First a little trivia, then I’ll mention a surprise visitor. Five years ago the average 50-year-old American had set aside for retirement a grand total of $2,300. And of the same people, the amount they pay on personal debt is 83% of their annual disposable income, which means of their take-home pay. And I remain in the 1% of American households that do not own a television.Who should drop by but Trent, our erstwhile guitarist? We moved it quickly over to Buddy’s place. Of course, the whole spectrum of topics was discussed with much attention to the new band. He reports that Key Largo remains the hottest night spot in that part of the world. I look forward to the new band playing there. Trent has in previous years heard of many more of the songs I’m playing than I have. I must have missed the 70s or something. I just do not know a lot of the shoo-wop music.
Thanks to factors beyond my control, I had never seen a professional band as a child except on television. Neither me nor my friends had a record player, but the local barber had a radio that, between 4:00 PM and 6:00 PM played “Teen Beat”, including hits by a new English band called “The Beatles”. It would be difficult for kids and teens today to understand the impact of this music, where there was only one hit parade and eight of the top ten were by this single band.
The Beatles were also other things that bands today are not. They were first to break with a lot of goofy traditions like those pansy band uniforms. They wrote their own music, that is, it was not music written by adults who presumed to know what teens were supposed to like (as with all Elvis Presley music). The Beatles were talented, sassy, and quick-witted. And, to the infuriation of the older generations, they were rich enough to do as they pleased. This element is often overlooked by historians. I assure you most parents loathed The Beatles as a very definite counter-example to the harsh controls they (parents) stood for.
At the age of twelve, as I was striving to start my own band without even knowing what a band really was, I caught the backlash against The Beatles. I was called a hippy as if that was a bad thing. Musically, the Beatles eclipsed all who came before and they endured at it. They were outselling others combined and I latched onto their music instantly if only because it was different. I identified with protest against the system, the unearned privileges, and the unelected authority.
The Beatles made all previous music “old fogie”. And the last thing I or anybody “cool” wanted to be was identified with old fogies. If the world was wrong, anyone older than me was responsible for it, either by deed or lack of deed. At the least more responsible for it than I was. Why should I take orders from those who cannot even set their own house in order? It was thanks to them, we had no money to give peace a chance; we didn’t have enough to give ourselves a chance. Consequently, I never listened much to any music except Beatles and subsequent Beatles-like follow-on bands.
Those would be groups like Creedence, James Gang, and a curious newcomer, Johnny Cash. As for others, I’d heard a few of the more catchy individual hits, but I did not know the artists, or care for that matter. It was around this time I further developed distaste for guitar-dominated music. People would talk until blue in the face about how fantastic were Hendrix, Clapton, and Knopfler. And I would intently listen to the music wondering what they were talking about. Even today, all I hear is ordinary guitar music, nothing I would consider musical manna.
I also began to split with rock music in general. One should be able to enjoy music without being stoned. Who needs subliminal drug messages? The few super-groups I knew were Led Zep, Iron Butterfly, and such. But even then, I only listened to their very biggest hits. Later when I had all the albums, I would habitually pick the needle up and skip over the lesser tunes, considered filler music.
Under those circumstances, it is not surprising I never heard of anything but the most popular hits by any non-Beatles artists. I’d heard Berry’s “Johnny B. Goode” but not “Tulane” or “Havana”. I know Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” but not “Bijou” and “Misfire”. Would not even recognize those melodies. And musicians who play the B-side of anything still draw blank stares from me. They think I’ve missed out, I think they’ve been led down the garden path. To me, you play a song because you like it, not because you memorized the name of the guitar player.
Alright, it happened once too often for me to ignore. Let me say that I do not consider men’s legs to be something that a woman would find attractive. Legs are legs, except the ones on already beautiful women and that’s a separate matter. But there I am, parked at roadside talking on the cell phone. Twice, women called out I had nice legs and I’m like, “Huh?” One on another motorcycle, another rolled down the car window. If this had not happened enough times [in my life, I mean], I’d say there was a conspiracy of women to taunt men with bare legs. Worse, mine are lily-white and knobbly as far as I can tell.
Hmmm, this next item perks me up. Several e-mails [arrived this morning] from my club tour y’day asking me to audition as singer. Me? A lead vocalist? Impossible. Like June Carter said to Johnny, “I’m not that good.”
But a couple of these . . . er, hang on let me zip back over and confirm all this a second time. Yep, a few are real bands. From north Broward. What were they doing scouting on Hollywood Beach? Are there no singers up in West Palm? And here’s an offer to front a Karaoke show. Me? A lead vocalist?
Change of topic. The acquisition of a permanent home has been bumped up another notch. I’m paying for leads and have an experienced real estate agent on it. My plan has to be modified to move on any good deal that comes along now, even if it involves credit. When I say permanent, I mean with the land. I’ve always considered this place as temporary, to get back on my feet.
This shift of ballast does not encroach on the new band. In fact, last afternoon I passed the magic number (32) of songs so there is nothing stopping us from gigging now. I’m confident that conclusion will be reached after this weekend but all of you bear in mind it is not my place to lead into anything. I’m the shave-tail. But it won’t be long before we pass the point of no return, although gigging out is still an elusive goal. The competition has been blown out of the water, though we have no competition. Still, blitzkrieg is not victory, you can win battles and lose the war. Ask Patsie.
Last. What I can’t find is a good butane blowtorch. No, not the big canister model for plumbers, but one of those smaller pistol grip types you clamp on top of a camp stove canister. Maybe they don’t make them any more. Please don’t recommend any of the Bernz-o-matic series. They never work, they don’t stay lit, they never refill right, and half your gas gets wasted because the nozzles never fit. And they don’t get hot enough to melt solder, nor can they be adjusted to make a micro-pin-point flame, which is what I want.I had a Chinese one, it got stolen, it fit onto one of those butane stove refills. For clarity, it did not have a refillable tank, it fit right onto the disposable can itself. Here, I found a picture. Except the torch part was smaller and longer and had a pistol grip like a garden hose. This will be my quest today, starting with a trip to Harbor Freight. Why not? Let’s go spend some money.
PS. Home Depot does NOT have what I am looking for.
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