Paper Cuts and Auto Parts

Something in the ether recharges my cosmic batteries from time to time and I'm whole again. Younger than before. A force wakes me up from mundane dreams and I'm on fire. Passion takes over with no hint of negativity and I'm new.

It would be nice if it didn't come at 1:30 in the morning but I'll take it when I can get it.

Friends die. Heroes die. I mourn rock'n'roll. 

Fate awakens me to remind me that the reports of rock'n'roll's death are greatly exaggerated. Rock'n'roll has to stand for something, stand up to something. What would Superman have been without villains plotting evil? You can't do battle in tights for truth and justice without bad guys to destroy.

Maybe I never get gold records. Or the girl.

As long as Moriarty dabbles in radio, sabotages elections, invests in arms manufacturing and runs the NRA- I've got my work cut out for me. Wake up. Love. Harder.

                                       

The Heroes

The best part of the blessing of working with most of my heroes is that very few of them have ever let me down. The rock'n'roll stars lived up to their images: bigger than life; kind; fascinating.

Bo Diddley never ran out of stories. The Jimmy Reed adventures were a whole category. He ranted about child rearing, junkyards, drug abuse. He complained about the music business and his spot in history. He was obsessed with law enforcement. He wanted to produce a record with us.

First time that I had seen him I was nine years old and my mom had taken me to the armory in Tampa for "The Biggest Rock'n'Roll Show Of '56." He almost blew the walls down. Best part- he wore glasses. Eyeglasses! I had just started wearing them and it gave me the signal that I could still grow up to rock'n'roll. I did. Bo Diddley Is A Lover came out in 1961. Boy, I wish I had the nerve to call a record Ronny Elliott Is A Lover.

"One Cop In Wentzville"

Working with my all time hero moved pretty quickly from the thrill of a lifetime to something in the nightmare category. Chuck Berry was a great guy when he chose to be. Often he made other decisions.

The last time I played with him, though, was a highlight of everything that has passed before me. He had made us an offer that we couldn't really refuse through the promoter. We packed a borrowed van and headed for Miami. The show was at the Jai Alai fronton and the opening act was the James Gang. 

We had grown more or less accustomed to Chuck's uneven performances. Oh, the good ones were always special. The lesser shows always had more predictable material and less duckwalking. This evening was special from the opening chords of Nadine.

The set lasted two and a half hours. Chuck ranted, he raved. He dropped to his knees to recite poetry. He was on fire and the young crowd stayed on their feet throughout the workout. He bragged on the Mike Douglas Show the next week to John and Yoko that he had just played the longest set of his career.

At the little reception table a sweat drenched Dr. Berry kept up the party mood inviting us to come visit at Berry Park. "There's only one cop in Wentzville and I've got polaroids of him!" he shouted. I thought it was just a little tasteless joke. Of course several years later I realized from assorted news items that it probably wasn't altogether a joke.

I sure am glad that we ended our run with the greatest living American on such a high note. He's still my hero.

As Time Goes By

My mom left the planet a year ago. I missed Mother's Day with her and I suppose I'll miss it all the more this time around. Her passing ended a five year "losing streak," however, and my life began to pull itself out of the mire.

Over cafe con leche yesterday my pal, Larry, told me, "Hey. You're well. I know you've been telling me for awhile now that you're doing better but now you really are. You don't even look the same."

All of my pals who had been kind enough and patient enough to stick with me had told me over and over that only time passing would make things okay. Time passed. I'm okay.

I love harder than ever. I just don't expect anything in return. I rock'n'roll with all I've got. I get plenty in return. I can't take it to the bank but it has made me a rich man.

I love you very much.

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.

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.

All The Oxygen, All The Luck

Sometimes I worry that I may use up all of the good fortune allotted to the planet. It hardly seems fair that another old white guy gets everything that he wants, whenever he wants it. I've never had any bad luck. I've never been cheated or abused. Folks are good to me. I'm Ronny Elliott for a living. How hard can that be?

Oh sure, I've had a few jobs that I complained about. Probably just enough and for just long enough to remind me that I was designed and built to play rock'n'roll. I was even born at the time necessary to get in on the ground floor.

It's hard to bellyache about the loved ones that I've lost. The blessing of them passing through my life has given me the real gift of love that makes it all worthwhile.

I surely would love to give some back. I love just as hard as I can but, starting today, I'm gonna love harder. I have an obligation to stand up for the ones who can't and to carry the banner for peace, too. I've got songs to write and stories to tell.

I suppose that the luckiest part of the deal is knowing just how lucky I am. Boy!

By the way, happy International Women's Day, too. Did I mention that everything good in my life has come from the women in it? I bow to the sweeter, stronger gender. Thank you for everything.

