I’M NOT YET PREPARED TO CALL MYSELF THE COMEBACK KID…

..But:

April views were the best I’ve had since June, 2017.

April visitors were the best since January, 2017.

March was nearly as good.

That followed an eight-month slump that seemed to strongly coincide with Google changing its search engine parameters last June/July (many websites across the board have cited similar declines).

I’m still not quite back to the standard I established in the first six months of last year…and, of course, my numbers remain quite small.

But they mean a lot to me and I’m grateful to all who visit, view, read and comment. I’ve been very fortunate in thus far attracting a uniformly high class of people: all debates (including those conducted via email) have been civil; all comments have been pertinent; all suggestions intelligent and, I assure you, duly considered, even if I haven’t been able to enact certain changes (time and my lack of tech-savvy being the two principal culprits).

Six-and-a-half years in, no one whose first thought for a blog name was “No (Unearned) Comfort Here” could ask for more than that.

Here’s to everybody, not forgetting those artists who inspired me in the first place:

LITTLE MISS GIANT (Vocalist of the Month for 1/18: Brenda Lee)

(NOTE: I’ve been working on this one for a while and now present it as, I believe, the most in-depth appreciation of Brenda Lee that exists anywhere. If, by chance, that’s true, she deserves for somebody to beat it every day from now on.)

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First my story….

Back in the days when I measured my life in large part by the discovery of voices, I used to hit the good local record store every Friday after work the way other people hit bars, restaurants or movie theaters. There was a process, almost sacred. It differed from ritual only in that it involved making decisions. Lots of decisions. I like all kinds of music. Back in the days of good record stores in medium-sized towns, there were literally hundreds, perhaps thousands, of records (later CDs) I wanted to hear.

I emphasize the word “hear” because, for me, that was always the point: the actual listening experience. I didn’t care about “collecting,” never cared whether a record or disc had any qualities beyond what I was actually going to hear when I put it on the appropriate playing device. I’m not saying I was never influenced by any other factor (I love album covers for all kinds of reasons…and I’m hardly averse to a bargain), but when the last measure was being counted, on a Friday night or any other time, where I put my twenty or thirty or, at a rare extreme, fifty bucks was completely controlled by what I wanted to hear when I got home that night. If that makes me sound like a junkie, well, I can see where there’s a certain obsessional affinity. (It’s one reason I never took drugs. I recognized my vulnerabilities.)

One day in the early nineties, I came home with this:

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I didn’t think it was any big deal. I just thought it was time. I knew who Brenda Lee was, and by that I mean I was certain I knew who Brenda Lee was. I was born in 1960, in the south. There was no way to avoid knowing who Brenda Lee was in that time and place, and, really, no way to avoid being certain that you knew.

Okay, I didn’t really know too many of her songs. “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree,” was a holiday perennial. “I’m Sorry” and “Sweet Nothin’s” showed up on an oldies’ station once in a while. I even had one of her greatest hits albums on vinyl. This one as it happened:

I hadn’t bought it, just acquired it in one of those stacks of records that record junkies acquire here and there (people are forever giving away their old albums, even to this day…the only ones you never end up with are the ones you were certain you would that invariably contain that one cherished item you can never find anywhere else…oh, wait, I think I may have just gotten this confused with life).

blee12I had listened to it. Nothing went on the shelf without getting a spin. For whatever reason it hadn’t made an impression. You listen to enough records and some of them get by you. That one got by me, maybe because I was certain I knew Brenda Lee so I knew I only had to listen with half an ear.

I liked her, of course. Who didn’t? She was big. She had a lot of hits in an era when that was hard to do without being good (though, of course, it wasn’t impossible…I’ll avoid naming names).

So I knew all that when I brought that 2-CD package home on a Friday night around 1994 or so. I also knew–was certain I knew–where Brenda Lee fit. She was one of those good singers from the fifties/early sixties. One of those singers like Gene Pitney or Brook Benton or Bobby Darin who made really good records and earned a certain level of respect that went so far and no further.

By which I mean I knew–was certain–that she wasn’t important. Not truly important. Not to people like me. She was too professional. Too inside the lines. Too cautious. Maybe even too slick.

blee24Now don’t get this wrong. I expected to enjoy the Anthology, was very much looking forward to hearing it. I even thought–took it for granted really–that I would be moved by a previously unheard track or two, that there would be a few new favorites to absorb into my personal pantheon. There almost always were and just because I had Brenda Lee pegged, didn’t mean I didn’t respect her. I mean, it was the nineties. Rock and roll was dead as a door nail (just like it had first been pronounced in the days when Brenda was having her first hits with her being, by some people’s lights, exhibit A…except this time it was real, because, among other things, it was happening to me, and, of course, I turned out to have the kind of cursed luck that means when it happened to me it really, really happened!), and even if it somehow wasn’t, I still knew not to take a sixties-era hit maker for granted because the stuff they had made sound so easy had long since proved to be anything but. Hey, why do you think those Friday night decisions in the record store were so hard? How do you think I had gotten twenty years into my record buying life without having a decent Brenda Lee collection on my ever-burgeoning shelves? A treasury of riches, that’s how. Always a little more gold to mine. Just keep digging.

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So the digging had finally gotten around to her. Specifically to a 2-CD set (minus box…they knocked five dollars off the price…that’s all it took!) entitled Brenda Lee Anthology: 1956-1980–surely the only Brenda I would ever need.

I bought other stuff, too. I don’t remember specifically what, but there were probably two or three other cheap CDs. The Anthology, though, was definitely the big purchase of the week, I do remember that. I remember that because it was my habit to save the big purchase for last. So the way it worked, I got myself something to eat, I puttered around, I watched part of the baseball or basketball game (whatever season it was).

I listened to the other CDs.

Then, when midnight drew near, I threw on the first CD of the Brenda Lee set.

My thinking was I could listen to a few tracks while I was getting ready for my shower (probably something similar to what I had done with that LP that got by me back when). Then, if it sounded like I might miss something important, I could pause it while I was in the shower and, if it didn’t, I could turn it up a little and keep it playing, pretty sure I would hear enough of what was going on over the stinging needles to do a playback if needed. I mean, it was the big purchase of the week but I knew Brenda Lee, had grown up with her being sort of around, heard her all my life.

I was pretty sure I could sneak in a shower.

So I listened to this while I was getting the towels out, changing into my robe…

And it was fine. Not Hank Williams (hell, she was eleven) but catchy. Then there was a another catchy one and the one after that was this one…

And I thought, “Gee, this is….something…”

Enough of something to get me to walk into where the stereo was and cinch my robe and take a seat.

Just for a song or two, you know.

Then the song or two went by and this came on…

And I thought…”What is this?” By which my subconscious meant something like “What’s happening here?”

An hour-and-a-half later, I was still sitting there in my robe, listening to this…

Thinking:

“What just happened?”

Well, by then the question was purely rhetorical. I knew what had just happened. What had just happened was I had been taken on a great journey through American music–rock and roll, country, rockabillly, R&B, the Nashville Sound, teen-pop, Tin Pan Alley–by one of its greatest singers.

And I wasn’t entirely happy about it.

