Zen Music Moment
My brother Keith. He passed away just about 4 years ago. He was older than I by about ten years. But, I had always been close to him and to his kids, Brian and Ellen.
Keith was the guy who when he came home from the air force would bring me stacks of comic books that his buddies there had collected. He was the guy who drove to Kansas to watch me play college football. When he arrived, I wasn’t in the room because I was out pacing the campus, a thing I did for nerves before the games, so he just settled in with the rest of the guys. Keith never knew there was a such thing as a stranger, one of my buddies had said.
Keith actually lived with me for a short time after his divorce. I was teaching and coaching when he moved in. It was football season, and Keith felt like playing football was like getting to be a good. Getting to coach it was the next best thing.
He was pretty surprised when he found out just how much time we spent at the job, breaking down films over and over and planning for the opponents. That might have taken a little of the luster off it for him, but a few years later when I decided to leave football, for what would eventually be 6 years, I told him my decision, and he said “why would you want to do that?”
Keith was also a cowboy at heart. For several years, besides doing his job as an airline engine mechanic at American Airlines, he worked as a farrier and hose trainer. There was a small local horse track outside of town and after moving out of my house, eh moved into a trailer there to be close to the horses.
He always wore his blue jams and boots, with his pant legs obviously quickly almost stuffed in the boots. He walked with a swagger, smoked way too much and he could cuss with the best of them. Keith could create a stream of swear words that even a pirate would blush at. Keith could drive his standard pickup with a cigarette in one hand, a beer in the other and manage to drink the can dry, crush it and toss it in the back of his moving pick up while juggling his cigarette and next cold can. Despite the fact he was a crusty tough guy, he sometimes sat very girlishly with one leg wrapped around the other. I always giggled silently when I saw him in that position.
He had damaged vocal chords when he had to have radiation treatments for a growth in his throat. After that, he spoke with a gravelly voice that seemed to be a reflection of his rough nature. He had nicknames for everyone, intended to shock and at te same time praise. He once told my brother Tom, “well, you’re a good looking son of a bitch, ain’t ya?” To my wife who had finished her master’s degree, he said, “You’re one smart bitch.”
Keith took some getting used to by some people of milder sensibilities, but till his end, would still never drink a beer in front of dad, and even tried to temper his language in front of the man he loved so dearly.
Keith died of several things. He had the problems with his throat, but still continued to smoke, as hard headed of a son of a bitch as he was. And, I say that with all affection. He would have nodded and said, “I’m gonna do what I want to.” He drank a lot, and probably more to medicate himself. This eventually caused a lot of intestinal problems, kinks and blockages. I sat with him in the hospital a few times when he would finally seek treatment.
When he died, he collapsed at home, getting ready to brush his teeth. His adopt4ed daughter from his marriage to Debbie rushed to him. She said he lay on the floor, smiled and then was gone.
Brian and Ellen asked me to be the speaker at the funeral. I have spoken at three funerals, Ashley’s mom Nelva, Keith’s and my Dad’s. All hard and all, to me a person who cri3es easily, tough to be able to stand and speak about what that person was.
Brian and Ellen didn’t want a preacher to do the service and the family wanted him brined in an old west style pine box. I think he would have liked that. He would have been pissed that we made a big deal about him, but had he been there, would have joined right in the story telling, laughing, slapping his knee and sitting in that faggish girl thing he did.
After I spoke, telling the story of Keith Dugan and then telling anecdotes of my own about him, the floodgates opened. Everyone wanted to talk about something they did with Keith. It became a celebration of Keith’s life. Finally, the stories wound down, and the last song played over the sound system. They had chosen all Johnny cash songs to play as the crowd entered and sat. At the end, the final song was “Sunday Morning Coming Down.” It was a song written by Kris Kristoferson and sung so painfully by Johnny Cash.
I sat now, behind the podium, with the refrain of that song about a man, his pain and his beer drifting about me. There, protected from the view of the crowd, I my piece spoken, I could finally mourn. Tears filled my eyes and I held in the sob as it painfully ached in my chest. I can never hear that song again without thinking of my dear brother, gone far too early and missed so greatly.
And there's nothin' short of dyin',
Half as lonesome as the sound,
On the sleepin' city sidewalks:
Sunday mornin' comin' down.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
I Should Have Been a Rock Stra- Home Sweet Oklahoma
Home Sweet Oklahoma
I think it was the spring of my sophomore year at Sterling College when we, a few of the guys at school and I decided to travel to each other’s hometowns. I was a friend with guys from Kansas City, Missouri, Chicago, Marion, Ohio, Detroit, and Holton, Kansas. We were a diverse group brought together I that little farm town right smack dab in the middle of Kansas and almost the geographic center of the continental United States.
For a place that was in the middle of everything, it was very much not in the middle of much as far as “happening.” Sterling was small and quiet, much like my hometown in Kiefer, Oklahoma. Although, Kiefer was about 20 minutes form a town the size of Tulsa and you had to drive over an hour to find the same from Sterling.
It was that spring when we loaded into my car, a 1970 Ford Maverick referred to as Bessie the Wondercar and headed south toward the land of the Dugans. The drive was about five hours and we were packed in. Te maverick was probably not built to haul a bunch of college football players, but somehow, we made it work.
There had been other trips, loaded down as well, when our collective weight made the car rub on the tires on bumps and dips. But, Bessie struggled valiantly to get us to the Promised Land and we arrived there just in time for dinner. Mom always had a spread of Oklahoma inspired cooking when we pulled in with whatever collection of guys had traveled with me. The first trip I took home during my freshman year brought three Yankees to the Dugan house, one each from Chicago, Detroit and Kansas. There, they were confused by white gravy and the fried chicken, but adjusted soon enough to devour everything she prepared.
After eating, we loaded back into Bessie for the 4 mile drive to Kiefer. Our house sat on top of a hill in the middle of Dugan Road. Dugans had lived in this area for so long that eventually the country road there became formally labeled as “Dugan.” It was a road I had jogged earnestly summer after summer in preparation for the line of football seasons I was to bulldoze through. It zigged and zagged downhill, over railroad tracks and then on a small highway into the town.
