Probably the sweetest person I ever met. There will never be another one.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Elvis Presley Didn't Like Tampa
Wrote this with my pal, British porn legend, Laura Canyon. Fiction, for the most part. You know the other. Mae Boren Axton, Hoyt's mom and the co-writer of Heartbreak Hotel, interviews the young bebop hillbilly for the radio. Changed Florida. Changed me. Changed the world.
Ronny and Elvis
Probably the sweetest person I ever met. There will never be another one.
Probably the sweetest person I ever met. There will never be another one.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Sunday, December 11, 2011
"What do you preach, Ronny?" "Whatta' you got?"
Stop me if I've told you this. All of my early aptitude tests in school indicated that I was destined to be a preacher. Nothing even came in second place. Puzzled me, baffled the teachers. You must believe something to preach something, right?
My problem is that I seem to believe it all. It never escaped my young mind that Jesus was always quoted saying pretty much the same things that Buddha had muttered hundreds of years before. All of those special guys and girls have always stuck to the message. I'm not about to ask for a donation to reveal this big secret:
This is heaven and there is no hell. Be nice. Love, because that's all there is.
Of course I have thought that I was spending my time as something of a rock'n'roll musician for these past forty five or forty six years; a hillbilly soul singer, a bass player, a songwriter, a folk singer. I'm no more a musician than Lord Buckley was a comedian or Mark Twain was a novelist. I'm not trying to ease my way into some lofty club of beloved genius. The only connection with these fine guys is some fire within to preach truth regardless of the consequences. I'm talking about Truth here now. Not that bunk that we suffer through in our political debates and not any of that malarkey where nut cases sling smoke and water and babble in languages that we haven't spoken in ages.
What do we really remember about Jack Kerouac? His face on a t shirt is more familiar than anything that he wrote. He only wanted to be with the ones who burned, burned, burned, remember? He was his work. He invented "Jack Kerouac" and then couldn't get comfortable with it.
Oscar Wide, magnificent writer, huh? What's the last play of Oscar's that you went to see? Dorothy Parker?
If your mission is to preach the truth it's all pre-ordained. You don't get any say in the matter. Doesn't seem to be very fashionable just now and I probably should have found a career with better health benefits. I have to remind myself that Lord Buckley was supremely hip and totally honest during the Mad Men era. He never tasted much in the way of fame and he never made much money. He died in 1960 at the age of fifty four so he would never have been aware of his influence on our culture.
I don't kid myself. My sphere of influence is minute. My gifts are modest. I am rewarded with the notion that I have stuck mostly to the truth. I love with all of my heart with what purity remains. I love you all very, very much.
My problem is that I seem to believe it all. It never escaped my young mind that Jesus was always quoted saying pretty much the same things that Buddha had muttered hundreds of years before. All of those special guys and girls have always stuck to the message. I'm not about to ask for a donation to reveal this big secret:
This is heaven and there is no hell. Be nice. Love, because that's all there is.
Of course I have thought that I was spending my time as something of a rock'n'roll musician for these past forty five or forty six years; a hillbilly soul singer, a bass player, a songwriter, a folk singer. I'm no more a musician than Lord Buckley was a comedian or Mark Twain was a novelist. I'm not trying to ease my way into some lofty club of beloved genius. The only connection with these fine guys is some fire within to preach truth regardless of the consequences. I'm talking about Truth here now. Not that bunk that we suffer through in our political debates and not any of that malarkey where nut cases sling smoke and water and babble in languages that we haven't spoken in ages.
What do we really remember about Jack Kerouac? His face on a t shirt is more familiar than anything that he wrote. He only wanted to be with the ones who burned, burned, burned, remember? He was his work. He invented "Jack Kerouac" and then couldn't get comfortable with it.
Oscar Wide, magnificent writer, huh? What's the last play of Oscar's that you went to see? Dorothy Parker?
If your mission is to preach the truth it's all pre-ordained. You don't get any say in the matter. Doesn't seem to be very fashionable just now and I probably should have found a career with better health benefits. I have to remind myself that Lord Buckley was supremely hip and totally honest during the Mad Men era. He never tasted much in the way of fame and he never made much money. He died in 1960 at the age of fifty four so he would never have been aware of his influence on our culture.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Maybe It's For Sissies, After All
It may have started with Key West. I love all the rust. I'm fascinated with the crooked shutters and the peeling paint. Maybe it's just part of the aging process. Looking back I suppose that I've always loved old things. Cars, art, movies, guitars and of course, people. Don't get me wrong, though. There is no bigger sap than I am for a puppy, a kitten or a baby.
I spend way too much time worrying that the final light bulb will go off over my head at the last minute. Literally. It's the continuum, stupid! I love it all. How can it be possible to have lived this life? Give us peace on earth and end this dreadful, dreadful war.
I spend way too much time worrying that the final light bulb will go off over my head at the last minute. Literally. It's the continuum, stupid! I love it all. How can it be possible to have lived this life? Give us peace on earth and end this dreadful, dreadful war.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Burn, Burn, Burn
It took years to really sink in. Everybody's special, Lord Buckley said that. There are some, though, who burn for truth, burn for justice and burn for everybody who needs somebody. I thought Kerouac was talking about running hard and running fast. Maybe he was. I hope to burn for a long time and I hope to be around the other ones who do, too. Pray for peace. Search for truth.
Monday, November 28, 2011
"Wait 'Til You Meet Tim"
It was winter in 1967 and we were playing in New York for the first time. Ever. Any of us. "We" were Noah's Ark, an aspiring psychedelic rock'n'roll band from Tampa, Florida. I suppose that we had been pretty cocky up until that time. Big fish, you know.
