STORM BREWING…AND NOT ONLY IN THIS HEART OF MINE (Segue of the Day: 10/19/17)

I was just reminded (by one of those random accidents that are the Internet’s true reason for being) that Michelle Williams has been signed to play Janis Joplin.

It might not happen. The idea of a Janis biopic has been around forever and this particular one has been bobbing up here and there for nearly a decade (this is the second time Williams’ has her name attached, but this time she seems to have actually been cast after a grueling audition). But it’s farther along than any previous attempt.

If it does come to pass, all I can say is Williams is the one actress most likely to connect with Joplin’s unique ethos (and certainly the only actress who could pull off the Marilyn Monroe/Janis Joplin Daily Double).

And it will mean this…

may very well meet this…

Bear in mind that’s not even in extremis….for either of them.

The mind reels.

Much as I want Michelle Williams to be in every movie that matters, I’m not even sure I want this to happen. The concept is frightening and I’m already certain if it ends up a scintilla less terrifying in reality than it already is in my imagination, I won’t know whether to be gut-punched or relieved.

Either way, I can imagine myself running out of the theater yelling “I can’t bear it” with an English accent.

But one thing’s sure. If it does come to pass, I’ll be there.

I might even watch the Oscars that year.

TO SCIENCE (Or, THE STUDIED ARTIFICE OF THE NEW GODS…Late Night Dedication)

Or, as what was then left of the Byrds once sang:

Do you think it’s really the truth that you see?
I’ve got my doubts it’s happened to me.

First, let me regale you with a little anecdote involving Science (aka The Truth as Man Sees It….For Now).

I’ve known exactly one person who has worked in a Test Lab. Happens I know the person very well but I’ll keep names out of this for reasons of propriety and me not wanting to ask her permission. She’s pretty damn busy these days.

Happens also that the lab she worked in was a Medical Research Lab at one of the world’s elite universities. How elite? Well, she didn’t graduate from there. She graduated from another university in the same state that had enrollment classes of about three hundred and advertised one hundred percent graduation rates in their promotional literature. So it was “elite” enough that, if they let you in, they knew you weren’t going to quit or flunk out (if you died, it didn’t count), but it still wasn’t as elite as the university where she did her year as a Lab Tech.

She graduated from her university with honors and a double major in Chemistry and Biochemistry.

For those who don’t know here’s the Biochemical Society’s definition of Biochemistry:

The branch of science that explores the chemical processes within and related to living organisms. It is a laboratory based science that brings together biology and chemistry. By using chemical knowledge and techniques biochemists can understand and solve biological problems.

Among the biological problems a biochemist might be expected to solve are those relating to human beings. Like, for instance, their health.

Like for instance, how human chemistry affects human biology.

You might think that.

Pretty sure the person I’m referring to here thought it, too.

Then she went to work in a Medical Research Lab, where she was handed a product to test in whatever the usual ways such products are tested by the Hanging Out While I Try to Get Into Medical School Lab Techs (she got in the next year).

This particular product had been sent along by a major pharmaceutical company based in a Large Midwestern City (Hint: They have a lot of political corruption and gangland style killings there….in 1925 and now). It had been approved by their scientific team. It had been approved by all the other Lab Techs who tested it at the Elite University Research Lab where she worked.

She ran a series of routine tests.

Then she took it to her boss.

“It won’t work in humans,” she said.

Her boss became a touch flustered. He asked to see her research. She showed it to him.

He wasn’t too sure of her conclusions.

He asked if she would be willing to fly with him to the Large Midwestern City and make her argument in front of the pharmaceutical company’s board?

She said sure.

Only it wouldn’t be an argument. Just her proof.

Arrangements were made.

You know how this ends.

She went. She presented her proof–in front of the board….and the assembled scientists who had approved the product for development in the first place.

They said “We’ll get back to you.”

In a couple of weeks they got back to her boss.

They said they would be putting the product back into development and would let the Lab know when they had worked out the problem.

Her boss asked her:

“How did you know?”

He was interested, since none of the company’s scientists had spotted the problem…and neither had anyone in his own Lab.

So what he meant was: How did you know there was a problem when no one else did?

“Well,” she said. “I’m a biochemist.”

Which it turned out none of the pharmaceutical company’s scientists were. And neither was anyone else in the elite university’s Medical Research Lab.

Who needs biochemists after all? Just because the medicine in question was designed to be used in humans?

Don’t be silly.

Being young, she was a little surprised to discover this.