To drive around Kiefer was not a time consuming event. It was a town that might have held 1000 people. At one time, it had been a thriving oil boom town with thousands of people, saloons, movie theaters and banks, but when the Glenpool oil fields played out, it became a slowly dying oil town, with a few remaining companies which maintained the shrinking number of pumping wells. It was morphing into a bedroom community for people who wanted to live in a country town and commute to work in Tulsa or Sapulpa
We drove past the essential tour sites.. the football field, high school, the old drug store which still had ancient soda fountain chairs, tables and stand. The Fountain stand was no longer used, but the owner, Minerva, also Kiefer’s oldest living graduate at the time, kept it intact while doing the business of a general store. The tour was short, but the evening was good and we drove, windows open for a few more laps around the town’s downtown area.
It was there we were hailed and stopped by my high school buddy, Larry Lutts. This was Larry’s first year out of school. He graduated the year following me. We had been friends since we were 6 years old.
Larry got out of his car and walked to our window. “hey, Charles! You’re back in town!”
We talked for a few moments. It was obvious that Larry had been at a party. He definitely smelled like the Budweiser that I knew he loved. But, he had big news for us that he was obviously excited about.
“Leon Russell is playing in that old auction barn in Glenpool! You’ve gotta go see him!”
Leon Russell was the Tulsa musician who was big on the music scene at that time. He had released several great hits including “Tight Rope” and “Lady Blue.” He had been in George Harrison’s “Concert For Bangla Desh” and toured and wrote for Joe Cocker. Leon even lived in Tulsa and rumor was that he drve around in a pink Rolls, supposedly even stopping at the Kiefer dairy Queen at one time. He was the Tulsa Sound.
But, in Glenpool? At the auction barn? Glenpool was our sports rival, only 6 miles away on highway 75. It was a town not much larger than Kiefer and had obviously left its better days behind in the oil boom. The auction barn was a large garage type building that sat in a gravel lot right beside the highway leading into Tulsa. Inconceivable to me that Leon would be there.
“Larry, you must be drunk.” I said. “Leon in Glenpool?”
“I might be, but he’s there, “ Larry insisted. “What can you lose to drive over there and find out?” he argued.
I looked around in the car at the rest of the guys. It was Scott who said, “Yeah, let’s give it a look.” Funny, because I think Scott never owned a record or stereo until we became roommates. But, he was up for a look to see if we would find a world famous musician in a barn in Glenpool, Oklahoma.
So, we took the dark 2-lane road from Kiefer east to Glenpool. Turning up highway75, we cruised into the gravel lot adjacent to the barn. There were several cars lined up in the lot, and there seemed to be lights on inside.
When I stepped out of the car, I was met with a familiar sound. Leaning on my open door as the other guys piled out, I heard the words, I’m A Stranger in a Strange land” booming out of the barn, and piano and guitar waling right along in tune. And, it sure sounded like Leon’s voice.
The other guys looked at me. “It sounds like Leon,” I said. I had heard enough of his music that I could tell the difference between a live song and the LP, and so as Larry walked up to join us, and pointed toward the door, we began the walk toward the music.
Timidly, almost reverently, we pushed the door open. There, at the opposite end of the barn stood a collection of musicians playing drums, guitars and tambourines. Around the low stage area and stretching back to the door, some forty or fifty people lay or sat in various recline, listening to the band.
At the right side of the stage, in cowboy hat and sunglasses, long gray hair streaming down his back, sat Leon, pounding at the piano as if he were in a Pentecostal revival! “Told you it was true, “ Smiled Larry.
Leon always played like it was hell fire and brimstone revival time. The story was that he cut his teeth playing the piano in church as a young guy in Tulsa. It truly reminded me of the music I heard when I went to hear a sermon by our team running back, Larry Dashiell.
Larry had the appropriate name and therefore nickname for a college running back- “Dash.” The guy could fly on the field, but he also spent is time as a pastor of a local AME church in town. We went to hear him one week, and were greeted with a sensory event new to a boy raised in a tight lipped Southern Baptist church. The crowd was rocking and swaying while dash preached the word! The pianist, another college student named Brian, played that thing like it was in a Honky Tonk. We three were the only white people in the crowd, and our starched shirt upbringing was most apparent in the exhausting rocking service.
That was like Leon’s music.
We crept in like mice; sitting quietly at the back as he finished the song, talked to the other musicians and played several others. A roadie brought in beer for the band stacked high on a dolley. Leon stopped, strolled around the stage. His daughter, a little girl, climbed onto his piano seat, and began pounding the keys, while singing a kid’s church song into the mike.
Finally, seeing that things were winding down, we crept out as quietly as we had slipped in. returning to the car, we gushed about the cool experience of seeing Leon, live and in person in such a relaxed setting. We stood and gossiped with Larry before finally resettling in Bessie to make the drive back to Dugan house.
I have seen Leon live many times, both before and after that event. He had rented the Glenpool auction barn to rehearse for an upcoming tour. It was still a strange thing since eh owned his own recording studios in both Tulsa and at Grand Lake. Why was he there? I never found out for sure, but it was an unexpected bonus for me, for Larry and the guys who had driven that long road form Kansas to come to little Kiefer.
I think it was the spring of my sophomore year at Sterling College when we, a few of the guys at school and I decided to travel to each other’s hometowns. I was a friend with guys from Kansas City, Missouri, Chicago, Marion, Ohio, Detroit, and Holton, Kansas. We were a diverse group brought together I that little farm town right smack dab in the middle of Kansas and almost the geographic center of the continental United States.
For a place that was in the middle of everything, it was very much not in the middle of much as far as “happening.” Sterling was small and quiet, much like my hometown in Kiefer, Oklahoma. Although, Kiefer was about 20 minutes form a town the size of Tulsa and you had to drive over an hour to find the same from Sterling.
It was that spring when we loaded into my car, a 1970 Ford Maverick referred to as Bessie the Wondercar and headed south toward the land of the Dugans. The drive was about five hours and we were packed in. Te maverick was probably not built to haul a bunch of college football players, but somehow, we made it work.
There had been other trips, loaded down as well, when our collective weight made the car rub on the tires on bumps and dips. But, Bessie struggled valiantly to get us to the Promised Land and we arrived there just in time for dinner. Mom always had a spread of Oklahoma inspired cooking when we pulled in with whatever collection of guys had traveled with me. The first trip I took home during my freshman year brought three Yankees to the Dugan house, one each from Chicago, Detroit and Kansas. There, they were confused by white gravy and the fried chicken, but adjusted soon enough to devour everything she prepared.