Memphis

"Folk music. Remember when that crap almost caught on?" Probably my all-time favorite Martin Mull quote. As a kid I was always scared to death of folk music. The media was always working to make fools like me worry that rock'n'roll might be replaced at any moment. They worked it with calypso, too, so I was never much of a Harry Belafonte fan.

Now I find that after forty eight or forty nine years of playing my beloved rock'n'roll that I'm a folksinger. I don't want to offend anyone here. Not everyone agrees with that. I do whatever it is that I do, whatever it is that I've always done. Unlike all those sensitive artists who don't want to be pigeonholed, stereotyped or classified, I'm always anxious to be a part of anything. Unlike Groucho Marx, I'm dying to join any group.

I'm off to Memphis this week to play Folk Alliance. I can't wait. I walk up to those little huddles in the hallways and blunder into all of the,"What model Taylor is that?" Nobody has to tell me that I don't fit here. These are nice folks, however, and honestly, I don't fit anywhere.

  

Hillbilly Music Comes Back To Tampa

In 1966 I tried my best to put together a real rhythm and blues band. I wanted horns, keyboards, girls in short dresses and somebody who could do a split at the crash of a cymbal. First a piano player would quit then none of the girls would show up. I finally ended up with three drummers and me, a bass player. Fortunately one of the drummers could play guitar and he taught another one a little bit. Voila, a band. Obviously we couldn't play the r&b that I had hoped for so we began to write hillbilly songs. I mean, let's face it, I had always been writing hillbilly songs.

We named that band Your Local Bear and one of our first shows was on a bill with Jimi Hendrix. Timing is everything in the music business and I'm something of a wizard at it. The Byrds were yet to record Sweetheart Of The Rodeo and the Eagles weren't even a grain of cocaine on the counter top.

That band failed spectacularly but I loved it. The smoking remains morphed into something that we called Duckbutter. It was full of magic and sweetness and bad taste. Folks around here still have their favorite Duckbutter stories. The myth out shadows the band here. So what? Here's some of that stuff with some of the Wally Watson Band onboard.

TheTwist Came From Tampa

No matter how many times Hank told the story and regardless of changes made, the twist always came from Tampa! My mom took me to see Hank Ballard and the Midnighters at Fort Homer Hesterly Armory on a bill with Sam Cooke, Laven Baker, Little Willie John and Marv Johnson. The Midnighters put on the best rock'n'roll show that I have ever seen and I've see a few. Pray for old Dick Clark.

The twist democratized rock'n'roll. White folks could pretend to dance. Funny thing is that it all sprang from a gospel song. We need a new twist. Give us peace on earth and end this dreadful, dreadful war.

R.I.P. Rock'n'Roll

When was rock'n'roll born? Who knows? Who cares! At some point it's like holding mirrors in front of mirrors, isn't it? You think you've stumbled across an original, the Killer, for example. Then someone turns you on to Harry "The Hipster" Gibson. You argue with another drunk at the bar about Chuck Berry's invention of sacred rock'n'roll guitar introductions and he drags you out to the car to play you some Carl Hogan licks off of Louis Jordan's records. There may be a beginning back there somewhere but I can't find it.

I'm afraid that I have lived to see the end, however. It's not that sad, not for the kids. They will have something great and good to live for. Something that's theirs. I never was big on nostalgia. Of course the spirit of all of that godliness will be with us forever. I've lived a life for this stuff. As I came of age, I thought it would save the world and maybe it did. Hail, hail rock'n'roll, indeed!

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.

"Career" Move

You have no idea how frequently I am asked, "You have any idea how big you would be if you died?" Sometimes the enquirer will delicately phrase the question to imply that maybe I should just write a book. That's nice but I know what they're thinking.

Is it really possible that this guy has played his beat down old heart out for nearly fifty years and this is all that he has to show for it? No gold records? No big hits?

Hey, sometimes I wonder what on earth would keep a nose to this particular grindstone. I look at where the careers of folks from Hank Williams to Anna Nicole Smith were at the time of their demise and I understand what my hopeful friends are getting at.

We always end up with faulty memories of where our heroes were in the grand scheme of things, career-wise, at their demise.

My tales about Elvis offering to teach me karate or holding up Jimi's amps or Tiny Tim bringing me a photo booth picture and telling me that he would see me in heaven all get wildly magnified in any imaginary obituary piece. I'll bet the sad songs would sound a lot sadder, too.

Don't misunderstand me here. I don't want to kick the bucket. Ever. For me it's beneath cutting the grass or having a filling replaced. The whole concept seems creepy and boring to me.

Maybe we will have a little pretend poll here, though. Let me know what you think. Ex-wives are ineligible. ronnyelliottusa@gmail.com.