Being older–and, by the time I heard this story, having lost twenty percent of my vision to a medical profession devoted to standing behind the findings of every Big Pharmaceutical Company and Elite University lab’s “chemists,” right up to the day the Medicine in question becomes the target of the latest class action lawsuit (a day which, alas, will never come for me because the hard truth about the medicine I outed to half a dozen disinterested/frightened doctors would collapse a multi-zillion dollar piece of the Health Care Industry…and about here I should mention that what they did to me was a tiny fraction of what they did to another member of my family who is now beyond all hope of satisfaction in this life)–I was not surprised.

And, reading this little piece today, I remain not surprised.

And not hopeful.

Let’s just say that any profession which reproaches itself thusly…

“Nearly half a century after the first concerns about misidentified cell lines, the initiatives to improve authentication need to be complemented by attention to the already contaminated literature….Our analysis shows that the task is sizeable and urgent.”

…will never muster the righteous anger required to heal itself.

They’ll clean up their act the day Hollywood producers stop dangling juicy roles in front of starlets and shouting First one to her knees wins!

So here’s to Science…and never giving a sucker an even break:

…Don’t worry, though. I still take my blood pressure medicine. It has this advantage: It hasn’t yet revealed the manner in which it’s killing me. I’ve seen one of those who was born to take me, you see. But, until the other comes along, I’ll go down with the rest of the suckers.

Could just be, I’m a Good American after all!

SIGNIFIERS (Bunny Sigler and Ralphie May, R.I.P.)

Bunny Sigler was a key player in the Philly Soul revolution of the 1970s. He made an indelible impact as a singer…

songwriter….

…producer, instrumentalist, tastemaker…and that rarest of rare things, a quality that always shone through his best music: A generous soul.

He passed away at the age of 76 on Oct. 6, something close to the last of his kind.

Heart attack.

Ralphie May had two advantages over literally all of the dubious “comedians” he leaves behind. He told the truth and he was funny.

He also died on Oct. 6., at age 45 Also of a heart attack.

Also something close to the last of his kind.

Well, at least the next plane is funnier and more soulful these days.

Here, we’ll just have to carry on with YouTube and the memories.

THOUGHTS ON VERNON, FLORIDA….

The movie, yes, but also the town.

Vernon, Florida (1981)
D. Errol Morris

1) Morris was initially attracted to the tiny Panhandle town of Vernon by its reputation as Nub City, a place famous for amputees who shot off (or otherwise removed) various limbs to collect on large insurance payments. Not sure if this is any way related to the vigilance required to prove the identity of dead bodies missing their hands in Winter’s Bone but it wouldn’t surprise me.

2) I tracked it down because I’m planning a post on Florida movies. This looked like a possible winner and was available for a couple of bucks on Amazon. The rest of this list is dedicated to the reasons it probably won’t make the cut.

3) In Errol Morris’s Vernon, Florida, there are no black people. Not even in background shots. That must mean Tony Peters, the kid with the wicked slider who kept striking me out in Pony League in the spring of ’75–and who, a couple of years later, led mostly black teams, filled with his brothers and cousins, from Vernon High to state championships in baseball and basketball–was a figment of my imagination. I mention it because, absent him, my very good batting average (.426) would have been considerably higher. Even higher than the .550 I was hitting before a stupid bet in the one-county-over Graceville High School weight-lifting room threw out my back and left me swinging with one hand for the last half of the season. (I won the bet. Small comfort.) I’m sure the fear that southern black people might seem as incomprehensibly “eccentric” as southern white people had nothing to do with any of this.

4) The film presents half a dozen implied stories, each of them worth it’s own narrative, and follows exactly none of them to a satisfying conclusion. I’d of gone with the adventures of the young pastor myself. In life, he must have had to contend with the old coots who know what the Bible really means in a thousand interesting and delicate ways. In the film, he never even meets them. And there’s some pretty good rants from those coots here, but nothing close to the End Times testimonial sermon I heard an old-timer in overalls preach from the second row pew of one-county-over White Pond Baptist in 1979 while all ten of us in attendance (including my father in the pulpit, my mother at the piano, me and seven members of the old man’s family) listened rapt. Dad was interim pastor there for a year. That was the only time the old man showed up. After the service, his daughter-in-law explained it to us, half-apologetic, half matter-of-fact: “Grandpa does that sometimes.” Nothing like that here.

5) Wausau, which is a suburb of Vernon, is mentioned once. Any filmmaker who spent enough time in southern Washington County to make a documentary and didn’t work in a story about the baseball field in Wausau–where it was theoretically possible to hit a home run over the eight-foot high left field fence without the ball ever travelling more than a foot off the ground–just ain’t worth his salt.