After eating, we loaded back into Bessie for the 4 mile drive to Kiefer. Our house sat on top of a hill in the middle of Dugan Road. Dugans had lived in this area for so long that eventually the country road there became formally labeled as “Dugan.” It was a road I had jogged earnestly summer after summer in preparation for the line of football seasons I was to bulldoze through. It zigged and zagged downhill, over railroad tracks and then on a small highway into the town.
To drive around Kiefer was not a time consuming event. It was a town that might have held 1000 people. At one time, it had been a thriving oil boom town with thousands of people, saloons, movie theaters and banks, but when the Glenpool oil fields played out, it became a slowly dying oil town, with a few remaining companies which maintained the shrinking number of pumping wells. It was morphing into a bedroom community for people who wanted to live in a country town and commute to work in Tulsa or Sapulpa
We drove past the essential tour sites.. the football field, high school, the old drug store which still had ancient soda fountain chairs, tables and stand. The Fountain stand was no longer used, but the owner, Minerva, also Kiefer’s oldest living graduate at the time, kept it intact while doing the business of a general store. The tour was short, but the evening was good and we drove, windows open for a few more laps around the town’s downtown area.
It was there we were hailed and stopped by my high school buddy, Larry Lutts. This was Larry’s first year out of school. He graduated the year following me. We had been friends since we were 6 years old.
Larry got out of his car and walked to our window. “hey, Charles! You’re back in town!”
We talked for a few moments. It was obvious that Larry had been at a party. He definitely smelled like the Budweiser that I knew he loved. But, he had big news for us that he was obviously excited about.
“Leon Russell is playing in that old auction barn in Glenpool! You’ve gotta go see him!”
Leon Russell was the Tulsa musician who was big on the music scene at that time. He had released several great hits including “Tight Rope” and “Lady Blue.” He had been in George Harrison’s “Concert For Bangla Desh” and toured and wrote for Joe Cocker. Leon even lived in Tulsa and rumor was that he drve around in a pink Rolls, supposedly even stopping at the Kiefer dairy Queen at one time. He was the Tulsa Sound.
But, in Glenpool? At the auction barn? Glenpool was our sports rival, only 6 miles away on highway 75. It was a town not much larger than Kiefer and had obviously left its better days behind in the oil boom. The auction barn was a large garage type building that sat in a gravel lot right beside the highway leading into Tulsa. Inconceivable to me that Leon would be there.
“Larry, you must be drunk.” I said. “Leon in Glenpool?”
“I might be, but he’s there, “ Larry insisted. “What can you lose to drive over there and find out?” he argued.
I looked around in the car at the rest of the guys. It was Scott who said, “Yeah, let’s give it a look.” Funny, because I think Scott never owned a record or stereo until we became roommates. But, he was up for a look to see if we would find a world famous musician in a barn in Glenpool, Oklahoma.
So, we took the dark 2-lane road from Kiefer east to Glenpool. Turning up highway75, we cruised into the gravel lot adjacent to the barn. There were several cars lined up in the lot, and there seemed to be lights on inside.
When I stepped out of the car, I was met with a familiar sound. Leaning on my open door as the other guys piled out, I heard the words, I’m A Stranger in a Strange land” booming out of the barn, and piano and guitar waling right along in tune. And, it sure sounded like Leon’s voice.
The other guys looked at me. “It sounds like Leon,” I said. I had heard enough of his music that I could tell the difference between a live song and the LP, and so as Larry walked up to join us, and pointed toward the door, we began the walk toward the music.
Timidly, almost reverently, we pushed the door open. There, at the opposite end of the barn stood a collection of musicians playing drums, guitars and tambourines. Around the low stage area and stretching back to the door, some forty or fifty people lay or sat in various recline, listening to the band.
At the right side of the stage, in cowboy hat and sunglasses, long gray hair streaming down his back, sat Leon, pounding at the piano as if he were in a Pentecostal revival! “Told you it was true, “ Smiled Larry.
Leon always played like it was hell fire and brimstone revival time. The story was that he cut his teeth playing the piano in church as a young guy in Tulsa. It truly reminded me of the music I heard when I went to hear a sermon by our team running back, Larry Dashiell.
Larry had the appropriate name and therefore nickname for a college running back- “Dash.” The guy could fly on the field, but he also spent is time as a pastor of a local AME church in town. We went to hear him one week, and were greeted with a sensory event new to a boy raised in a tight lipped Southern Baptist church. The crowd was rocking and swaying while dash preached the word! The pianist, another college student named Brian, played that thing like it was in a Honky Tonk. We three were the only white people in the crowd, and our starched shirt upbringing was most apparent in the exhausting rocking service.
That was like Leon’s music.
We crept in like mice; sitting quietly at the back as he finished the song, talked to the other musicians and played several others. A roadie brought in beer for the band stacked high on a dolley. Leon stopped, strolled around the stage. His daughter, a little girl, climbed onto his piano seat, and began pounding the keys, while singing a kid’s church song into the mike.
Finally, seeing that things were winding down, we crept out as quietly as we had slipped in. returning to the car, we gushed about the cool experience of seeing Leon, live and in person in such a relaxed setting. We stood and gossiped with Larry before finally resettling in Bessie to make the drive back to Dugan house.
I have seen Leon live many times, both before and after that event. He had rented the Glenpool auction barn to rehearse for an upcoming tour. It was still a strange thing since eh owned his own recording studios in both Tulsa and at Grand Lake. Why was he there? I never found out for sure, but it was an unexpected bonus for me, for Larry and the guys who had driven that long road form Kansas to come to little Kiefer.
Friday, January 30, 2009
I Should Have Been a Rock Star- Zen Moment 7
My dad loved to sing.
He sang in church all the time. At times, he even sang duets with MOM, or as a trio with Mom and Aunt Bonnie.
His favorites were always the old classic hymns. They would sing “The Old Rugged Cross” and the three of them would often sing “Surely Goodness and Mercy Shall Follow Me…”… always to our youthful whispered jokes about which one of them was Goodness and Mercy since Mom was named Shirley.
At times, Dad would sing alone.. Something I always found to be very brave since I have a voice that creaks and cracks. The tune he sang most often was “How Great Thou Art.” His strong but untrained voice would boom out the lines “I see the Stars, I hear the rolling thunder. Thy power throughout the universe displayed” with all the conviction and passion of a real believer.
That he was.
It was comforting for Mom and dad to break into song as we drove in the car. Many a night as I dozed in the bad seat, it was a warm feeling of security as they sang together the familiar hymns.
