B: Memphis, TN, 1936; D: Memphis, TN, 2017….BEGINNING TO END (Red West, R.I.P.)

Perhaps the most recognizable (and toughest) of the Memphis Mafia, Red West was also one of the few who had appreciable musical talent, talent that came out in “If Every Day Was Like Christmas,” “Separate Ways,” “If You Talk in Your Sleep,” among others.

Near the boss’s end, he got fired and co-wrote a scandalous book which I haven’t read (one of these days, one of these days). The boss didn’t live long enough for reconciliation. Some said the book was the last punch to an already weakened heart–that it was having Red’s name on it that really hurt.

I always said only two people knew and they probably only half-knew.

I guess they can worry about working all that out now.

As some of you know, I have contacts on the other side so I wasn’t surprised when a certain familiar voice showed up in my head and asked for a late night dedication.

“What?” I said. “‘Unfaithful Servant?'”

I wasn’t thinking it had to be one of Red’s, or even one of his.

“Naw man,” the boss said. “Up here, it’s all about forgiveness…You do alright. Just play what you feel.”

“You mean the same one I’m gonna play next month, when I re-post for the big 40th?”

“Oh yeah. That’ll get it.”

Fair enough.

So I have it on good authority.

However things were, they’re okay tonight.

Fair enough.

 

THE KID BOWS OUT (Skip Homeier, R.I.P.)

For my generation, Skip Homeier was first encountered, and best known, as part of the supporting cast in The Ghost and Mr. Chicken (the one movie literally all of us had seen and all of us knew everybody had seen) and a ubiquitous presence on television, where, in true Character Actor fashion, he might show up in anything from Star Trek

to Helter Skelter.

Grand as all that was, he’ll be known to history for his abiding presence in a string of memorable westerns a generation earlier. At very least, The Gunfighter, Dawn at Socorro, The Tall T and Comanche Station will be watched for as long as history has an interest in the form–which will be as long as history has an interest in us. Homeier played (and defined) the same basic character in each: the callow kid looking to prove his toughness….and failing. He died in every one of them. In every one of them, you were–and are–sad to see him go.

He finally passed from this mortal coil ten days ago. I’m sad to see him go…and happy he’ll be remembered as long as any of the major stars who gunned him down.

Not bad for the kid next door.

DEVIL’S DAUGHTER (Anita Pallenberg, R.I.P.)

Say what you want, but as muses go she had unique power. When she was through with Brian Jones (circa 1967), he was through with himself. When she was through with Keith Richards (circa 1980), the only question left was not whether he would make any more inspired music (he didn’t) but who would get the last laugh in hell.

I know the answer, but, as usual, am sworn to secrecy (made my deal with God…He’s the really strict one).

It’s not all that hard to guess, though. Not really.

She might not be resting in peace tonight…but I have it on good authority she got what she wanted. How many of us can say that?

THE WHITE BOY WHO GOT LOST IN THE BLUES….AND STAYED THERE (Gregg Allman, R.I.P.)

When Gregg Allman–of Nashville, Daytona Beach, Macon and Savannah–came back from the West Coast in the late sixties, to join his brother and some friends in yet another attempt to find a place in the rock and roll Cosmos, White Blues was a concept owned by Brits and Yanks.

He immediately gave the newly formed Allman Brothers Band a huge advantage over everyone else who had tried the concept. There had been a number of ¬†formalist White Blues guitar players–Eric Clapton, Mike Bloomfield, Peter Green, Gregg’s brother Duane–who could match the skill and intensity of the great blues guitarists, while sounding like no one but themselves. Gregg Allman was the first formalist White Blues singer who could match the skill and intensity of the great blues vocalists…while sounding like no one but himself.

Aside from Ronnie Van Zant–of Jacksonville, Florida–he was also the last.

In the manner of singing like a black man, it evidently helps to actually know some black people.

Except for a brief romantic and professional liaison with Cher in the late seventies, who he was at the beginning remained who he was at the end–somebody determined to keep the spirit of what had moved him alive in the modern age. If that made him seem like an anachronism as time went on, it also made him a committed soul. At his best, from the beginning to the end, he embodied the spirit of the Southern Rock he helped invent–and threw off the chains that bind us.

Hope there’s a Skydog Reunion in the works somewhere tonight.

And I hope it’s still playing when I get there.

KENT STATE….2017

Today is the 47th anniversary of the Kent State killings. For those new here, this is the only date I commemorate on the blog each year. That is a for a complex variety of reasons which I keep planning to lay out in detail some year but still haven’t gotten around to. If I ever do, it will come down to this: Lest we forget.