6) I’d forgive all that if Morris had caught the special feel of the North Florida woods where he keeps stalking a turkey hunter. My father walked away from his stalled car in December of 2007 in the heart of those very same south Washington County woods. Hunters found him three days later, passed out on the ground (a day after I had discovered him missing from his apartment and convinced the local police to put out an APB on him). He was transported to the Washington County Hospital and, two days later, to the nursing home next door. He died there eight months later, never having walked again.  I’d give a lot to have the feel of the last place my father walked on this earth captured on film. The way Morris shot Vernon, Florida those woods could just as well be in Mississippi….or Pennsylvania.

Or the Tennessee Smokies where Dad grew up. And where he thought he was when he left his stalled care and tried to find his way home.

None of that here.

Disappointing really.

DON’T WORRY FOLKS, IF YOU WANT THE SCOOP…(Segue of the Day: 10/16/17)

….Just check in here first.

Last week (11/11/17) I wrote about the psychic damage Harvey Weinstein, as the man who, for two decades plus, controlled access to more plum “prestige” parts than any other ten producers combined, had likely done to a generation of first-rank Hollywood actresses.

For those who understandably don’t want to plow through the whole thing again, here’s the salient passage (The Round Place in the Middle: 11/11/17):

So read the names: Gwyneth Paltrow, Angelina Jolie, Ashley Judd, Mira Sorvino, Rosanna Arquette, Rose McGowan. That’s just from those we know about.

And just from those who were attacked by Harvey Weinstein, who exactly no one thinks was a lone wolf.

Even by itself, that’s a gaping hole blown in a generation’s worth of top tier talent.

This week, the idea has taken hold across the big-name spectrum.

Here’s Dana Stevens, checking in from the left (Slate: 11/13/17):

SOMETIMES THE MOST EXISTENTIAL QUESTIONS COME TO YOU IN THE MOST UNLIKELY SETTINGS (Segue of the Day: 10/15/17)

So a couple of days ago I’m sitting in my local corner cafe, eating my tuna wrap, reading my F. Scott Fitzgerald, and, suddenly, unbidden, the question crossed my mind.

What exactly did we need the Brits for?

I’m sure it had nothing to do with the speaker behind my head, which was emitting a string of programmed oldies in crystal clear sound, having just yielded these two back to back…

Among other things, It made me wish all over again that I could track down the quote from Marianne Faithfull where she recalled a conversation with Jack Nitzsche, where she had repeated the Approved Narrative that rock and roll was dead until the British Invasion saved it and he proceeded to play her a bunch of records like these until she realized the error of her ways. (One reasons I’d like to track it down is to prove I’m remembering correctly. Age gets to you that way.)

Now if he only could have gotten hold of the staff at Rolling Stone!

BTW: I’m still working on the answer to that question. F. Scott Fitzgerald isn’t helping a bit. Maybe looking long enough at this will…

 

TO ’68 (Late Night Dedication)

“It’s 1968 All Over Again”

Headline on Victor Davis Hanson’s column from today’s National Review Online (10/12/17)

Hanson is an excellent military historian who, like most historians who write for partisan periodicals, is very hit and miss when it comes to reading current events. Today’s column is mostly a miss, mainly because he poses the headline’s sentiment as a question rather than a statement of fact and because he thinks, yes, it’s all come ’round again but we might just get through it.

Of course, my loyal readers have been repeatedly warned. Nothing’s coming around “again.” We never walked away from ’68 and we never will. Pushing it all under the rug for the duration of the Frozen Silence (1980–2016, R.I.P.) merely sustained various delusions, which are now becoming harder to sustain almost by the hour. (And, of course, Peace be upon those of you still sustaining.)

I don’t claim any particular prescience or acuity.

All I do is listen to the voices.

All the voices.

Ya’ll get ready now. Devil’s still woke and pretty soon, all ya’ll chilluns gonna live where I do….

…Be a damn shame if the Lord isn’t walking by your side when that day comes.

THE SEX FIEND AND THE DAMAGE DONE…

(Warning: Spoilers for the Lee Daniel’s movie The Paperboy included.)

One of the questions that’s been swirling around the Harvey Weinstein revelations is why, after all these years, his enablers at places like the New York Times suddenly turned on him. (The notion that they were scared of being scooped by The New Yorker, the weekly which had decided to run with Ronan Farrow’s piece here seems a little thin on the ground, as does the notion that he had become too “pro-Israel.” But I confess I haven’t heard anything better, at least not anywhere but my own head.)