Oh, I was happy about the music. Ecstatic in fact. Lifted in the way that only the discovery (or in this case, comprehension) of a great new voice could lift somebody who spent as much of his life searching for voices as I did.

But the ecstasy was cut, seriously, by anger.

I was angry at the people who had lied to me, who had managed to render somebody I had known all my life literally invisible, to somehow shove her out of reach, past what I had previously considered my very keen hearing.

And it was then–right then–that I began developing my Unified Theory of Rock Criticism as a specific conspiracy designed to drop Brenda Lee down the memory hole.

It took me about ten minutes to develop that theory. I’m still working out how I feel about it. Which is maybe why I put Brenda Lee’s picture at the top of my blog the day it started and waited six years to write about her.

I’m still working through my issues.

But this is a celebration of Brenda Lee, so I’m not planning to work through them here. What I’m planning to do here is place Brenda Lee in rock and roll history the way I hear it.

And the best way to do that is to leave my story alone and tell hers…

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First her life, then her art.

Her life went more or less like this….

She was born in 1944. Her family was literally dirt poor, moving constantly in and around the dirt hills of northeast Georgia. She was singing for candy in local stores at three, on what passed for the local stages at five, on local radio not long after. When her father died in 1953, she instantly became the family’s principal breadwinner, a journey that took her to radio stations in Ohio, Kentucky and, eventually, a local show where, upon hearing the voice John Lennon would later allegedly pronounce “the greatest rock and roll voice of them all,” Red Foley got “cold chills,” watched her get three encores, and signed her up for the Ozark Mountain Jubilee.

Soon she was commuting from north Georgia to southern Missouri every weekend, leaving Friday afternoon for a fifteen-hour ride with whoever was going, telling jokes to keep the drivers awake, performing live Saturday night in settings like this one….

Then returning on Sunday, arriving home Monday in the wee hours, just in time for school

More Mondays than not, her head hit the desk before lunch time. Her teachers let her sleep.

The hard-won professionalism that would, in part, keep several generations of critics, programmed to prize what they deemed “spontaneity” as the only true form of “authenticity,” from understanding her, paid off with a Nashville contract (Decca/MCA)  in 1955.

Then the real work began. How to sell an eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen-year-old girl who looked half her age to either a hard-bitten country audience that had never accepted anyone her age before, or a rock and roll audience that Nashville was scared to death of–and, despite a few hits for Frankie Lymon and Arlene Smith’s Chantels, hadn’t made anybody that young a major star either. One hit wonders of the type that proliferated throughout rock’s early dawn were virtually unheard of in country at any age. In Nashville, they were looking to build careers.

But, in order to build a career, you had to have a hit to build it on. Somewhere, some time. You can stand around and look cute. You can even go to Vegas…blee30

You can carry your family on your back, touring from town to town. You can sign with a one artist manager (just like Elvis!) who makes you the first truly international rock and roll touring star while Nashville’s A Team and crackest of crack producers (Owen Bradley), is still trying to figure out where you fit. You can smart talk the ace session men (“well goo-goo to you, too” she said, on the guar-an-teed last occasion when anybody talked down to her) and get everybody who knows you personally to love you enough that you’ll be something like the biggest star nobody ever said a bad word about…if you can only find a hit that makes you a star to begin with. Something more than a touring sensation. Something more than a girl the French make up stories about (“she’s really a thirty-year-old midget!”…that made more sense than the truth of that voice coming from a four-foot-nothing thirteen-year-old).

It must have been the longest four years anyone ever lived while, in some senses, having it so good. She was everybody’s baby. She was making a living. She was even already “Little Miss Dynamite” as great an earned nickname as anybody ever had or ever will.

She just wasn’t a hit-maker.

It must have been extraordinarily frustrating–to hear dozens (or hundreds) who weren’t as good as you have hits, even strings of hits, in and out of Nashville. Even for someone who had once moved eight times in nine years, seen her daddy die of old age in his forties (like so many then), carried her family on her tiny back for nearly a decade at the ripe old age of fifteen without achieving anything like the Shirley Temple/Judy Garland level of promised success that must have been whispered in her ear by managers, talent scouts, record producers, know-it-alls, know-nothings, from the time she was big enough to stand on the box that let her reach the microphone.

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The only picture I could find of Brenda with Patsy Cline

Frustrating all the more because she must have known she was already so much more than a pro. Being a pro was important, sure, but it only gets anyone so far. If you are being mistaken for a female midget, it may not get you as far as it does some others. And, without a hit, the greatest mentors and finest friends can’t keep you afloat forever.

Frustrating because, on top of everything else, you’ve managed to get better and better, to build, step by painful step, something authentically new in American music, the blend of Hank Williams, Mahalia Jackson and Judy Garland you, and you alone, aimed for. Hard to do all that, and still get taken for a little girl.

Harder still if even this can’t bring you a hit (it didn’t get big until after she did)…

..and the specific style you’ve been groomed for, rockabilly, is beginning to fade. One day, you look around and Elvis is in the army, Jerry Lee’s in trouble for cousin-marryin’ (surprise, surprise), Buddy Holly just went down in a plane crash. Roy Orbison is thinking about how to get away from Sam Phillips. Charlie Rich is doing the same. And you?

…Then the Art

Well, you’ve been on a major label for nearly four years without cracking the Hot 100.

And, oh by the way, the word has gone out.

If you do, by chance, get a pop hit, Nashville won’t let any country stations play it. It’s not 1956 anymore. The world has moved on. They had shut out the Louisiana Hayride. They had shut out Elvis and the Everly Brothers. They had kept the colored people out.

Best behave.

Actually, that last part was sort of okay. She did behave. Maybe she didn’t quite always behave just exactly like the book said (and wouldn’t you like to get a peek at that book, the one you know is still somewhere in Nashville, locked away, consulted only on high holy occasions, its location and provenance known only to the few?) when she opened her mouth to sing, but, hey, that’s a chance you sometimes have to take. Does it matter really, where the records get sold? The profits come back to the same office don’t they, whether the next release takes off in Pittsburgh or Winnemucca….or Tokyo?

It could have gone on a while longer, the speculation about whether she would finally make it. Maybe not much longer. Certainly not forever. Even Nashville loses patience at some point. They lost patience with plenty of people, before and since, who had fewer shots at making it than Brenda did. Some of them were even big talents.

But maybe not quite as big a talent as she was. It wasn’t her professionalism or her toughness or her beyond-her-years ladylike demeanor that won her all that patience–seven singles in three years that combined for exactly one week on the country charts and zero weeks in the Top 40. It was her voice. Her voice and, I suspect, a general sense that the voice wasn’t the problem, that it couldn’t really miss if it was given the right setting.

What that setting was, nobody knew. We shouldn’t forget that. We shouldn’t forget what we have forgotten in the nearly six decades since, the decades that have brought us a long string of what I like to call Brenda’s Children, a line that, sticking only to white women and the most obvious, runs directly from Jackie DeShannon to Lulu to Tanya Tucker to Stevie Nicks to Sheryl Crow to Pink and whoever comes next, casting a shadow the meanwhile on every single woman who has sung any sort of rock, country or southern inflected R&B.