As Dad grew older and ventured into his 80’s, a new song leader arrived at the church with newer songs and some different tempos. Dad had never been able to read music, and with his diminishing sight felt as if his chances to sing were being taken away. It left him angry and frustrated. He even walked out of choir practice at one time, according to Mom, because that wasn’t the way those songs were supposed to be sung. He sat in the car alone, singing his songs loudly in his very own tired and trusted beat and timber.
The most memorable, and something that has stuck with my sons and my wife, is that in the last years of his life, my dad one day, while the family was gathered in the house, kids running here and there, TV blaring and adults gossiping, dad took a break from watching NFL games to limp slowly outside and sit alone on the front porch swing.
His knees ached and his vision was blurred for everything except to grumble at the TV referees, but sitting there on the porch, he slowly rocked back and forth and begun to sing.
He sang strong and loud the old hymns that had given him so much comfort through out his life. The same songs that a young man sang as he shoveled grapes in a California field in the 1930’s. The same words that had buoyed him in the hold of a ship crossing the Pacific towards the war in Asia. The same ideas that made him the man he was.
Dad didn’t need a pew, or choir or song leader to sing the praises he so fervently believed. It was just between him and his God while we listened from the inside of the house.
He sang in church all the time. At times, he even sang duets with MOM, or as a trio with Mom and Aunt Bonnie.
His favorites were always the old classic hymns. They would sing “The Old Rugged Cross” and the three of them would often sing “Surely Goodness and Mercy Shall Follow Me…”… always to our youthful whispered jokes about which one of them was Goodness and Mercy since Mom was named Shirley.
At times, Dad would sing alone.. Something I always found to be very brave since I have a voice that creaks and cracks. The tune he sang most often was “How Great Thou Art.” His strong but untrained voice would boom out the lines “I see the Stars, I hear the rolling thunder. Thy power throughout the universe displayed” with all the conviction and passion of a real believer.
That he was.
It was comforting for Mom and dad to break into song as we drove in the car. Many a night as I dozed in the bad seat, it was a warm feeling of security as they sang together the familiar hymns.
As Dad grew older and ventured into his 80’s, a new song leader arrived at the church with newer songs and some different tempos. Dad had never been able to read music, and with his diminishing sight felt as if his chances to sing were being taken away. It left him angry and frustrated. He even walked out of choir practice at one time, according to Mom, because that wasn’t the way those songs were supposed to be sung. He sat in the car alone, singing his songs loudly in his very own tired and trusted beat and timber.
The most memorable, and something that has stuck with my sons and my wife, is that in the last years of his life, my dad one day, while the family was gathered in the house, kids running here and there, TV blaring and adults gossiping, dad took a break from watching NFL games to limp slowly outside and sit alone on the front porch swing.
His knees ached and his vision was blurred for everything except to grumble at the TV referees, but sitting there on the porch, he slowly rocked back and forth and begun to sing.
He sang strong and loud the old hymns that had given him so much comfort through out his life. The same songs that a young man sang as he shoveled grapes in a California field in the 1930’s. The same words that had buoyed him in the hold of a ship crossing the Pacific towards the war in Asia. The same ideas that made him the man he was.
Dad didn’t need a pew, or choir or song leader to sing the praises he so fervently believed. It was just between him and his God while we listened from the inside of the house.
I Should Have Been a Rock Star- Zen Moment 6
My family had undertaken the dream trip of a lifetime. In mid-June, we flew to England with the intent of taking three weeks to drive the length and breath of England, Wales and Scotland.
We traveled cheap, eating lunch from grocery stores, breakfast at our B&B and eating at a pub for dinner. We stayed in London the first several days before renting a car and striking out across the island. On our 3rd or 4th day out of London, traveling first across the south of England, from Canterbury to Salisbury before turning north, we stopped in a small town, located a music store and bought “Queen’s Greatest Hits” on cassette for the boys. Wayne’s world” had recently made a new generation aware of Queen and so listened and sang Queen’s hits, especially “Bohemian Rhapsody” as we drove.
Our pace was mad, but Ash and I were determined to cram as much of the British Isles into this trip as possible. The boys did great, even though they were both young. I think Fletch was about 10 and Cor6. They behaved like troopers and from time to time were rewired such as when we stumbled onto a 12th c farmhouse Bed and Breakfast near the city of Bath. We stayed the night and the boys were able to run and play with the animals.
On one of our stops, in the late English afternoon, near the border of Scotland, we unloaded our gear into the B&B and walked to a nearby park. The air was cool with sea breeze and the grass and trees were a bright green. The boys immediately ran towards the swings positioned inside a small fenced area while ash and walked behind them.
In the park, we pushed the boys in their swings and ran with them, playing chase and tag. As we played, we began to sing Beatles songs, beginning with “The Yellow Submarine” and rolling from one song to the next. The boys knew the songs by heart, as many had served as their bedtime lullabies.
We skipped through the late afternoon to the tune of a dozen songs by our favorite Liverpudlians, and then tired and happy, arm in arm, made our way back to expected rest and beds of the small B&B.
The Beatles never sounded so good as sung on their own soil.
We traveled cheap, eating lunch from grocery stores, breakfast at our B&B and eating at a pub for dinner. We stayed in London the first several days before renting a car and striking out across the island. On our 3rd or 4th day out of London, traveling first across the south of England, from Canterbury to Salisbury before turning north, we stopped in a small town, located a music store and bought “Queen’s Greatest Hits” on cassette for the boys. Wayne’s world” had recently made a new generation aware of Queen and so listened and sang Queen’s hits, especially “Bohemian Rhapsody” as we drove.
Our pace was mad, but Ash and I were determined to cram as much of the British Isles into this trip as possible. The boys did great, even though they were both young. I think Fletch was about 10 and Cor6. They behaved like troopers and from time to time were rewired such as when we stumbled onto a 12th c farmhouse Bed and Breakfast near the city of Bath. We stayed the night and the boys were able to run and play with the animals.
On one of our stops, in the late English afternoon, near the border of Scotland, we unloaded our gear into the B&B and walked to a nearby park. The air was cool with sea breeze and the grass and trees were a bright green. The boys immediately ran towards the swings positioned inside a small fenced area while ash and walked behind them.
In the park, we pushed the boys in their swings and ran with them, playing chase and tag. As we played, we began to sing Beatles songs, beginning with “The Yellow Submarine” and rolling from one song to the next. The boys knew the songs by heart, as many had served as their bedtime lullabies.
