson’s “Lay Down Your Arms” either mourned the loss of artist, icon and friend or chided the public on the USA’s easy access gun laws.
Later, in 1984the award winning film, “The Killing Fields,” made the poignant use of the song “Imagine.” I can recall, sitting in the dark theater, tears streaming down my dace as the chords of the song echoed around the theater. The moment in the movie was both touching and memorable, but I think that, too, I shed those tears for the loss I still felt over John’s death.
As Christmas break arrived, Cas drove down to visit me in Sapulpa. I was still in school for a one last day, and occasionally I was called to run a substitute bus route before my classes. She rode with me, sitting in the front seat as I guided the large Orangish-Yellow behemoth (my own Yellow Submarine) along a country route. The young kids, jacketed against the cold Oklahoma December morning, anxious for winter break, jabbered and flirted. The radio, small, tinny speakers set in to the bus walls, strained to be heard above the raucous din.
It was then I heard the three bells that introduced “Just Like Starting Over.” I turned, looking over my shoulder at Cas. Bundled, warm inside the clattery bus, she smiled, acknowledging the song.
“It's time to spread our wings and fly
Don't let another day go by my love
It'll be just like starting over, starting over”
I nodded and smiled back. John is gone, but forever always around me.
The day we lost Lennon
I think it is the recent death of Michael Jackson, and the outpouring of grief of people who were his devoted fans that really draws me back almost 30 years to the day that I lost one of the icons of my youth. I remember when Elvis died. Both of my then sister-in-laws were he Elvis fans. I had a hard time comprehending why they were so upset over the loss of a pop singer, and probably said some joking things that I, then, thought was funny, but in retrospect, were cruel to those were his devotees.
I learned that lesson on December 8, 1980.
I was about 1 ½ years into my first teaching job. In August I had moved into a house in Sapulpa with my asst. coach and friend, Bud Sexson. We shared a small rental house and spent most of our free time around sports. We both coached Junior High football and he coached wrestling in the winter. I was free until spring track.
On Monday nights, we settled in the living room, Monday Night Football on the television. I usually had on headphones, listening to music and grading as I watched the visual part of the game. I must admit I had never been a big fan of the broadcasters who narrated the games. Especially Howard Cosell. This was his era in Monday Night Football.
Sometime around 10:30 pm, Bud shook my arm… saying “hey.. you’ve got to hear this. “ I took off the head phones and listened to Cosell make the announcement that apparently John Lennon had been shot.. Bud knew that I was a huge Beatles fan, as evidenced by my Beatles collection, both as a group and solo artists. I was stunned. I left the headphones off waiting for more news about John and the attack.
IT was just a few moments later that Cosell came back on with the tragic news.
“This, we have to say it, remember this is just a football game, no matter who wins or loses. An unspeakable tragedy, confirmed to us by ABC News in New York City: John Lennon, outside of his apartment building on the West Side of New York City, the most famous, perhaps, of all The Beatles, shot twice in the back, rushed to the Roosevelt Hospital, dead on arrival.”
I was stunned. John, the leader and rebel of the Beatle years was gone. He had just recently released his first new LP in 5 years, “Double Fantasy.” The song, “Just Like Starting Over” was frequent on the airwaves. John, after an absence that he spent as a househusband, caring for his new son born in 1975 on John’s own birthday, was gone.
The television that night was filled with news of Lennon’s death, and very little information about the event. ABC broke into programming to make the announcement. Walter Cronkite relayed the news to a watching population. I sat, switching channels, trying to find out if somehow there had been a mistake in the reporting. Maybe, it was all a big mistake.
I received two calls that night. The first call came from the girl I dated, Cas, who was a student at Kansas University. Cas had seen the news and knowing my feeling about the Beatles, called me to see how I was doing. A then student of mine, Ashley Peck, also called me. She, too, knew of my connection to the Beatles and called to talk with me about the shooting, in case I ahd not heard. Interesting, that today, after nearly 30 years, cas and I are still good friends and Ash and I have been married for 22 years.
