Still Neat As Heck

There are men who can wear hats and men who can't. Attitude, I suspect. Oh, I love hats. I've got them all over the house. I guess that every time I've bought one over the years, I've always thought that this one will be the one to change it all.

My standard of living would be higher and my house less cluttered if I could have admitted this to myself thirty or forty years back.

Another thing that I can't seem to be able to pull off is slang. You've never had me tell you about my next gig, have you? I've never raved about how cool Elvis was or how groovy the Beatles were.

Now, I don't disapprove. In fact I admire the masters. Cab Calloway. Harry "The Hipster" Gibson. My old friend, Gary Dobbins. Maybe I just don't feel worthy. My patter is jammed with jargon from here and there. My patois consists of of whatever clogs my gyro and my sulci. There's slang in the mix. Lord knows I'm no purist. 

Small Ponds, Big Egos

Now, nobody appreciates a little self esteem more than I do. That said, cocky musicians, conspicuous consumers, conceited beauties and swaggering athletes leave me cold. It's a big old world out there and everybody's a local act somewhere.

Elvis stood and talked to me until he was late for his movie shoot. He was Elvis!

Life is way too short to spend time with folks worrying about how smart they are, how rich they are or how pretty they are.

The beauty is in the soul, the heart. The riches are all over the ground. Seashells and broken 7 Up bottles. The prettiest music comes from the mockingbird. Beethoven knew it. All the great ones know where the best melodies are to be had.

Yeah, you're special. Everybody's special. Lord Buckley told us.

I've Seen 'em All

Looking back at my first introduction to my pal, David Amram, I remember being something less than overwhelmed with the stories that swirled around him. He was pals with Kerouac and Ginsberg and all those guys that we now refer to as "the beats." Yeah, well what does that make him, right?

Of course as the stories mount it begins to become obvious that nobody's in the right place at the right time all of the time. Ambassador of Jazz with Louis. Best friend of Leonard Bernstein. Then the big one. David was with Lord Buckley in Manhattan on the day that he died. Okay, now I'm impressed.

Sometimes the stories cloud the value of David's music. His philosophy of music is original and spiritual. He's a genius and, believe me, I don't throw that term around.

Now, time has gone by and I have stories. It comes from living a long time. Elvis offered to teach me karate. I held up Jimi's Marshall cabinets. Speedo took me to a party that the Coasters were throwing. Yeah, well, what does that make me, right?

Oh. I stood and watched Moondog on the corner in the city and Tiny Tim told me that he would see me in heaven.

I have a philosophy of music, too. I truly believe that it is the ultimate expression of all of the love and all of the intimacy that cannot be expressed with words. I'm positive that love's DNA is wrapped around the musical scale. I love you all.

The Threat Of Rock'n'Roll

Wasn't rock'n'roll a lot more fun when there was something naughty about it? Now the generation that went nuts over Elvis and Little Richard and then the Beatles is the geriatric set. All of the guitar gods wear hearing aids.

I really wish that every new bunch could have the thrill that we all shared disregarding our parents' demands that we limit our input of pop culture in order to avoid fire and brimstone.

Of course my mom strayed from the role a bit. She introduced me to the art form and the life. Even at the end, while she pretended to regret that I never amounted to anything, she always let me know that she was filled with pride over my music. To quote somebody, "Thank God for mothers with no better sense than mine."

What The Mystics See

My grandmother saw the transition from horse and buggy to the automobile. She would have been eleven or twelve years old when McKinley was assassinated and a young seventy one when we lost JFK. The 19th amendment gave her the right to vote in 1920 and she breezed through prohibition. She heard about the Wright Brothers and their little invention, took her first airplane ride in the early '60's and watched Walter Cronkite show us footage of a man walking on the moon.

She was here for the birth of rock'n'roll, too, and she always loved it.

Grandma, Elvis & Mom

Oh, I've got some stories but nothing like what she had. I was here for the beginning of rock'n'roll, too, though and I will always be grateful for that.

Who's Gonna Break Our Hearts?

Well, none of us can be surprised that ol' No Show has gone on. Eighty one years is a good run even if you haven't worked hard on self destruction for decades. Makes me start to really appreciate the power of heartbreak communicated through song. I love happy music. I could march around the kitchen to Sousa all day or slide across the floor to Arthur Conley until I wore out my socks.

Ray Charles tore my heart out, though. On a regular basis, too. When Hank Williams told us how lonely he was it killed me, even as a kid. Little Willie John wreaked havoc with my emotions. It's a long list. It would be impossible not to mention Billie Holiday and Arthur Alexander.

I never had in mind singing sad tunes. Never knew I did until folks started asking me about it. I don't see much of a future in peddling sadness. Hasn't really paid that well for the last fifty years. You do what you do, though. I'm a happy guy.

It's All About The Hairdo

Talent? Overrated in my opinion. It's on every street corner. Looking for your fifteen minutes that Andy promised you? Create a look that changes everything and build it around an outrageous hairdo that no one can ignore. This is Esquerita. He was wildly talented. His hairdo caught the eye of Richard Penniman who was going by the moniker, Little Richard. Oh yeah, he was wildly talented, too. When I first read Esquerita's claims that Richard had borrowed the look I was appalled. Then I heard Mr. Penniman gushing about Esquerita and saying that he had borrowed the idea of the look from him.

Next thing you know little Bobby Zimmerman from Hibbing, Minnesota has become Bob Dylan. He had always wanted to be Little Richard. Well, up until he decided that he wanted to be Woody Guthrie. By the release of Highway 61 Revisited there was the hairdo again. This time he hit it out of the park and he was famous. No, he was a legend.

You see, originality is not the key here. We all saw Moe Howard's pudding basin coiffure long before we saw newsreel footage of the Beatles on Jack Paar. No, it has more to do with attitude and putting that look out there.