We skipped through the late afternoon to the tune of a dozen songs by our favorite Liverpudlians, and then tired and happy, arm in arm, made our way back to expected rest and beds of the small B&B.
The Beatles never sounded so good as sung on their own soil.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
I Shoauld Have Been a Rock Star - BOC and Trippin in Wichita
Blue Oyster Cult in Wichita and Trippin’
The guys and I at Sterling College heard on the Wichita Rock station that Blue Oyster Cult was coming to play in Wichita. It was like a musical black hole there. Sterling was a farm and small college town, surrounded by other small farm towns. The nearest city of any size was 60 miles away.We grasped at strands to hear and find anything new. There we were. In the midst of the AOR rock and Roll era, and all we could see what that it was all being taken over by Disco… the spawn of Satan.
We hated Disco. At least, most of us. We wanted our Ted Nugent ( long before his apparent right wing psycho era), Kansas, BOC, Boston and BOC. Even the one time 60’s rock band, the Bee Gees, had converted to disco, and the club we had traveled to in near by Hutchinson had converted form a rock and blues club to a disco club.
The chance to see and hear BOC was something none of us could pass up. We scraped and scrambled, borrowed form each other and finally bought several tickets to the mid-January concert. When the date finally arrived, we all piled into Pitts’ converted van to travel to the show. The van itself was a wonder of mechanics. It had been one of those vans where a huge lump rose between the front seats to house the engine… but Pitts and his brother had decided to do some work on it, welding an extension onto the frame, and moving the engine forward out of the interior. They created a boxy nose cover that protruded out of the regular van grill to house the newly extended motor.
So, this mutant van, loaded with longhaired and clean-cut college students alike, lurched out of Sterling and pointed south in the cold, cold Kansas winter late afternoon in search of rock and roll. Two sat in the newly spacious front, while the rest of us piled in the empty back, sprawled atop blankets and pillows.
Almost half way to Wichita, the worst of situations. The rear left tire went flat under the weight of a hefty crew of college football players and civilians. We fell out the van into the darkening cold on the side of a 2 lane state road that stretched both ways without break. There was no convenient service station. No cheerfully lit convenience store awaiting our arrival. It was a frigid lonely highway and flat tire that threatened our dose of metal and mayhem in the shape of Blue Oyster Cult.
Pitts jacked up the van, removed the tire. We stood staring at it with dumb expression. The ugly fact surfaced that the spare had been taken out of the back to make room for our bulks in the van.
Stranded.
There we stood, my long hair and whipped by a bitter Kansas winter wind. Pitts stood silently, but defensively as others said “ what a dumbass thing.. Taking out the spare!” “How else would we all fit?” Piitts argued. Of course, none of us planed for the worst. And as far as giving Pits hell, that was part of it. Each of us would catch our appropriate amount of shit when our turn arose. The others sat inwait of a screw up 9n order to drag you kicking and screaming across the coals. It wasn’t personal… we all got it.
Shifting from foot to foot, unequipped to stand in the unexpected cold, finally, Scott said, “ We passes a town a few miles back there.” “But that was haven.” We all chimed in.
Haven was a Mennonite town nestled on a broad turn in the high way. We went o college with some of the Mennonite students who liv4ed on the farms surrounding the town. The sight of horse drawn carriages trotting along the side of the roads in Rice County was not an unfamiliar event. We couldn’t conceive that Haven would have anything that would propel us toward the warm confines of the Wichita Convention Center and the thunder of electric guitars.
Scott volunteered to walk back to haven with the tire. Pitts went as well. Scott had always been our get-things-done guy. His all American looking 6’4 frame grabbed the tire and began moving quickly toward that Mennonite haven. The rest of us, all 6, stood, shifting from foot to foot, walking and flapping arms to stay warm since we were unable to reenter the van as it perched precariously on a jack in the gravel side of the road.
It was then that the weirdness began. Our starting quarterback Dan and our middle linebacker Steen announced that they had dropped acid shortly before getting into the van for the one and one-half hour drive to the concert. “Things are getting weird,” Dan said.
Apparently, the weirdness permeated the entire area. Pitts and Scott made t to haven, where they finally located a group of people who stared at them suspiciously. It was in a small bar like building where we always suspected they met t0o exchange secret plans and handshakes. Pitts was able to convince someone to help him and they opened a tractor store to fix the tire. Pitts always said it had been a twilight zone experience in haven, but they were inflated and began the cold trot back to the stranded mutant van.
Meanwhile, both Dan and Steen had started to enter a deep experience that resulted in both running around without their shirts screaming, ‘It’s not really cold! Just think about Florida!!”
I thought I was going to found at morning light, frozen and sitting beside the road, ice caking my Fu Manchu and eyebrows. Even my bones seemed to be creaking from the biting winds that drove from the North across the flat prairie.
Finally, Scott and Pitts arrived, red cheeked and triumphant. We quickly remounted the tire with frozen fingers, crawled in to the dark corned of the van as the heater sparked to life and warmed our frosted bodies.
The lucky thing about most concerts I the 70’s was that nothing started on time. BOC was no different. We handed our tickets to the man at the door and hustled in to find standing space in the open seating that was so common then. It would take a tragedy at a Who concert to end that style of seating. Several kids were killed, literally trampled to death as people rushed the doors to get the best standing spaces on the floor at the Who show in Cincinnati.
We were mostly big guys. We created our space on the floor and shifted from foot to foot waiting for the show to begin. Dan leaned toward me and whispered suspiciously, “Duge, this check over here is trying to talk to me I think. Dies she have a dog head because all she’s doing is barking?”
At last, the lights dimmed, the crowd roared and hundreds of lighters flickered in the darkness to welcome the band and to light the rolled paper crops that they had smuggled into the arena. None of the guys I was with lit up. Most of us had come to see the show, and it as something I could never understand, even after I finally tried pot. Why pay so much to be messed up at a concert? I wanted to hear every note and feel every sound. I know a lot of people disagree with me, and say it enhances the experience, but I never saw a concert stoned.
Now, Dan and Steen were a different story. They were in a groove. The bass guitar shook the floor, and laser lights shone out at the crowd and ricocheted off the huge glass ball suspended over the auditorium. The wall of sound BOC cranked out thundered through us and we were filled with music and the presence of others swaying and screaming to the same beat.