We shouldn’t forget that Brenda Mae Tarpley made herself up out of Hank Williams and Mahalia Jackson and Judy Garland and that nobody before her sounded like her. We shouldn’t forget that, having heard that voice in literally hundreds of different throats since, we can take its place in the American soundscape for granted only because it was one of those voices that, when it did appear, made everybody go, “Well, of course,” and believe they must have heard it all their lives because it’s that kind of voice. I mean, a sound like that, what would keep it from existing in our national consciousness before, say, 1959?

Lots of things, actually. Musical things, cultural things, socio-political things. All that plus the absence, until the right moment, of an imagination sufficient to the task of calling the future into being.

If you are thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, well-behaved, mistaken for a midget, a freak of “nature,” not interested in songwriting, most of all a girl-l-l-l-l, then you are not likely to be given credit for all that. Not even if, through all the sweat, all the grind, all the learning, you find your way, at last, to this…

…and make it sound as natural as breathing.

After that, the floodgates.

For one hot minute, she was alone. Then the minute passed–lightning quick, as rock and roll time demanded back then–and her imitators were everywhere. There was a reason I was ready for her all those years later in my apartment, stuck in my chair as if I were paralyzed, as if I had lost every sense but my hearing. I was ready because “Oh Me, Oh My” and “Put a Little Love in Your Heart’ and “Landslide” and “Delta Dawn” and a hundred others had made me ready, ready to say “Oh, that’s where all that came from,” ready to go searching for where she had come from, a search that still goes on, because, if she came from anywhere, (even Edith Piaf, as some insist), it’s not likely she came from there anywhere near as directly as all those others came from her.

So the stardom everybody had predicted came at last.

And it came because she had put the essential rasp in the future of white women singing rock and roll.

And because she was a pro’s pro.

And then?

Well, she still had a life to live.

Like so much else, she didn’t live it the way anybody expected.

Chaperoned on dates until she was eighteen, she eloped with the first man she dated alone, (eloped so that her mother and her manager wouldn’t have a chance to talk her out of it). She had two kids. She left the road for a bit to raise them. She saw the British Invasion coming before anyone else. (But boys, where do you get these songs? she asked two lads whose band was opening for her on a German tour. John Lennon and Paul McCartney looked at each other and said, Well. We wrote them….. Oh my, she said. A lot of people would later claim they said something similar, but she was the only one who went home and told her record company they would be fools if they didn’t sign that band at once. It didn’t matter what kind of performers they were, the songs would be worth a fortune. The record company scoffed at her. I’m certain she was too much of a lady to ever remind them, after what she knew was bound to happen happened.)

What was bound to happen took as much out her career as anyone’s. She would always say she never changed, the world just turned. Right enough.

Because it was all more or less there from the beginning. It was there, not so much because she wasn’t forever polishing her style, but because the quality that marked her off even more than her remarkable timbre was the artist’s consummate empathy.

I’ll share what I’ve lived, her voice would always say.

And I’ll share what you’ve lived.

It was that last that made her a giant. It was why she could exemplify the rock and roll audience more deeply than anyone else, even though she had grown up as far inside Show Biz as Ricky Nelson (the only other major early rock icon who had grown up in Show Biz at all). The efforts her family–and, lest we forget, her culture–made to make sure she kept her feet on the ground, made a perfect fit with her nature. She was the little girl with the big voice and she was Little Miss Dynamite.

She was also every-teen.

She wasn’t chaperoned on dates when she was sixteen because she was selling millions of records. She was chaperoned because, in the world she came from, that was what you did. (It was the last moment when many did, but it was still what you did.)

She sold “Let’s Jump the Broomstick”–marriage as an act of rebellion–because that’s what she imagined others doing. A few years later she eloped.

But it wasn’t a simple matter of wish-fulfillment. Nobody could have sustained a career like hers on that.

She would learn–in the process of becoming the highest charting female act of the 1960s (trailing only Elvis, The Beatles, and, in some counts, Ray Charles)–to summon feelings no one would wish for.

She would learn to do it so well–to imagine herself in our shoes so thoroughly–that some of us would never wish for anyone else to take her place.

She would do that despite living no part of it herself. She would do it despite remaining happily married for life to the first man she ever dated without a chaperone.

And she would do it over and over again–wring every last ache out of the ballads that made her the Queen of Heartbreak:

…all defining (and being defined by) a sensibility that ended up in the same place, no matter which angle she started from…

Then the times changed and she woke up one day to find that her one-act manager had passed away, left her–a massive touring star who was the best selling female act of her era–in possession of her husband, those two kids, twenty thousand dollars and the deed to a split level ranch house. She made her husband-for-life her manager and determined not the repeat the mistake. That led to a fine second career on the country charts which finally welcomed her when she could no longer go pop. Somewhere down the line–some time after I had my epiphany, the honors came. The Halls of Fame (she’s one of four acts who is in both the Rock and Roll and Country Halls as a performer–the others are Elvis Presley, Johnny Cash and the Everly Brothers….you  may have heard of them) came calling, better late than never. The inevitable embalming in Branson. The late career retrospectives and fond reminiscences.

And the secret tribute from the air, where her voice is still the foundation of a hundred others who may never have heard her or even of her. Now, they swaddle those voices in walls of suit-approved, machine-generated white noise, but, if you strip all that away, it’s still her voice at the core. You might call it the Other voice.

Because the great voices come in two kinds: those that can be readily imitated (even if never quite matched) and those that can’t.

Call it the Brenda Lee/Patsy Cline Paradigm.

Patsy’s influence is almost entirely inspirational because nobody can quite get in her space.

Same for Billie Holiday. Same for Janis Joplin.

Brenda Lee? Well, gee, lots of people sound like her, don’t they? Lots of people get in her space.

Sure they do.

And because of that, we’re prone to assume she just came from the air. That if she hadn’t conjured whatever she conjured, somebody else would have.

That’s how she gets dropped down the memory hole and also why she can never quite remain buried.

The air works like that.

Too many end up owing you too much. As long as anyone, anywhere wants to dig a little deeper–and as long as there’s air to breathe, someone will–it’s always you they’ll find at the root.

Brenda Mae Tarpley may have only grown to four-foot nothing.

But she didn’t know how to be small.

Little Miss Giant she was….

Little Miss Giant she remains.

THE GODMOTHER SHINES FORTH (Found in the Connection: Rattling Loose End #117)

I was doing some rudimentary research on Don Williams, the country giant who passed yesterday, and was reminded that he was in the Pozo-Seco Singers, a pop-folk group who stirred up a little dust in the sixties. It was one of those tidbits that I used to know but had forgotten.

What I didn’t know was that Don and company had recorded a nice version of Chip Taylor’s “I Can Make it With You”…

Well that’s one way of doing it and The Hard Times, who were the house band for Where the Action Is, followed right along…

And then there’s the Jackie DeShannon way. If anyone needs proof Jackie’s a genius–and, despite a couple of big hits under her own name and dozens more as a writer, the Lost Voice of a generation she, as the assembler of the essential ethos of both folk rock and the singer-songwriter movement, did more than a little to define–consider this Exhibit A….

I would point especially to what she does with the repeated line There’s a future for me and understand what it means to interpret a song.

Or, if you prefer, claim it.