I won’t get around to it this year either. Time presses.

However, here are the links to previous years…and I especially recommend following the link to the lengthy article on the student photographers who took the iconic photographs (linked in the 2012 and 2013 editions below) which probably did more than anything to plant the event in the national consciousness (among other things, David Crosby showed one of those photos to Neal Young and Young went off into the woods and wrote a song based on the picture).

From 2012…

From 2013…

From 2014…

From 2015…

From 2016…

And, every year, I look for something new to post here. I was kind of stuck this year until yesterday, when, in browsing through the images available on the net, I happened across the photo at the bottom of this post….which led me to the three that precede it. In this year when it is clearer than ever that we never walked away from the divide that opened up over our leadership’s conduct of the Viet Nam war–that the breach has only grown deeper and wider–they say more than I ever could:

Here’s hoping we don’t hear the drumming in the long, hot summer that lies ahead.

JUST THE LICKS, BABY (J. Geils, R.I.P.)

Though, he was invariably overshadowed by an electrifying front man, Peter Wolf, and an aptly named harp wizard ,”Magic Dick” Salwtiz, it was guitarist John Warren Geils, Jr.’s’ name which graced the marquee whenever history’s most successful bar band played the tiniest local dive or the most cavernous faraway arena, a high-wire act no one else managed quite so well.

Despite a background in jazz, Geils was, thankfully, from the Steve Cropper school, prizing economy over virtuosity. Over all the decades and all the miles,no citizen blessed with taste was ever heard to complain….If you never did it before, take this occasion to listen to the guitar parts and learn why., somewhere tonight…

…there’s a party starting.

HIGHER GROUND (Joni Sledge, R.I.P.)

On the passing of Joni Sledge of Sister Sledge, here’s a link to a nice interview she and her sister Debbie did a few years back It’s a good, if brief, insight into one of the major themes of this blog: the relationship between singers (especially female singers) and “svengali” producers (in this case Nile Rodgers and Bernard Edwards) in the studio. (As an aside, this does not include any discussion of the wrangling that went on over the lyrics to “He’s the Greatest Dancer” which the sisters originally objected to because it made them seem like “loose” women. Goodness, how far we’ve traveled from so many things which can no longer be imagined.)

…and here’s a nice moment in the spotlight for Joni (her sister Kathy, then 19, was the lead singer on “We Are Family,” one of the greatest vocals ever recorded–see below), ably filling in for Dionne Warwick.

and, lest I be remiss…

 

SON OF THE BEACH….LATE NIGHT DEDICATION (Richard Hatch, R.I.P.)

Cross categorizing here so I can manage a tribute to Richard Hatch and start a new category as well. And why I never thought of Late Night Dedications before now is just one of those mysteries that is destined to haunt the universe down to the last days….Meanwhile.

Way back when, I liked Richard Hatch (shown at the right) in The Streets of San Francisco and the original Battlestar Galactica. But his one really remarkable performance–and his relevance to this blog–was his Jan Berry in the TV movie Deadman’s Curve which I saw when it originally aired in 1978 and never forgot. So far as I know, the movie is only available on YouTube or through various bootleg sites. That’s too bad, because Hatch nailed his fellow So Cal native to a tee and the movie caught a bit of the casual sixties’ hedonism which was intrinsic in the surf-n-car scene Jan and Dean exemplified which has rarely, if ever, been portrayed as affectionately elsewhere.

The movie is hard to see, but all you really need to know about Hatch’s performance (matched by a wonderfully callow turn from Bruce Davison as Dean Torrence) is that he caught what there was to catch about the spirit that created this, which can now be dedicated to his own ghost, as well as Jan Berry’s…and whoever that kid was who wanted to race all the way to you know where:

…And, no, I have no idea why the movie was called Deadman’s Curve instead of Dead Man’s Curve. That’s another mystery for the ages.

THE DRUMMER THE GODFATHER MEANT WHEN HE SAID GIVE THE DRUMMER SOME (Clyde Stubblefield, R.I.P.)

If “copyright” meant anything, Clyde Stubblefield, who left James Brown’s band in the early seventies and, despite steady work when he wanted it, never had another high profile gig until he went to the place where all wrongs are righted this weekend, would have died richer than Bill Gates. His drum solos were literally the foundation stone of rap and hip-hop’s sampled “breaks”–not just of hundreds of actual songs, but the idea itself. They don’t need me to speak for them. They can speak for themselves, just like they’ve been doing, in some groove or other, for half a century and counting.