As the show drew close to an end, the band members started playing a song that had a long, throbbing, building rhythm. As the grinding rhythm grew louder and louder, a wall of laser light appeared over the crowd. The wall, stretching from the stage to the back wall, inched lower and lower over the standing audience, looming like a solid object set to crush us beneath the weight of the heavy beat. Dana and Steen were freaking out. The apparent solidness of the wall of light had them bending lower and lower as the wall moved closer and closer. They held their hands upward as they bent lower to hold back the wall if possible. “man,” shouted Steen, this is gonna crush us!”
I held my arm above me, creating a break in the light, to show them that the wall was only an illusion. Then they, in obvious relief began poking their hands into the light timidly and laughing with relief with the pardon forma death by being crushed.
The wall lifted and BOC finished with a thundering rendition of “Buck’s Boogie.” All five members of the band, keyboardist and drummer included ended up at the front of the stage, al with guitars played in sync as Buck dharma finished the show with a blazing guitar solo.
We exited the auditorium, refreshed and tired. Hungry, we found a burger King and ate before making the dark, and thankfully, uneventful return to our small campus in the center of the state and plains of Kansas.
The guys and I at Sterling College heard on the Wichita Rock station that Blue Oyster Cult was coming to play in Wichita. It was like a musical black hole there. Sterling was a farm and small college town, surrounded by other small farm towns. The nearest city of any size was 60 miles away.We grasped at strands to hear and find anything new. There we were. In the midst of the AOR rock and Roll era, and all we could see what that it was all being taken over by Disco… the spawn of Satan.
We hated Disco. At least, most of us. We wanted our Ted Nugent ( long before his apparent right wing psycho era), Kansas, BOC, Boston and BOC. Even the one time 60’s rock band, the Bee Gees, had converted to disco, and the club we had traveled to in near by Hutchinson had converted form a rock and blues club to a disco club.
The chance to see and hear BOC was something none of us could pass up. We scraped and scrambled, borrowed form each other and finally bought several tickets to the mid-January concert. When the date finally arrived, we all piled into Pitts’ converted van to travel to the show. The van itself was a wonder of mechanics. It had been one of those vans where a huge lump rose between the front seats to house the engine… but Pitts and his brother had decided to do some work on it, welding an extension onto the frame, and moving the engine forward out of the interior. They created a boxy nose cover that protruded out of the regular van grill to house the newly extended motor.
So, this mutant van, loaded with longhaired and clean-cut college students alike, lurched out of Sterling and pointed south in the cold, cold Kansas winter late afternoon in search of rock and roll. Two sat in the newly spacious front, while the rest of us piled in the empty back, sprawled atop blankets and pillows.
Almost half way to Wichita, the worst of situations. The rear left tire went flat under the weight of a hefty crew of college football players and civilians. We fell out the van into the darkening cold on the side of a 2 lane state road that stretched both ways without break. There was no convenient service station. No cheerfully lit convenience store awaiting our arrival. It was a frigid lonely highway and flat tire that threatened our dose of metal and mayhem in the shape of Blue Oyster Cult.
Pitts jacked up the van, removed the tire. We stood staring at it with dumb expression. The ugly fact surfaced that the spare had been taken out of the back to make room for our bulks in the van.
Stranded.
There we stood, my long hair and whipped by a bitter Kansas winter wind. Pitts stood silently, but defensively as others said “ what a dumbass thing.. Taking out the spare!” “How else would we all fit?” Piitts argued. Of course, none of us planed for the worst. And as far as giving Pits hell, that was part of it. Each of us would catch our appropriate amount of shit when our turn arose. The others sat inwait of a screw up 9n order to drag you kicking and screaming across the coals. It wasn’t personal… we all got it.
Shifting from foot to foot, unequipped to stand in the unexpected cold, finally, Scott said, “ We passes a town a few miles back there.” “But that was haven.” We all chimed in.
Haven was a Mennonite town nestled on a broad turn in the high way. We went o college with some of the Mennonite students who liv4ed on the farms surrounding the town. The sight of horse drawn carriages trotting along the side of the roads in Rice County was not an unfamiliar event. We couldn’t conceive that Haven would have anything that would propel us toward the warm confines of the Wichita Convention Center and the thunder of electric guitars.
Scott volunteered to walk back to haven with the tire. Pitts went as well. Scott had always been our get-things-done guy. His all American looking 6’4 frame grabbed the tire and began moving quickly toward that Mennonite haven. The rest of us, all 6, stood, shifting from foot to foot, walking and flapping arms to stay warm since we were unable to reenter the van as it perched precariously on a jack in the gravel side of the road.
It was then that the weirdness began. Our starting quarterback Dan and our middle linebacker Steen announced that they had dropped acid shortly before getting into the van for the one and one-half hour drive to the concert. “Things are getting weird,” Dan said.
Apparently, the weirdness permeated the entire area. Pitts and Scott made t to haven, where they finally located a group of people who stared at them suspiciously. It was in a small bar like building where we always suspected they met t0o exchange secret plans and handshakes. Pitts was able to convince someone to help him and they opened a tractor store to fix the tire. Pitts always said it had been a twilight zone experience in haven, but they were inflated and began the cold trot back to the stranded mutant van.
Meanwhile, both Dan and Steen had started to enter a deep experience that resulted in both running around without their shirts screaming, ‘It’s not really cold! Just think about Florida!!”
I thought I was going to found at morning light, frozen and sitting beside the road, ice caking my Fu Manchu and eyebrows. Even my bones seemed to be creaking from the biting winds that drove from the North across the flat prairie.
Finally, Scott and Pitts arrived, red cheeked and triumphant. We quickly remounted the tire with frozen fingers, crawled in to the dark corned of the van as the heater sparked to life and warmed our frosted bodies.
The lucky thing about most concerts I the 70’s was that nothing started on time. BOC was no different. We handed our tickets to the man at the door and hustled in to find standing space in the open seating that was so common then. It would take a tragedy at a Who concert to end that style of seating. Several kids were killed, literally trampled to death as people rushed the doors to get the best standing spaces on the floor at the Who show in Cincinnati.
We were mostly big guys. We created our space on the floor and shifted from foot to foot waiting for the show to begin. Dan leaned toward me and whispered suspiciously, “Duge, this check over here is trying to talk to me I think. Dies she have a dog head because all she’s doing is barking?”