We were in Manhattan to record a new single for Decca Records and our pal, Rodney Justo, invited us to play at set at the Scene, in midtown at 301 West 46th Street. His band at that time, the Candy Men, were the darlings of the hipster crowd in the Big Apple.
Van Morrison had "Brown Eyed Girl" on the radio at the time and he was sharing the bill. We had the same publicist at the time, Morty Wax, and Van had him approach us about becoming his band. I don't remember all of the members of his outfit at the time, only that Danny Armstrong was his bassist and that they were amazing. Van got fired that night but that's a different story and a different blog.
Blood, Sweat & Tears were on the bill, too. They were an instrumental quartet at the time, mostly featuring Al Kooper's electric piano. Great stuff. Even the audience was intimidating. We were certain that we would be found out as hicks and hacks. Rick Derringer was there. He was still Rick Zehringer from the McCoys, then. We had heard that Jimi often dropped in. He was playing in the Village that week. He didn't show but Jim Morrison did.
In the early afternoon when we arrived for a sound check of sorts, the young stage manager introduced himself and showed us around. More than once he grinned and said, "Wait 'til you meet Tim."
All he ever answered when we would ask who Tim was would be, "You'll see."
When the crowd showed us attention and affection we quickly realized that nobody in New York City knew anything more than anyone in Tampa and we had a swell time. We weren't hip but they couldn't tell.
Suddenly there was a murmur that grew to something of roar and in the middle of this adoring hipster crowd a pudgy, pale vision of beauty in a madras coat, carrying a paper shopping bag with the neck of a ukulele protruding, made his way from table to table. Rodney took me over and introduced me to Tiny Tim. I had never seen anything remotely similar. I still haven't. He was so kind and so personable and so sincere that I was totally mesmerized. I remember that he asked about my mother and that's about as much as I can recall about that first brief exchange.
When he took the stage I was overwhelmed. He belted out "Hound Dog" with every bit as much fire as Elvis or Big Mama ever created. When the crowd called out for "Hey Paul, Hey Paula," he brought the house down switching from one personae to the other. I had never heard "Tiptoe Through The Tulips," until that night. He would tell little stories about the songs and the artists who had done them.
In fear that I would never be able to describe what I had seen and heard I approached him and asked if he had a picture that I might have as a souvenir.
"I'll bring you one tomorrow night," he responded. "Will you be here?"
I promised him that I would try to be there but we were not on the bill for the next night.
"I'll give it to Mr. Rodney if you're not here," he promised.
I assumed that I would get a glossy 8x10 with some agent's name printed across the bottom if I had any luck and Tim remembered.
Rodney, who remains one of my dearest friends today, brought me my picture two days later. I suppose that Tim stopped at the photo booth at his subway stop on his way in the next evening and had it taken for me. The ultimate prize in a fairly bizarre collection of rock'n'roll memorabilia.
We were in Manhattan to record a new single for Decca Records and our pal, Rodney Justo, invited us to play at set at the Scene, in midtown at 301 West 46th Street. His band at that time, the Candy Men, were the darlings of the hipster crowd in the Big Apple.
Van Morrison had "Brown Eyed Girl" on the radio at the time and he was sharing the bill. We had the same publicist at the time, Morty Wax, and Van had him approach us about becoming his band. I don't remember all of the members of his outfit at the time, only that Danny Armstrong was his bassist and that they were amazing. Van got fired that night but that's a different story and a different blog.
In the early afternoon when we arrived for a sound check of sorts, the young stage manager introduced himself and showed us around. More than once he grinned and said, "Wait 'til you meet Tim."
All he ever answered when we would ask who Tim was would be, "You'll see."
Suddenly there was a murmur that grew to something of roar and in the middle of this adoring hipster crowd a pudgy, pale vision of beauty in a madras coat, carrying a paper shopping bag with the neck of a ukulele protruding, made his way from table to table. Rodney took me over and introduced me to Tiny Tim. I had never seen anything remotely similar. I still haven't. He was so kind and so personable and so sincere that I was totally mesmerized. I remember that he asked about my mother and that's about as much as I can recall about that first brief exchange.
When he took the stage I was overwhelmed. He belted out "Hound Dog" with every bit as much fire as Elvis or Big Mama ever created. When the crowd called out for "Hey Paul, Hey Paula," he brought the house down switching from one personae to the other. I had never heard "Tiptoe Through The Tulips," until that night. He would tell little stories about the songs and the artists who had done them.
In fear that I would never be able to describe what I had seen and heard I approached him and asked if he had a picture that I might have as a souvenir.
"I'll bring you one tomorrow night," he responded. "Will you be here?"
I promised him that I would try to be there but we were not on the bill for the next night.
"I'll give it to Mr. Rodney if you're not here," he promised.
I assumed that I would get a glossy 8x10 with some agent's name printed across the bottom if I had any luck and Tim remembered.
Rodney, who remains one of my dearest friends today, brought me my picture two days later. I suppose that Tim stopped at the photo booth at his subway stop on his way in the next evening and had it taken for me. The ultimate prize in a fairly bizarre collection of rock'n'roll memorabilia.
Some time later when Tiny Tim strolled out onto the stage on an early episode of Laugh In I was delighted. I was pretty sure that this would be his only television appearance and that, at least, I could convince my friends that I had not made all of this up. A month or two later when I found his first LP, God Bless Tiny Tim, in the record store I was thrilled. Tim was gonna be famous.
Of course they made him a clown and treated him without dignity and without respect. Young girls married him to use him. Imagine that.
I have my memories, though. The last thing that he said to me was that he would see me in heaven. God bless Tiny Tim, indeed.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Walk To The End Of The World
Loco Siempre was a failed concept in comedy/hillbilly/soul/magic. I kinda' liked it, though. It was an uphill battle in lots of ways. Where, oh where did my downfall begin?
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