OKAY, I’LL PLAY…

I don’t want to make a habit of this. I prefer to generate my own ideas/content. But the more I thought about this, the more the challenge/absurdity made me smile….So, again from one of those memes that’s going around…(tried to link live versions where available.)

The 30 Day Song Challenge…(I think the idea is to name the first song you love that comes to mind. Anyway that’s the spirit I’m taking.)

THE GREATEST LIP-SYNCH EVER (Found in the Connection: Rattling Loose End #103)

FoxGuy67’s perspicacious comments elsewhere sent me on a Jackie DeShannon YouTube journey, which yielded this….From Where the Action Is in 1966.

She had recorded it in 1963 and, if somebody had thought to add those handclaps, it might have busted out…In which case it would have been much harder to deny her the credit she still deserves for inventing folk rock. Except the precise timing, everything I said about “When You Walk in the Room” here, could have been said about “Needles and Pins.” As I’ve said elsewhere (or did I just think it? the memory hazes), the American answer to the British Invasion was out of her mouth before anybody else knew there was a question. And I don’t know if she invented air guitar, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she was the first person to play it on television….

[NOTE: There’s a nice interview here, where, among other things, Jackie explains the evolution of “Needles and Pins.” Sonny Bono and Jack Nitzsche wrote it for her….then balked at recording it. She said it was that or nothing. They recorded it. She also debunks any notion that not taking a writing credit in no way prevented her from being the driving force behind the record‘s creation.]

THE SPIRIT OF ’65

CD Review:

Completely Under the Covers (2016)
Matthew Sweet and Susanna Hoffs

There’s always been a place in Susanna Hoffs’ voice that feels like 1965 and is all the more compelling for persistently suggesting that the only thing 1965 was ever missing was her.

This is four CDs worth of her indulging the premise.

Oh, Matthew Sweet is here also and that’s hardly insignificant (they call themselves Sid n Susie….cute). But I’ve never thought I’d be interested in hearing him sing the phone book. With Hoffs, be it lead or harmony, I’m not so sure.

Well there’s no phone book test here, just a bunch of great songs from the Sixties (Disc 1: The original Under the Covers from 2006), Seventies (Disc 2: Under the Covers, Volume 2, from 2009 and Disc 3: Outtakes from the same sessions) and Eighties (Disc 4: Under the Covers, Volume 3 from 2012).

I didn’t make a count, but I’ll guess she takes the lead about two-thirds, him about a third, with a few trade-offs and close harmony leads throw in.

It doesn’t all work, or anyway it’s not all outstanding. I wasn’t surprised because I’ve pulled up their collaborations here and there on YouTube over the years and while the song choices always seemed compelling, the actual performances were a little too true to the originals to really add anything obvious.

Still, I thought it might be more compelling to sit down and listen to them all at once so when this came up cheap on Amazon with my birthday rolling around I sprang for it.

I wasn’t wrong either time.

Listening close, listening all at once, it’s compelling enough to amount to some sort of vision: a quarter-century of white rock and roll re-imagined as a set of well-produced folk songs. Slick but (mostly) not too slick.

Despite the slightly salacious series title, there’s nothing like sexual heat or chemistry going on here and nothing remotely like the subliminal, rivalry-based anger that drove pretty much every one of the great harmony acts that were around in ’65 (Beatles, Beach Boys, Byrds, Mamas & Papas, Simon & Garfunkel….all in all, not a happy bunch). I miss the heat. I miss the subliminal, which is so often the springboard for the sublime.

But this has a pull all its own. Some of it’s just the confidence that every song is tried and true. There’s no wondering if the tunes won’t work, especially since Sweet and Hoffs work only the tiniest variations on the originals. As the songs roll on–sixty in all, including fifteen bonus tracks not previously available–it’s those variations and their subtleties that take hold: Hoffs making rare use of her soprano for two magic seconds at the fade of “You’re So Vain” pulling the song backwards and forwards at the same time while also making it do something it never quite did before, which is hurt; the gentle subversion of refusing to either switch the gender for “Maggie May” and (following Linda Ronstadt) “Willin'” or just give them to the guy; the shift from Love’s “Alone Again Or” to Bran Wilson’s “The Warmth of the Sun” that actually feels like it’s straight from a bar band stage at Ciro’s on a night when nobody wants to dance.

And, all the way up in the Eighties’ portion of the program, proof that the old alternative universe dream of Hoffs fronting the Go-Go’s (the better singer hooking up with the greater band), was, like so many alt-universe dreams–including those being dreamed from left to right in this new world we’ve made–a false flag. All this version of “Our Lips Are Sealed” does is suggest that, in our non-alternative reality, Belinda Carlisle really is some kind of genius.

That’s how it goes throughout. The highs and lows chase each other around without leaving any indication that there could ever be a consensus on exactly which is which. The notion of a place where there’s a home for Yes and the Clash, the Who and James Taylor is just as mixed up and confused as you might fear and as oddly reassuring as you might hope.

Music for these times then?

I honestly wasn’t sure until I got to the middle of the third disc–all outtakes–and, with Sweet taking the lead and Hoffs pushing him from underneath the way Jackie DeShannon might have pushed Gene Clark if God had been on the ball in, yeah, ’65, and had them do an album of duets where they submerged their personalities into each other and the spirit of “(What’s So Funny ‘Bout) Peace, Love and Understanding,” even if the song wasn’t yet available.

It’s a song Nick Lowe wrote in 1974 about the spirit of ’65, an unofficial sequel to the Byrds’ “Turn, Turn, Turn” (which, by some unfathomable mystery, is missing from this set). A short time after, Elvis Costello and the Attractions turned it into an anthem of pure fury and one of the greatest rock and roll records ever made. You can hear those versions here:

Since then, there have been a boatload of other covers. You can chase those around YouTube all day long if so inclined, but, if not, I’ll just pull up the other two good ones I found here:

That gives you some idea of the song’s flexibility…its own ability to reach forward and back.

If you listen close to Costello’s version, you can even hear that old Byrds’ jangling guitar–the secret language of white rock for the last fifty years–chiming throughout…and breaking loose in the bridge.

Now what I can’t do is post Sid n Susie’s studio version, which hit me this week the way “Turn, Turn, Turn” hit me in the spring of ’78, when I got my high school diploma and my first copy of The Byrds’ Greatest Hits in the space of about twenty-four hours.

I can’t post it because it’s not on YouTube yet and I’m not into posting music there. Maybe I should be. Because, as things stand, I heartily recommend that you avoid the live versions which are posted and give no hint of anything but professional boredom.

Meanwhile, you’ll have to take my word for it that, without Matthew Sweet being anywhere near a Byrd (or Elvis Costello) vocally, or the band being anywhere near able to generate the Attractions’ mind-meld, Sid n Susie made me feel the gap between 1965 and now like nothing I’ve heard in decades. Like it still might be possible–just…and just for a moment–to wake up tomorrow and find that Peace, Love and Understanding had finally, in the moment when the children of ’65 have so far lost their minds that they’re holding their breath waiting for the CIA to save the Republic and the next Democratic Congress to convene anti-anti-communist versions of HUAC hearings, become not so funny at all.