My best guess is that Weinstein is a sacrificial lamb, something Hollywood has been good at since the Fatty Arbuckle days,** and modern day Wall Street has turned into an art form (see Michael Milken, Jordan Beltran, Bernie Madoff). He’ll now be the poster boy for all the things a corrupt system surely doesn’t do anymore because it has learned the profit-margin-eating error of its ways (“Look what happened to that guy! We wouldn’t dare do such a thing again!”), while said system rolls merrily along.

We’ll see.

My bigger interest right now is in looking into what Weinstein and his ilk have cost the culture.

This is not to diminish the personal damage done to the lives and careers of the many women–most of them not famous–he molested in one form or other, likely up to and including rape. Of course, for them, any damage to the rest of us is secondary and rightly so.

But that doesn’t mean we don’t all have a stake.

I confess my take was sharpened by just having watched The Paperboy, a southern potboiler (I ordered it because I’m trying to work up a post about Florida movies…might be a month or two as I have some holes to fill), which features Nicole Kidman in a Nympho Southern Belle role that’s very similar to Rosanna Arquette’s brilliant turn in The Wrong Man.

Kidman’s a fine actress, of course, and she catches the outre aspect of the character expertly. But she misses the barely disguised vulnerability. The script allows her to reach for it and she does…she just doesn’t quite grasp it. So it’s sad what happens to her (she dies) but not as sad as what happens to Arquette in The Wrong Man (where she has to watch her meal ticket die while his possible replacement is riding down the track on a train that’s already going too fast for him to jump off).

So, the only time these two played on the same turf, Arquette won and it wasn’t even close.

But Kidman is the much bigger star and the far more “respected” actress. I don’t say she didn’t earn those things. Oh no, far from it. You can’t fake talent. But what the Weinstein revelations have called into question is just how tilted a never-very-level playing field was to begin with.

Arquette is one of the prominent actresses who is now telling her story. She’s one of those who said no (like Mary Weiss, she is who we thought she was…let us not hold our collective breath waiting for the mostly male critics who impugned her “choices”–hardly without interest in any case and now cast in an entirely different light–to apologize). And she clearly paid a price.

Not as much of a price as Rose McGowan, who has basically quit acting. But more of a price than Gwyneth Paltrow or Angelina Jolie (and I’m not saying the price they paid was small, just that they didn’t have their careers entirely derailed).

I note here the pecking order, of which Harvey Weinstein and all similar minded Hollywood big shots were keenly aware. Paltrow is the daughter of a famous producer/director and an even more famous award-winning actress. Jolie is the daughter of Oscar winner Jon Voight. Arquette is the daughter of two moderately successful actors who are more famous for their children than themselves but nonetheless, like Mira Sorvino, who has also come forward, “of the community.”

McGowan is a kid who showed up from Nowheresville.

Many others have come forward. But studying just these five–plus the even harsher fates of those lesser known, many of whom were driven out of the business–one can detect a pattern.

The more connected you were, the more likelihood Weinstein would forget and forgive if you turned him down.

The way you were defined as “connected” was if a) you were born into the club; or b) you were already a big star (which, for instance, Nicole Kidman was by the time she started working with him on a regular basis). In the case of the latter, it was likely you would be spared Weinstein’s bathrobe and potted plant routine, as Kidman, Meryl Streep and others of similar stature evidently were.

Again, what happened to them is between them and Weinstein and I don’t care if they choose to put it all behind them with a PR statement or send someone to put a horse head in his bed. They’re all quite capable of managing their own affairs without advice from me.

But I can’t help wondering how much all this cost–and, if I’m right about the transient nature of the outrage, will continue to cost–the world at large.

Any given generation only produces so much talent. We have trouble accepting this in our current State of Industrialized Egalitarianism, but it’s as true now as ever, and as true for actresses as any other group of artists.

The element that binds every single one of those who have accused Weinstein of harassing them and, either by threat or implication, making them fear for their careers, is that none of them ever reached their full potential. (Streep and Kidman have…but they were never threatened. And, to be clear, I have no respect for Streep or anyone else who stood up for the self-confessed-and-proud-of-it statutory rapist Roman Polanski over the years. Hollywood has earned its reputation for shameless hypocrisy, but that’s not the topic of this post.)

So read the names: Gwyneth Paltrow, Angelina Jolie, Ashley Judd, Mira Sorvino, Rosanna Arquette, Rose McGowan. That’s just from those we know about.