At last, the lights dimmed, the crowd roared and hundreds of lighters flickered in the darkness to welcome the band and to light the rolled paper crops that they had smuggled into the arena. None of the guys I was with lit up. Most of us had come to see the show, and it as something I could never understand, even after I finally tried pot. Why pay so much to be messed up at a concert? I wanted to hear every note and feel every sound. I know a lot of people disagree with me, and say it enhances the experience, but I never saw a concert stoned.
Now, Dan and Steen were a different story. They were in a groove. The bass guitar shook the floor, and laser lights shone out at the crowd and ricocheted off the huge glass ball suspended over the auditorium. The wall of sound BOC cranked out thundered through us and we were filled with music and the presence of others swaying and screaming to the same beat.
As the show drew close to an end, the band members started playing a song that had a long, throbbing, building rhythm. As the grinding rhythm grew louder and louder, a wall of laser light appeared over the crowd. The wall, stretching from the stage to the back wall, inched lower and lower over the standing audience, looming like a solid object set to crush us beneath the weight of the heavy beat. Dana and Steen were freaking out. The apparent solidness of the wall of light had them bending lower and lower as the wall moved closer and closer. They held their hands upward as they bent lower to hold back the wall if possible. “man,” shouted Steen, this is gonna crush us!”
I held my arm above me, creating a break in the light, to show them that the wall was only an illusion. Then they, in obvious relief began poking their hands into the light timidly and laughing with relief with the pardon forma death by being crushed.
The wall lifted and BOC finished with a thundering rendition of “Buck’s Boogie.” All five members of the band, keyboardist and drummer included ended up at the front of the stage, al with guitars played in sync as Buck dharma finished the show with a blazing guitar solo.
We exited the auditorium, refreshed and tired. Hungry, we found a burger King and ate before making the dark, and thankfully, uneventful return to our small campus in the center of the state and plains of Kansas.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Should Have Been a Rock Star Channeling Jimi
Channeling Jimi Hendrix
I believe that it was the summer of 1976 when my brother Tim and I went to an all-day outdoor concert in Tulsa to see Bob Segar and the Silver Bullet Band. The weather turned nasty, rain and mud, so the promoters moved the show from the fairgrounds to the huge fairgrounds exposition building.
The stage was located at the end of a huge concreted floor area. Fans who had expected an outdoor show in open summer sunshine instead were greeted with an enclosed, stuffy building, filled with the echo of bustling long-haired guys and girls in an array of bell bottoms and halter tops. Lawn chairs and ice chests, intended for the outside, littered the expanse of the room as pre-concert tunes vibrated through the concrete floors. I could feel the thump of bass speakers in my chest.
The show was scheduled to open with a new band called Ruby Star, and followed by Mahogany Rush and Black Oak Arkansas before the day’s headline act of Segar and mates took the stage. Ruby Star was a “find” of Black Oak and Mahogany Rush was the new heavy metal band with a twist of Medieval and fantasy, as were most of the metal bands of that period. Uriah Heep, Rainbow, and dozens of other progressive Rock bands played in pseudo-medieval wear and sang about magic, dragons and the power of Rock.
The sweet smell of hundreds of joints wafted across the arena mixed with cigarettes and beer. At this point in my life, just after my sophomore year in college, I still had not tried either pot or beer. I had been around it plenty, but seemed to always be the driver for those who were in pursuit of an altered state of consciousness.
Ruby Star took the stage and played a hectic rock and blues 45 minute set. The curly haired female lead singer, wailed and stomped the stage, and despite the fact I thought she was sexy, we had drifted to the back of the concert crowd with an apathetic eye on the stage. The Girls drifting around the crowd were more interesting than the Ruby Star stage show. They ended up releasing one album with little fanfare before disappearing.
The stage cleared and the second band began set up. I had one of Mahogany Rush’s albums and had read somewhere about their fabled beginnings. The story went that Frank Marino, their lead guitarist and songwriter had at one time been hospitalized with a drug overdose. Before going into the hospital, he had never played a musical instrument. There, he lapsed into a coma and experienced something that changed his life.
While drifting in the fog of his drug induced coma, Marino supposedly said that he had a vision of Jimi Hendrix. Now, Jimi had died just five years before the concert that I was attending, and only two years before their first LP release. According to these rumors, when Frank awoke form his coma, he was able to play guitar just like Hendrix.
When they took the stage, Marino never said a word, just went straight into his set of pounding drum and wailing guitar. The first song was one of his own, which he immediately followed by the old Tornados instrumental classic “Telstar.” Frank was playing some screaming guitar!
Without a break, he launched into Hendrix’s “Purple Haze.” The song was perfect. I couldn’t imagine Jimi doing it any better. The set followed with Hendrix song after Hendrix song, until by the end of the set, I found myself and my brother standing in front of the stage, having been drawn form the back of the crowd. I stood; wide mouthed as, I swear, I saw Jimi Hendrix channeled that day through Frank Marino. The set left me exhausted and wanting more, but after using his warm-up band allotted time, Marino and Mahogany Rush disappeared.
The rest of the show, despite a great performance by Segar, was simply postscript for me. If anyone had asked me that day, I would swear that the ghost of Jimi Hendrix possessed Marino. It was a near divine experience.
Now, Marino’s web suite discusses the rumor of the LSD overdose and Hendrix visitation, and denies that Marino ever told anyone that story. It even goes into the growth of the tale and its mutations. But, if you had asked a19 year old Charlie on that day in a hot, stuffy building in Tulsa, Oklahoma, he was a believer
I believe that it was the summer of 1976 when my brother Tim and I went to an all-day outdoor concert in Tulsa to see Bob Segar and the Silver Bullet Band. The weather turned nasty, rain and mud, so the promoters moved the show from the fairgrounds to the huge fairgrounds exposition building.
The stage was located at the end of a huge concreted floor area. Fans who had expected an outdoor show in open summer sunshine instead were greeted with an enclosed, stuffy building, filled with the echo of bustling long-haired guys and girls in an array of bell bottoms and halter tops. Lawn chairs and ice chests, intended for the outside, littered the expanse of the room as pre-concert tunes vibrated through the concrete floors. I could feel the thump of bass speakers in my chest.
The show was scheduled to open with a new band called Ruby Star, and followed by Mahogany Rush and Black Oak Arkansas before the day’s headline act of Segar and mates took the stage. Ruby Star was a “find” of Black Oak and Mahogany Rush was the new heavy metal band with a twist of Medieval and fantasy, as were most of the metal bands of that period. Uriah Heep, Rainbow, and dozens of other progressive Rock bands played in pseudo-medieval wear and sang about magic, dragons and the power of Rock.