It’s almost enough, all by itself, to redeem the idea of spending this last horrific decade treating rock and roll as folk music with which black people had nothing to do while pretending that such oversights are in no way responsible for our current predicament.

Well, that plus doing right by bubbling unders from the Left Banke….

UPDATE: As of 1/4/18, the Sid n Susie version of “What’s So Funny” is on YouTube. Get it while you can…

 

HOW MUCH CAN ONE RECORD MEAN (Volume 9: “(He’s) The Great Imposter”)

“(He’s) The Great Imposter”
1961
Artist: The Fleetwoods
Writers: Sharon Sheeley, Jackie DeShannon

GREATIMPOSTER1

(NOTE: This might also be titled “More Scenes from an Actual Boyhood,” in keeping with my series of occasional push-backs against the incipient nihilism that, for me, defined the movie Boyhood. It now surpasses my Patty Loveless piece as the longest I’ve written for this blog…never say I didn’t warn you!)

In the spring of 1974, in the space of a single school day, I got my friend Bryan elected president of our middle school and hooked him up with the hottest girl in seventh grade.

The last words he said to me as we were being separated by the kids crowding toward the buses were:

“I’m gonna kill you!”

Coincidentally or not, I left both politics and matchmaking the following day, never to return.

Best to quit while you’re ahead.

Oddly enough, that wasn’t even close to the strangest thing that happened to me that day.

And therein lies a tale.

*   *   *   *

Sometimes the way you know somebody is complicated.

The way I knew Bryan was this:

When I was a very small child–four, five, six, like that–my dad, between his careers as a carny and a preacher, was a paint contractor. Somewhere around that time, he landed an ongoing arrangement with a local architect. That’s a nice deal for a contractor. Plenty of guaranteed work, especially in those halcyon days when the NASA-fueled Space Coast was up and coming (this was the early to mid-sixties) and the Old Florida was being consumed by the New Florida at gerbil-wheel speed and with about as much sense of proportion or higher purpose.

Anywhere from Titusville to Cocoa Beach to Melbourne, condos and housing developments were sprouting like spring violets, only faster and year round.

Hence, for a paint contractor, a prominent architect’s contract was nothing to sneeze at.

The architect had a son, Craig. He and I were the same age and my mother was already in poor enough health to make looking after me a trial, so it was deemed a good thing all around for me to spend a lot of the days when my dad was working for Craig’s dad at their very cool and very large River Road house. We got tight, Craig and me. Our families even got tight, as much as could happen across white collar/blue collar lines in that time and place, given that Craig’s mom was something of a social climber. And, for a few years, so it went.

Then, one day, when I was maybe six, my dad came home and told my mom that Craig’s dad had asked him to paint up some condemned houses he had somehow acquired because that way he could get a buddy of his at the county inspection office to give them a wink-and-nod clean bill of health and sell them at a profit as opposed to bearing the expense of knocking them down. This was probably business as usual for that time and place, but my dad was troubled enough to run the proposition by my mom.

As anyone who ever knew my mother could have told anyone who didn’t: That was the end of that.

No more contracts from Craig’s dad. No more family visits. No more playing with Craig.

So the years went by.

I probably thought about Craig once in a while, but I had lots of friends in those days, and he went to private school (expensive!) and I went to public school (free!), so I got over it soon enough. First grade came and went and then so did second and third and fourth grades.

Then fifth grade came along and I showed up for the first day of school and went out to P.E. for second period and looked across the old school yard and, lo and behold, there was somebody who looked an awful lot like…Craig?

So I said: “Craig?”

And he said: “John?”

And, as kids will sometimes do, we picked up right where we left off.

This wasn’t necessarily a given. Kids can change a lot between 5/6 and 10/11. And who knew what he had been told about what went down between our fathers?

Plus, he was a whiz kid. And a natural leader.

I was just a guy. But I did get good grades. I had my mom to thank for that. She couldn’t keep up with me when I started running around so she had me sit still and taught me to read and write when I was three. By the time I got to school, I was able to give a stronger impression of book smarts than just about anyone who lived in my neighborhood and, in those days, that was how they separated you at school. By test scores and grades and such–and, not surprisingly, those qualities broke down pretty closely along neighborhood lines.

The upshot of this was that I spent the first four grades hanging with the NASA kids at school. NASA kids came from NASA parents, or, more specifically, NASA dads–a type known everywhere, but especially highly concentrated in this time and place of whence I speak–and they were under what you might call a very particular kind of pressure.

You didn’t hear too much about Type A personalities back then, but, on the proving grounds lying between Titusville and Cocoa Beach and Melbourne, we were familiar with the concept.

I mean, if you heard about an umpire and a Little League manager getting into a heated discussion over whether the manager’s ten-year-old bat boy was removing the bats from the field of play with sufficient speed and efficiency, and if the umpire was said to have then picked up one of the offending bats and heaved it over the nearest fence (reports varied as to whether he had taken any real care to make sure it didn’t hit anybody) and the umpire and the manager were said to have soon afterwards ended up throwing punches and rolling on the ground, you pretty much just shrugged and said, “Yep, NASA dads.” (My first-year Little League manager and my second-year Little League coach, both gone on to higher things by then, pulled this off in my third year. The Bad News Bears had nothing on us!)

If some girl in our fourth-grade class went home with an A+ on an Earth Science exam and her parents showed up at the principal’s office the next day demanding to know how the school that was being supported with their tax dollars could possibly give an A+ on an Earth Science test to a little girl who couldn’t answer any of the questions they had naturally put to her in order to see how much she was really learning, you pretty much just went, “Yep, NASA parents.”

If some “visiting” coach showed up at your Babe Ruth field and made you (and by “you” I mean me) practice turning the double-play seventy-two times in a row while all the kids he didn’t like stood around and watched….well, you just had to keep reminding yourself we didn’t beat the Russkies to the moon by sending a bunch of shirkers across the Indian River every morning!

I guess what I’m saying is, we thought the NASA kids were driven. Very tough stuff. Very high end.

And they were.

But it wasn’t until the private school kids showed up that we understood what max-driven really meant.

The reason the private school kids suddenly showed up at our school was that their parents all had contracts with the private school (grades one through six) when the private school found itself in budgetary straights. This caused the private school to renege (or so all the parents said) on the contracts, which had stipulated that if you had two kids in the school at the same time, the second one was half-price (or maybe it was free–the memory hazes) until the first one graduated. When the school changed the contracts, the parents, who were mostly doctors and lawyers and, yes, architects, decided if they all stuck together they could get the school to back down. They stuck together, alright, and those budgetary restraints must have been real, because the school did not back down. That was how Craig and David and A.J. and Julie and Lea and Bryan and all their little brothers and sisters ended up in public school at the start of the fifth grade.

And, because I had been friends with Craig when we were four-five-six, I was suddenly more or less friends with most of them, too.

Including, of course, Bryan, who I would one day do such great things for….

*    *   *   *

In those days–four, five, six right on up to eleven, twelve, thirteen–I belonged everywhere.

I belonged in the neighborhood. I belonged at church. I belonged at the ball park. I belonged at my friend Paul’s house. I belonged in whatever trailer park was in walking distance if it had a kid my age who liked to shoot hoops or throw any sort of ball around. I belonged with the NASA kids and I even belonged, finally, with the private school kids.