And just from those who were attacked by Harvey Weinstein, who exactly no one thinks was a lone wolf.

Even by itself, that’s a gaping hole blown in a generation’s worth of top tier talent.

You can multiply it exponentially by adding the “chill” effect.

To all the jobs they were never considered for because Harvey Weinstein–the principal taste-maker of the age–either wouldn’t hire them, or would only accept them in minor parts (like Arquette’s scene-stealing cameo in Weinstein favorite Quentin Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction, a movie that, IMHO would have earned its rep if Arquette and Uma Thurman had merely switched places–and if Tarantino never let this occur to him because he knew how Harvey felt, then he’s even more of what I’ve always said he is: a coward), add all the roles they were never considered for by like-minded thugs because of the, Hey,isn’t she the one who turned Harvey down? factor. (In case Harvey wasn’t prone to talking about the ones who turned him down–some thugs do, some thugs don’e–all they had to do was look at who he wasn’t hiring.)

And then add in how many times they weren’t even considered for the next good part because they didn’t get the last one.

And then keep on adding all the factors we can’t even see. Maybe, for instance, the psychological damage done even to a reasonably secure Child of Hollywood like Gwyneth Paltrow, who has–for whatever reason–devoted much of her adult life to things she probably never dreamed of doing when she was putting in the hard, humbling yards required to be a go-to actress, the kind of trial-by-fire you could be forgiven believing one would only go through if coming out the other side was as important as breathing.

How many good or great movies did she–or any of the others–simply decide not to do because they didn’t want to deal with the Harvey Weinsteins of the world, knowing that, even if his sins ever did come to light, the first question asked would be why they didn’t out him sooner?

If, that is, they were among the few who decided it was worth coming forward at last, even if they knew that question was coming.

I’ll buy that Weinstein’s carefully chosen political beliefs bought him decades of cover. I’ll even suggest that he chose those “beliefs” for that very reason, or, at very least, chose to quell any doubts he might have had about those beliefs in order to get on with the pursuit of thuggery which is bound to be the only aspect of life that really excites a thug.

But you can bet there are others–perhaps many others–who are out there right now, lying low for the moment, holding their breath, cozying up to those very same Editors and Publishers, winking and nodding, waiting for the heat to die down.

So they can start on the next generation.

**Silent star Arbuckle was accused of murder in Hollywood’s first really earthshaking scandal. It was probably a pure scapegoating job. He was tried three times. The first two were hung juries. The third jury acquitted him and offered him a written apology for his ordeal. His career was ruined, however, and his reputation sufficiently blackened that, nearly a century later, one has to provide explanatory footnotes. His actual case is not comparable to Weinstein’s. The means to which the respective cases were/are put to use, likely will be.

THOUGHTS ON THE ROCK AND ROLL HALL OF FAME NOMINEES FOR 2017…

Here’s the list of nominees, for those who haven’t seen it yet:

  • Bon Jovi
  • Kate Bush
  • The Cars
  • Depeche Mode
  • Dire Straits
  • Eurythmics
  • J. Geils Band
  • Judas Priest
  • LL Cool J
  • MC5
  • The Meters
  • Moody Blues
  • Radiohead
  • Rage Against the Machine
  • Rufus featuring Chaka Khan
  • Nina Simone
  • Sister Rosetta Tharpe
  • Link Wray (Pictured above)
  • The Zombies
I’ll get to my picks in a bit, but first a few notes: Nina Simone, like Joan Baez, Miles Davis and a few others from previous years, would be a fine pick for the Contemporary Influence category I keep suggesting. These could be handled by the Hall itself and need not deprive actual rock and rollers from a place on the ballot.
Sister Rosetta Tharpe should have been inducted years ago as an Early Influence–which is how she should still be inducted. Again, why is someone who could easily and deservedly be put in the Hall by extra-ballot means,
taking a spot from somebody who can only be put in as a performer?
Having said that….

I try to approach this announcement a little differently each year. I’ll reiterate that I think having a Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is a good and worthy idea, and remains so no matter how bizarrely or even corruptly it is run. My three visits there were all memorable and reinforced my belief that, as Rock and Roll fades from the cultural landscape, it is better to have a flawed institution dedicated to its memory than no institution at all.

The great problem facing the Hall now, though–a problem that increases year by year–is whether and when to shift the emphasis from the years when Rock and Roll was the center of the culture (roughly the mid-fifties through the mid-eighties), to a later time period where rock was a diminished presence (roughly the mid-eighties to the turn of the millennium), or a ghostly one (the turn of the millennium to now).