The sweet smell of hundreds of joints wafted across the arena mixed with cigarettes and beer. At this point in my life, just after my sophomore year in college, I still had not tried either pot or beer. I had been around it plenty, but seemed to always be the driver for those who were in pursuit of an altered state of consciousness.
Ruby Star took the stage and played a hectic rock and blues 45 minute set. The curly haired female lead singer, wailed and stomped the stage, and despite the fact I thought she was sexy, we had drifted to the back of the concert crowd with an apathetic eye on the stage. The Girls drifting around the crowd were more interesting than the Ruby Star stage show. They ended up releasing one album with little fanfare before disappearing.
The stage cleared and the second band began set up. I had one of Mahogany Rush’s albums and had read somewhere about their fabled beginnings. The story went that Frank Marino, their lead guitarist and songwriter had at one time been hospitalized with a drug overdose. Before going into the hospital, he had never played a musical instrument. There, he lapsed into a coma and experienced something that changed his life.
While drifting in the fog of his drug induced coma, Marino supposedly said that he had a vision of Jimi Hendrix. Now, Jimi had died just five years before the concert that I was attending, and only two years before their first LP release. According to these rumors, when Frank awoke form his coma, he was able to play guitar just like Hendrix.
When they took the stage, Marino never said a word, just went straight into his set of pounding drum and wailing guitar. The first song was one of his own, which he immediately followed by the old Tornados instrumental classic “Telstar.” Frank was playing some screaming guitar!
Without a break, he launched into Hendrix’s “Purple Haze.” The song was perfect. I couldn’t imagine Jimi doing it any better. The set followed with Hendrix song after Hendrix song, until by the end of the set, I found myself and my brother standing in front of the stage, having been drawn form the back of the crowd. I stood; wide mouthed as, I swear, I saw Jimi Hendrix channeled that day through Frank Marino. The set left me exhausted and wanting more, but after using his warm-up band allotted time, Marino and Mahogany Rush disappeared.
The rest of the show, despite a great performance by Segar, was simply postscript for me. If anyone had asked me that day, I would swear that the ghost of Jimi Hendrix possessed Marino. It was a near divine experience.
Now, Marino’s web suite discusses the rumor of the LSD overdose and Hendrix visitation, and denies that Marino ever told anyone that story. It even goes into the growth of the tale and its mutations. But, if you had asked a19 year old Charlie on that day in a hot, stuffy building in Tulsa, Oklahoma, he was a believer
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Should Have Been a Rock Star- Zen Moment 5
Zen Music moment
My niece Ellen got married. It was a pretty big affair. The wedding was filled with people from both families. Dugans poured out of every corner. Ellen’s dad, my brother Keith, was actually dressed up… an unusual thing since he lived in his jeans and cowboy boots. Ellen was dressed in Ashley’s wedding dress that she had worn the January day we walked down the isle together.
The wedding was you r typical bride and groom exchange “I do’s”… and both of them looked nervous and radiant. They bounced down the aisle after being declared “husband and wife.”
After the wedding, and the family receptions, we adjourned to another place for serious post-wedding celebration. Ellen had rented a dance floor at one of south Tulsa’s hotels. There was music and the booze flowed like… well, like wine! The group of us there drank, and ate and danced to the music. It was mixed in with various drinking games, moments of Karaoke by Ellen and her brother Brian. They sang a duet together, something by Kiki Dee, I think.
The best moment of the evening was, as the music pounded louder and louder and the crowd became less and less inhibited, when Metaloaf’s song, “Paradise by the dashboard Lights” came on the system. Metaloaf has always been one of my favs. I remember featuring his first LP, “Bat Out Of Hell” when I was a DJ on campus radio. It has the only song I ever ‘soloed’ on at a Karaoke bar…”You Took The Words Right Out of My Mouth (Hot Summer Night)”
“Paradise” just has some sort fo appeal… a song that runs about 9 minutes long, but ti had every one up on the floor, dancing and singing. As the song played on into a dialogue between the horny guy and the reluctant girl, the dance floor divided into male and female sides, the males singing the Meatloaf parts and the females singing the Ellen Foley parts. A raucous and loud, drunken rendition of Meatloaf that ended in sweaty, joyful musical reenactment of the never ending battle of the sexes.
Even I, the dancing wallflower, played my part, caught up in the swirl of m music and dance.
“And I never had a girl
Looking any better than you did
And all the kids at school
They were wishing they were me that night”
My niece Ellen got married. It was a pretty big affair. The wedding was filled with people from both families. Dugans poured out of every corner. Ellen’s dad, my brother Keith, was actually dressed up… an unusual thing since he lived in his jeans and cowboy boots. Ellen was dressed in Ashley’s wedding dress that she had worn the January day we walked down the isle together.
The wedding was you r typical bride and groom exchange “I do’s”… and both of them looked nervous and radiant. They bounced down the aisle after being declared “husband and wife.”
After the wedding, and the family receptions, we adjourned to another place for serious post-wedding celebration. Ellen had rented a dance floor at one of south Tulsa’s hotels. There was music and the booze flowed like… well, like wine! The group of us there drank, and ate and danced to the music. It was mixed in with various drinking games, moments of Karaoke by Ellen and her brother Brian. They sang a duet together, something by Kiki Dee, I think.
The best moment of the evening was, as the music pounded louder and louder and the crowd became less and less inhibited, when Metaloaf’s song, “Paradise by the dashboard Lights” came on the system. Metaloaf has always been one of my favs. I remember featuring his first LP, “Bat Out Of Hell” when I was a DJ on campus radio. It has the only song I ever ‘soloed’ on at a Karaoke bar…”You Took The Words Right Out of My Mouth (Hot Summer Night)”
“Paradise” just has some sort fo appeal… a song that runs about 9 minutes long, but ti had every one up on the floor, dancing and singing. As the song played on into a dialogue between the horny guy and the reluctant girl, the dance floor divided into male and female sides, the males singing the Meatloaf parts and the females singing the Ellen Foley parts. A raucous and loud, drunken rendition of Meatloaf that ended in sweaty, joyful musical reenactment of the never ending battle of the sexes.
Even I, the dancing wallflower, played my part, caught up in the swirl of m music and dance.
“And I never had a girl
Looking any better than you did
And all the kids at school
They were wishing they were me that night”
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