I pretty much took all that for granted in those days, though I realize in retrospect it wasn’t something just anybody could have pulled off. I was counted shy and that actually worked to my advantage, because I was one of those who was counted shy, “until you get to know him.”

Which everybody did, eventually, because if you stuck me anywhere in the matrix of neighborhood-school-church-ball park, there was enough overlap for me to just about always have an in by virtue of knowing somebody from another part of the matrix. The thing with Craig was mere serendipity, but the rest was more or less inevitable, given who I was and where I was.

So I can’t say “belonging” with the private school kids felt other than natural, even if it was a little weird sometimes to be the only one at the lunch table who had taken a hundred and six on an extra credit test when a hundred and ten was available. (Even if I only heard, “So, uh, what’s the problem there Ross?” twice a year, it was, all of a sudden, two more times than my previously laid-back self wanted to hear it.)

If anything nonplussed me, it was the constant maintenance of different veneers, depending on circumstances, while holding on to my basic personality. I managed it well enough, probably because I didn’t actually know any other way to be. Of course, there were awkward moments here and there, but I didn’t really think about it unless I had to. (The toughest instance of being forced up against it–of “having to”–came in junior high, when it became increasingly evident to the others in the private school gang that I wasn’t being invited to my friend Craig’s cool house on the River Road for various social events that tended to gather there because even the other private school kids didn’t have, you know, a cool house on the River Road. I’m sure some of them had swimming pools–I’m betting none had a dock. Finally, one day, somebody–my friend Bryan if memory serves–ended a long discussion at the Monday lunch table of how much trouble they had finding a sixth to make an even number for a bowling party that had launched from Craig’s cool house the Saturday before by suddenly giving me a very quizzical look and asking “Why didn’t we just call John?” Seeing that my friend Craig looked as though he wanted to dig a hole in the lunch room tile and crawl in, I quickly conjured a white lie about not being able to come anyway because I was doing such and such that day, implying that Craig knew all about this beforehand. We never talked about it, then or later, but a few months later my friend Craig signed my yearbook, “To my life-long friend” and underlined “life-long,” so, if I never knew what he had been told about what happened between our dads, I knew, and always had, the only thing worth knowing. He didn’t care any more than I did. When it came to belonging everywhere, I’d have to say the good generally far outweighed the bad.)

*   *   *   *

I bring up this history to give you some idea of what my world was like when my friend Bryan showed up in our afternoon typing class on the first day of the second semester of the eighth grade and started mooning over “the new girl in chorus.”

Even being the one who belonged everywhere–the one who could move easily between worlds, who could needle and be needled mercilessly without dropping the usual stitch or tramping on the usual nerve-endings, the only one, really, in any of my worlds, who truly got along with everybody in any given world, let alone betwixt and between–I still couldn’t see where this one was headed.

Since the time I had first known Bryan in the fifth grade, I’m pretty sure he had never been without a girlfriend for more than a few weeks at a stretch. Even if it wasn’t really that way, it seemed that way. Bryan always had a girlfriend and she was never anybody we went to school with. It wasn’t something he bragged about, or even talked about much. You just always knew he had one. (Okay, he tended to talk about not having a girlfriend when he didn’t have one–he just didn’t talk about the ones he actually had when he had them. With my friend Bryan, having a girlfriend was actually normal. Not having a girlfriend seemed as weird to him as having one would have seemed to the rest of us.) When he broke up with his latest, just before Christmas break in the eighth grade, our friend Bob, who we had met in the seventh grade (different elementary schools, though I had played baseball against him in Little League), wanted to bet me–or somebody–that Bryan would have a girlfriend by the time we came back to school.

The rest of us had known Bryan a lot longer than Bob had. No takers.

So it was wild enough that Bryan had even arrived at the beginning of the second semester of the eighth grade bereft of a current squeeze. But to hear him talking that way about a girl who actually went to our school and apparently had just moved there was almost surreal. Naturally, we wanted details!

And we got them. You know, at least to the limits the average eighth grade vocabulary can accommodate such.

We got that she had long brown hair and gorgeous brown eyes and a slammin’ body and, was, you know, just generally a fox (the word we used then, which these days has been replaced in the common parlance by words like “hottie”–yet more proof, if anyone needs it, that God has turned His back).

Hey, what else did we need to know?

Nothing, that’s what.

Well, maybe find out her name. Just to help out our friend Bryan of course.

So it did put us on a mission. Any girl who had impressed Bryan at all, let alone so profoundly, was definitely worth going on a mission for.

It turned out, though, that discovering her name was no easy task.

Eighth Grade Chorus was too big for roll call (the teacher checked a seating chart), so that was no good. None of the girls Bryan was tight with (not a few, though they were mostly uptown types) seemed to know who she was or where she had come from. And, of course, he didn’t want to lose any all-important cool points–with us, with himself, but especially with the fox herself–by being seen to act too eager.

So, for a time, we were stuck.

Certainly none of the rest of us had noticed any mysterious brown-eyed foxes walking the halls or showing up in our other classes. We had a bona fide mystery on our hands.

The mystery went on for a while. I’m gonna say until some time in February at the very least. Day after day, Bryan would walk through the door of the typing room. Day after day, we would eagerly crane our necks, hoping for a sign. Day after day, we would be met with a glum shake of the head. No further intelligence. Day after day, then, of desultorily working our way through our typing assignments before convening to the corner where the fast-typing kids could gather and converse if they kept it quiet while the slow-typing kids finished their assignments. Day after day of Bryan assuring us, in his world-wise manner, that this girl “just has something!”

What can I say? We were stuck in the Florida public school system, being experimented on with classes like “Worthy Use of Leisure Time” (I only wish I was making that up). We needed something to keep us going. Conjecturing about the brown-eyed goddess in Bryan’s Eighth Grade Chorus class beat anything else available.

And then, one day, patience was rewarded! The glum shake of the head was replaced by a can-do smile and a firm nod. There was palpable excitement. Some sort of breakthrough had clearly occurred. We raced through our assignments (well, the boys anyway…Lea, Cheryl, Nanette? Not so interested.) Whoever got there first, Bryan made him wait. David, Bob, me, we all had to be there for the “announcement.”

“I found out her name!” he said when we were at last fully assembled. Big news. How did he find out? “Well, she was walking out the door after class and somebody called her name and she turned around and answered so I know it was her!”

And….

“Her name is Michelle!”

And then I got a very funny feeling. What you might call rather conflicted emotions.

Things I very much wanted to be true and things I wished very much were not true all washed together in a roiling sea. When it came to dealing with the absurdities of life on the eighth grade level, I suddenly found I was not as far above the average as I liked to think.

Nonetheless, if what I thought was true was really true, I knew I had to come clean.

Maybe if my friend Bryan had walked into typing class back in the first week of January and thrown this name at me I could have teased him a bit, led him on. But with all this water under the bridge, I knew I had responsibilities. Sometimes belonging everywhere carries some burdens along with the rewards.

First, though, I had to be sure of my information.

So I said:

“Uh, what was she wearing?”

Very slight incredulous pause…Then:

“You know her?…You know her!”

Boy, my friend Bryan. He was quick on the uptake.