It’s a testimony to just how much more Rock’s peak years matter that the shift hasn’t yet occurred. Crit-faves Radiohead and Rage Against the Machine are the only acts (of nineteen) on this year’s ballot who started their careers after rock’s fall, and twelve of the nineteen acts began in the seventies or earlier. If the late eighties/early nineties had been rife with Hall worthy acts, you can bet they would be dominating the proceedings by now.

We’ll see how it all plays out in the future, but, for now, I want to play a little game.

Let’s just focus on the sixties.

There are three nominees who made their first big impact in that decade: Simone, the Moody Blues, MC5 and the Zombies. (Note: The Meters began in the sixties but had their biggest impact in the early seventies, so I’ll exclude them.)

I like all three acts fine, especially the Zombies. But seeing them listed together made me start idly wondering just how many sixties-era acts I would pick over any of them.

I assumed there would be ten.

Boy was I wrong. Here’s who I thought of off the top of my head, in the order I wrote them down. (Which says nothing about who should go in first–the Small Hall vs Big Hall debate is long ended. It’s a Big Hall and they are all worthy.) Most have never been nominated. I’ve paired as many as are reasonable with a near equivalent act of similar weight (or sometimes less) who is already in:

Dionne Warwick (Dusty Springfield)
The Marvelettes (The Ronettes)
Mary Wells (Ruth Brown)
Junior Walker (Darlene Love…who also made great records on her own and was just as great helping out others.)
Joe Tex (Solomon Burke)
The Shangri-Las (There are no equivalents to the Shangri-Las, which should be its own statement.)
Paul Revere and the Raiders (The Animals)
Tommy James (Randy Newman…who, except for “Short People,” wasn’t as popular, and, except for “Sail Away” wasn’t as good or as weird either. Or, if you prefer, Tom Waits, who didn’t have a “Sail Away” or a “Sweet Cherry Wine” in him.)
The 5th Dimension (The Mamas and the Papas)
The Turtles (The Hollies)
Glen Campbell (Brenda Lee, whose crossover legacy he extended by a decade)
Manfred Mann (Traffic…they were tonier, but not better…or as popular)
Jan and Dean (The Coasters)
Sonny and Cher (Shirley and Lee….Wait, they aren’t in? What’s wrong with these people?)
Three Dog Night (Neal Diamond)
The Move (The Small Faces)
Lesley Gore (Wanda Jackson)
Johnny Rivers (Gene Pitney)
Jackie DeShannon (Cat Stevens….No, wait. That’s not fair. Bonnie Raitt? Still not fair. Laura Nyro? Leonard Cohen? Are you kidding?)
John Mayall (Paul Butterfield)
Dick Dale (The Ventures)
Peter, Paul and Mary (Joan Baez)
Timi Yuro (Gene Pitney…he had more hits but he didn’t make better records. Not too many people did.)
Nancy Sinatra (LaVern Baker. Among other things, Nancy was a better blues singer)
Petula Clark (Ritchie Valens…What, you think “Downtown” wasn’t as great a record as “La Bamba?” Or as “rock and roll?” You should listen again.)
Mitch Ryder (The Yardbirds. What Jeff Beck did for guitar chords, Mitch did for vocal chords.)
Fairport Convention (The Jefferson Airplane, who sold more records but weren’t as good. One could almost say the same about the Band but I don’t want to start making people mad.)
Jerry Butler (solo) (Percy Sledge)
The Monkees (The Beatles….just kidding. But I’ll take them over the DC5, not to mention the Zombies.)

Of course, similar lists could be put together for the fifties and seventies. Just something for you, me and the Hall to think about.

As for my five picks:

The Cars, J. Geils Band, The Meters, Rufus, Link Wray.

Those who wish to participate in the fan voting (which can have a small impact if there’s a close vote for the final spot) you can go here…I’ll save any further thoughts for the inductees, which will be announced in December.

Til then…Mr. Wray on the night he invented Heavy Metal.

 

 

WILL MIRACLES NEVER CEASE….EVEN IN HOGTOWN? (Found in the Connection: Rattling Loose End #121)

“There’s nothing better than 80,000 quiet Gator fans.”
(Peter Tom Willis, former FSU quarterback and radio announcer)

This has been true for eternity. Until now, when there’s suddenly one thing better….

This now my second favorite Swamp moment.

Of course, nothing can ever replace the first….