The next few days, grieving fans swallowed the area around the Dakota apartments, where Yoko and son, Sean, lived. Flowers and pictures decorated the entrance to the apartments where the fatal shooting had occurred. People sang John’s songs and stood, in mass shock at the loss of a cultural icon. Who, alive then, did not have some memory attached to a song by John or the Beatles?
There was no funeral for John. He was cremated two days later. Yoko had made this announcement to the world…
"There is no funeral for John. John loved and prayed for the human race. Please do the same for him. Love, Yoko and Sean.”
She also requested that the thousands who thronged the area around the Dakotas re-convene on Dec. 14th for a 10 minute, world wide silence for John. 30,000 gathered in London. 100,000 filled Central park. I, along with my cousin, Rob, his sisters and others joined scores of people in a silence sponsored by KMOD, the local FM rock station. Me met, somber and quite, as music played form loud speakers, and as the time grew near, the crowd bowed heads in silent remorse, shared by a chain of fans from around the globe.
More news came out about John’s assassin, Mark David Chapman. He had been a Lennon imitator, as far as dress, granny glasses and even marrying a Japanese wife. He sometimes signed his name as John Lennon. But, in Dec., of 1980, Chapman bought a plane ticket from Hawaii to NYC with the twisted plan of killing the man he felt had sold out to materialism.
Chapman waited outside the Dakota apartments the day of the 8th. Lennon was visited by Annie Leibowitz, Rolling Stone photographer who took candid shots of Lennon and Ono. Lennon also gave an interview in which he said that he liked being older and making music for everyone who survived the 60’s. He had just turned 40 on October the 8th of the same year.
At 5 pm, Lennon and Ono left the apartments for a studio session to remix tracks. On the way to his car, Lennon stopped to sign autographs from fans. One of those fans was Chapman, who had Lennon sign on his copy of “Double Fantasy.” Lennon left. Chapman drifted near the apartments, sitting and reading a book.
They were at the studio for several hours and returned to the Dakota at about 10:20 pm (EST). Later, the Dakota doorman said he saw Chapman standing in the shadows nearby. As Ono and Lennon passed by, Chapman stepped out and fired 5 shots, 4 of which struck Lennon in the back. He was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital, even though he was still alive when the rushed him into a car.
Chapman was arrested without a struggle. The doorman had taken his gun and he sat silently waiting for the police. Chapman had been reading the book “The Catcher in The Rye.” Chapman apparently saw himself as the Catcher in th Rye, protecting others from Lennon.
People all over the world mourned John. The remaining Beatles made public statements about John. Paul recorded “Here Today” about John. George recorded “All Those Years Ago” with the help of both Paul and Ringo. Elton John, good friend of John and Yoko, released “Empty Garden (Hey, Hey Johnny).” Even bands like Queen (“”Life is Real”-song for John”), Molly Hatchet (“Fall of the Peacemakers”) and close buddy Harry Nilsson’s “Lay Down Your Arms” either mourned the loss of artist, icon and friend or chided the public on the USA’s easy access gun laws.
Later, in 1984the award winning film, “The Killing Fields,” made the poignant use of the song “Imagine.” I can recall, sitting in the dark theater, tears streaming down my dace as the chords of the song echoed around the theater. The moment in the movie was both touching and memorable, but I think that, too, I shed those tears for the loss I still felt over John’s death.
As Christmas break arrived, Cas drove down to visit me in Sapulpa. I was still in school for a one last day, and occasionally I was called to run a substitute bus route before my classes. She rode with me, sitting in the front seat as I guided the large Orangish-Yellow behemoth (my own Yellow Submarine) along a country route. The young kids, jacketed against the cold Oklahoma December morning, anxious for winter break, jabbered and flirted. The radio, small, tinny speakers set in to the bus walls, strained to be heard above the raucous din.
It was then I heard the three bells that introduced “Just Like Starting Over.” I turned, looking over my shoulder at Cas. Bundled, warm inside the clattery bus, she smiled, acknowledging the song.
“It's time to spread our wings and fly
Don't let another day go by my love
It'll be just like starting over, starting over”
I nodded and smiled back. John is gone, but forever always around me.
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