“Well, maybe…Uh, what was she wearing?”

Now, I don’t remember anymore what she was wearing, my friend Michelle, but whatever information that my friend Bryan relayed on the subject, it did indeed fit the description of what she was wearing when she got on the bus that morning.

So I said: “Bryan, there’s good news and there’s bad news….”

*    *    *    *

Sometimes, the way you know somebody is extremely complicated.

The way I knew my friend Michelle was this:

When I was maybe ten (or could it have been nine? surely it wasn’t eight–the memory hazes), Michelle’s mother brought her five kids to our church. Her mother had a problem of sorts, the fact of which, not the specifics, was somehow conveyed to my mother, as all problems in our church or neighborhood tended to be if they involved needing a spiritual rock to lean on.

I gathered pretty quickly that part of the problem might have involved food and clothing.

Shelter they had, if squeezing a woman and five kids (oldest something like twelve, youngest something like four) into a seventeen-foot Airstream parked fifty feet from US 1 could be called shelter. “Money problems” was probably the fairest way to put it. I also gathered my mother might have helped them with this in some way or other. It’s possible that, if she did, they themselves never knew it as that was how she preferred to operate. It’s also possible they knew it very well. Certainly from that very first day they would hear no word against her.

Beyond that, they could sing. My mother was a choir director (adult all the time, youth when nobody else could be found, which was most of the time) and she loved anybody who wanted to sing–who didn’t need to be coaxed and cajoled.

Michelle’s family liked to sing and they were very good at it. They were all very good at it and they all liked it, but Michelle was a good bit better than very good and liked it best of all. So, once it was pretty well established that they were going to be around for a while, there was a lot of rehearsing going on at my house. Solos, duets, trios, mother-daughter, sister-sister, Michelle’s mother and my mother, Michelle and her mother, Michelle and my mother and so on and so forth.

A few years down the road, of course, that singing talent got Michelle promoted from the seventh grade chorus to the eighth grade chorus over Christmas break.

It turned out the brown-eyed goddess was Michelle from the neighborhood, whose older brother had gotten along with Bryan like a cat and a dog back in the fifth grade before he got moved up a grade.

Had to tell Bryan that part right off. No hiding it.

Then I had to make some decisions about what else to tell him.

I figured it was safe to share that the goddess was actually a month older than me, though a grade behind. (“She’s not stupid is she?” Bryan asked somewhat incredulously. I was able to answer in the negative. Honor roll in fact. Probably better grades than him or me. “She got kept back a grade because her family moved around a lot,” I said and left it at that. If Bryan got the idea her family was military or NASA or some other standard narrative of constant moving about with which we were all too familiar, then it was an idea I let him keep. I had my friend Michelle to consider at this point and I realized, maybe for the first time, that I wasn’t the only one who had to work at belonging everywhere.)

There were some things I didn’t share, then.

If you were playing touch football and she got by you there was no sense chasing her. She was gone.

Figured he could find that out for himself.

Her family still lived in a trailer park, though in a much nicer one (her mom had remarried). Nothing anybody needed to know there. Bryan was a private school kid but I didn’t think he cared. If he did, I didn’t want to find out (turned out he didn’t, by the way).

Oh, and one other thing.

About a year after they had moved in up the road from us and I started going up there in the afternoons to play those football games with her and her brothers and whoever else was interested on any given day–about a year after they took me in as one of their own, a degree of trust they extended to me and my mother and, so far as I could tell, no one else–Michelle’s mother came to my house one afternoon when I wasn’t there and told my mother what the real problem (the problem behind all the “money problems”) was, after which, Michelle’s brothers were free to come play at my house, but I wasn’t to go to the trailer park again until further notice.

Naturally, I asked why, and was told two things: First, I didn’t need to know just now and my mother would tell me when she could. Second, I wasn’t to tell anyone else about this new arrangement.

It all had to do with their father showing up a week or two before.

I had seen him a couple of times already, before “the visit” from Michelle’s mom. And he was a sight to behold.

Michelle’s mother was probably in her late thirties–a tall, dark, handsome woman with five gonna-be tall, dark and handsome kids (including, of course, one goddess-in-the-making). Her father looked to be about five feet four and easily sixty, though, of course, he could have been a good deal younger. No telling what chain-smoking and stress will do to the complexion and, as it turned out, he had some real good reasons for experiencing stress. He had extremely watery, pale blue eyes which were greatly magnified by coke-bottle lenses. His hands were palsied and his breathing had an even worse version of my mother’s occasional death rattle in it, except his were not occasional. He seemed like a decent stick to me, the time or two I saw him. And he clearly loved his kids to death and they clearly loved him no less.

The story I got eventually–not right away, but long before I was in a position to decide just what my friend Bryan strictly needed to be told about my friend Michelle–was that he was a top counterfeit man (or maybe accountant) for some crime syndicate.

The memory hazes and the original information wasn’t exactly crystal clear but it was something along those lines.

Evidently, he was wanted by the FBI or the Treasury Department or the Secret Service. One of those. Anyway, he had come above ground because he was dying of emphysema or lung cancer–one of those–and he wanted to see his kids one last time.

Michelle’s mother had warned my mother to keep me away because she didn’t want to risk my being caught up in the inevitable visit from the Federales, which, not too long after, did indeed come to pass, conducted by whatever service was in charge of catching him (Treasury, if memory serves).

He died not long after. Whether in prison or at home on bail is, you guessed it, hazed by memory and, I now find, beyond the powers of Google to recover. After which Michelle’s mother got on with her life.

How much of the story I got was really true?

Who knows.

Some of it certainly. Maybe a good bit of it. Probably not all of it (how rarely, after all, at ten or any other age, do we get the whole truth and nothing but the truth). But, true or not–whole or not–it was what I knew at the time and it was one more thing I figured my friend Bryan did not need to know several years down the line.

Not from me anyway.

After that, back there in the typing room, it was all logistics.

Mainly: Did I just know her, or did I really know her?

“Trust me,” I said. “I really know her. That’s the good news.”

“Okay,” Bryan said. “So what’s the bad news?”

“The bad news is she has a boyfriend.”

Boy, nothing crushes the old can-do spirit like the specter of the hottest girl in the seventh grade turning out to be tight with one of your best friends and then discovering, just a breath or two later, that she might be tied down for life, because, as we all know, those junior high romances are forever!

Well, we all do know that, in junior high, they feel like forever, at least when they involve the object of your particular desire.

We had come a long way down this road. I felt the need to offer Bryan some hope, and to make it sound like real hope, springing forth from a fount of hard-earned wisdom, even though it was really just a hunch.

I was in the eighth grade myself after all.

So when Bryan said, inevitably:

“So who is he?” which, of course, in the eighth grade and beyond, is always code for “Who is he and what can we do about him?” I was able to say, “Well, he’s this kid named Drew. He lives down in Melbourne and I don’t think you have much to worry about because he’s a jerk,”–at which point my friend Bryan perked up a bit, as if to say more, more and I was able to add, confidentially–“Look, I know Michelle. She’s been going with him for a couple of months and the only reason she hasn’t seen through him yet is because she only sees him on Sundays at church and then she goes over to his house for dinner or something. He’s one of those who puts on a show for the grownups and the girls.”