I don't need to provide any kind of complete list to make my point here. For me and lots of others rock'n'roll got a kickstart from Bill Haley. Rock Around the Clock was magic but that spit curl was other worldly. Of course Elvis threatened all western civilization with sideburns and a ducktail. 

Is this sexist? Marilyn was the blonde, right? Jayne just went blonder. It's all across the board, all over the map, all through history. Einstein, Gorgeous George, Angela Davis, Yul Brynner, Jerry Lewis, Jesus.

Yeah, my showbiz advice: get a ruthless agent. First, though: get your hairdo right.

Give us peace on earth and end this dreadful, dreadful war.

Success?

There he was, the king on the floor where he fell from the throne. The whole world mourned with Memphis. If Elvis wasn't the model for success in pop culture then who was? Michael Jackson?

How are we supposed to understand the concept of "making it?"

I've got stardust in both pockets and muscles on both arms. What watches over me? Meditate on love. If you find that you can't sit still, rock'n'roll. It'll get you there, too.

Box Of Chocolates

My mom took me around to the back of the armory in Birmingham and I shook Roy Rogers' hand through the tour bus window. Charlie Louvin offered to share his styrofoam cup of coffee with me. Jackie Wilson showed me the scars on his chest and belly where he had been stabbed. Brenda Lee strolled up to me and asked me the time. After playing our set at Curtis Hixon, I had to stand behind Jimi Hendrix's Marshall cabinets and hold them up in case he whacked them. Owsley Stanley offered me an apple backstage at a Grateful Dead show. Later I sat and listened to the band discuss warning the kids in the audience that the cops were busting folks all through the audience. The Lone Ranger shook my hand and gave me a mask at an air show in Birmingham. Tiny Tim told me that he would see me in heaven and, if there is a heaven, I believe he might. Elvis offered to teach me karate. Don Garlits called and invited me to lunch. He stopped on the way and asked if I would mind if we went by and picked up Connie Swingle on the way. A friend took me into Pop Staple's dressing room and introduced me and left us alone, saying,"You two will have a lot to talk about." We had nothing but it was a thrill being there with him. Janis Joplin changed her clothes in front of me just before going out onstage and getting herself arrested after a fantastic show. Eric Clapton gave me his Coricidin bottle, thinking that it was mine after playing my National Duolian. I was trying to sell it to him. He offered to buy it for Duane Allman but Duane declined. Ernie Lee let me play his J-200. B.B. King invited us to come up to his hotel room the day after a show for a visit.

I grumble about our celebrity culture all the time. I have little patience for Madonna's comeback or Lady Gaga's interview. I have always provided some truth to the theory that some god provides for fools and won't let the helpless starve or freeze. I have just stood there and some spirit has brought my heroes around to me, too.

Did I mention that Tom Waits strolled up and introduced himself once as I stood in the wings and watched Frank Zappa sound checking? He seemed like a nice guy.

Oh, I Was Loved

We moved from Birmingham to Tampa when I was six years old, my mom, my grandmother and me. It was my idea. Every summer Grandma would take me back up to visit the aunts and uncles and cousins. The highlight was always working in Uncle Murray's watermelon patches. He would pay us in silver dollars and we were pretty sure that we were rich. Closest I ever came, actually.

I learned pretty much everything that I know during those summers. My grandmother, Lottie, was the finest person I ever knew. She loved more than you can imagine, more than I can describe. 

We spent our money at Cobb's Hardware and at the drug store. That's where I first discovered Hep Cat's Review. It cost fifty cents, twice what the other rock'n'roll magazines cost.

George bought black hair dye after one payday. He wanted to look like Elvis. It turned his hair green and Aunt Noot's pot purple. George didn't look a thing like Elvis He still doesn't.

I miss Grandma every day.

Tell The King The Killer's Here

       It's getting down to the last of the real heroes now. Smart money has always been on Jerry Lee.

Grandma & Elvis

I know that I've told you the stories of my adventures traveling up to Crystal River as often as I could get someone to drive me in order to spend time with Elvis Presley while he was filming Follow That Dream. On the first couple of trips we would arrive before sunup and have him pretty much to ourselves. He was too sweet and too polite to walk away. He would stay and talk until he was late for the filming.

On the third or fourth trip I convinced my grandmother, Lottie, to come along. She had always loved Elvis. Let's face it, she was southern. She did truly believe that we were all a bit overboard to make a trip for a couple of hours every day just to see him and she told us all the way up there.

As soon as we stepped out of the car, however, the King stepped from the doorway of his cottage at Port Paradise, the resort where he was staying. Grandma left us in the dust and made a beeline for Elvis. She grabbed him in a bear hug and burst into uncontrollable sobs. While she cried her eyes out, Elvis laughed his head off. I don't think either of them had ever enjoyed a moment in life more.

                                                               Lottie, Elvis & Mom

He spent lots of time exchanging stories and posing for pictures. The next trip up she took him a coconut cake that she baked for him. A fresh coconut cake. We had always read that that was his favorite dessert. I read in an interview in a movie magazine months later that a little lady from St. Petersburg had taken him a coconut cake. Close enough.

Grandma made several more of the pilgrimages up with us. One afternoon we sat around outside of the Colonel's bungalow. My grandmother told Elvis about all of the fights that I had been in during grade school standing up for him.

He smiled one of those really exaggerated crooked ones and mumbled,"I'll teach him something to take care of that."

"Karate?" I asked, hoping to sound worldly or at least somewhat sophisticated for a thirteen year old.

"Yeah."

I've got lots of stories about Grandma and lots of stories about the King. My favorites are the ones with both of them. I'm a very lucky man.