“So you think there’s a chance she’ll break up with him?” Bryan said, very cheery all of a sudden.

“Yeah,” I said. And I suddenly realized that I actually believed it. I did know Drew and I certainly knew Michelle and there was no way it was going to last. “Give it another month, maybe two.”

“And you’ll let me know right?”

Naturally, at this point, I looked around the table and kept my expression dead pan.

“No, Bryan,” I said. “I’ll do everything in my power to keep you from ever finding out.”

We had all been under a lot of strain. Highly irrational, eighth grade-style hilarity ensued.

*    *   *   *

So March came around and Michelle, for reasons she certainly did not discuss with me (I was very careful not to ask, she was equally careful not to tell), broke up with Drew the Jerk.

And then things got complicated.

Maybe Bryan got cold feet. Sure there had been lots of girlfriends but this was the brown-eyed goddess! This, it seemed, was different. None of that just having me put in a good word for him. No simple junior high wing-man stuff. Too risky. There had to be some grander, utterly foolproof plan. Failure was not an option!

Whether or not this in any way affected his decision to run for president of the school-wide, very-big-deal, mock political convention our social studies’ teachers had latched onto as a proper means of teaching us about the true value of the political process in the Age of Watergate, I have no idea. I mean, I assured him that Michelle was not the sort to be impressed by such things–and he actually liked hearing that even if he may not have quite believed it–but I’m not really sure I got through to him.

Besides, he and I had a track record of success, politically speaking.

As I mentioned above, we had gotten tight in the fifth grade. In the sixth grade he ran, successfully, for president of the student council (which was the closest thing to being president of our elementary school) and I had been his campaign manager.

The fact that I belonged everywhere had come in very handy in the sixth grade. I think Bryan had an idea it would come in very handy again.

There’s no need to go into too much detail on this front, because, of course, this post is really about a song by the Fleetwoods called “(He’s) The Great Imposter.”

Suffice it to say that my belonging everywhere mattered a lot less in our middle school that was fed by five elementary schools, three of which didn’t come anywhere near overlapping with any of my other worlds, than it had in our own elementary school. What did matter, as it turned out, was that Bryan was a popular kid and I just happened to discover a hidden gift for being a hellacious political operative, a rare combination of practical math whiz and go-for-the-jugular, bare-knuckled dirty tricks groin-puncher who, once I had the math nailed down as the first ballot droned on (and it became evident that Bryan was going to come second to another popular kid from a bigger elementary school, but a runoff would be required for a majority), started hanging around the Teachers-In-Charge (the day’s equivalent of back room political bosses) over by The Big Table (our version of the proverbial smoke-filled room).

The big bosses were very concerned that we wouldn’t have a winner before the day was out.

This was a rather big deal, since the school board had only approved letting everyone out of class for the entire day on the condition that the day ended precisely on time. Given that the local paper had the weekend section reserved for us and local television and radio were there to, you know, announce and interview the winner, let’s just say the specter of school-wide embarrassment loomed. Not to mention the end of all similar future projects!

We had a Secretary and a Treasurer and a Veep.

It wasn’t going to look too good if the victory picture had a blank spot where the Prez was supposed to be.

Knowing this much, and spying the enemy’s (the civilized notion of “opponent” was long gone by then) campaign manager wandering about trying to gather up stray votes in states where his candidate already had large, solid majorities, I spent my energies getting the bosses to enact a small rules change. Whoever got the majority in a particular state got the entire state. Block voting would replace proportional voting. Probably not exactly the way the Bull Moosers (for whom our convention had been named) had done it, but the Bull Moosers never had to be on the bus home by 3:30 either!

It would definitely make things go faster. They could announce the change between the first and second ballots.

Good. Because, by then, I would have the swing states who had voted for the candidates who wouldn’t be on the second ballot–and the states Bryan had won only by a vote or two–all wrapped up.

It took some legwork. I started following the bosses–er, teachers–who were spreading out to inform the various state chairmen of the impending rule change, suggested by me, and I kept on following them until I had the headcount I needed.

Then I went back to the head boss (Mrs. C, this is such an unfair description of you!) and said, oh yeah, one other thing.

And what was that?

Well, if we wanted to be sure we were done on time, we better also make it against the rules for anybody who had already committed to either candidate to change their mind.

Fair enough. Made sense.

Votes promised were votes delivered!

As the results of the first ballot were being announced I did a quick recount of what the second ballot was going to look like.

Various party chairpersons had already promised me enough votes to win.

The people had spoken!

After that, I repaired to the back of the gym, put my feet up and smiled beatifically whilst my friend Bryan, stuck on the podium with no idea whatsoever as to what I had been up to, gave me various incarnations of the evil eye.

 *    *    *    *

And that is where my friend Michelle came looking for me about an hour later as my candidate, aka her not-quite-secret admirer, rolled toward victory.

“So,” she said, after she had sat next to me for a few minutes and we asked about each other’s moms and so forth. “It looks like your candidate’s gonna win.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I think so.”

Then she congratulated me or something along those lines and I accepted it with a weary smile.

I didn’t brag about my shenanigans.

I had a pretty good idea she wasn’t there to talk about me.

“I hear he’s interested in me,” she said pretty soon after that.

At which point I was able to smile again and say, yes, he was very definitely interested in her.

“Does he really want to go steady?”

Easier and easier.

“Yep, he really does.”

“Well,” she said, “what kind of guy is he?”

I liked that she trusted me.

It was only a long time after that I realized this trust might be an especially valuable thing, given what I knew and what she knew that I knew and given that we were each, in our own way, tasked with belonging everywhere.

Whatever I failed to realize at the time, though, it made me genuinely happy to tell her that my friend Bryan was indeed a good guy. And to mean it. And to know that she knew I meant it. That I, who had teased her relentlessly on a thousand other days, wouldn’t put her on about a thing like that.

I figured that was it. Last hurdle cleared. She had finally gotten to know Bryan a little bit in chorus (or to put it more accurately, Bryan had finally gotten to know her). Just the week before, he had told me that he brought my name up for the first time and mentioned that he was a friend of mine and that this little revelation had gone over very well. It all had the feeling of tumblers clicking into place. It probably wasn’t the way I would have gone about it, but I figured–correctly no doubt–that my friend Bryan knew a lot more about this romance stuff than I did.

So I was a little surprised to find that there was one more hurdle.

Right out of the blue, she said:

“He’s not anything like Drew is he?”

I mean, of course I assured her he was nothing like Drew. And, of course this was true.

And, of course, this turned out to be the thing she really wanted to know–and that she really wanted to hear from me.

By which I mean from me, specifically.

As in: I wouldn’t have expected it from anybody else regarding the whole Drew thing, but you should have warned me.

Maybe that wasn’t exactly the way she meant it, tone-wise, but that was the way I heard it.

Which was odd, because, to tell the truth, there was no way for her to know that I knew anything at all about Drew. I knew Bryan didn’t tell her, because there was no way he was on that kind of footing with her yet. (Given that the footing in question was the kind where you feel comfortable enough to start talking about your junior high crush’s old boyfriends, he probably never would be, if he knew what was good for him. But, in any case, he certainly wasn’t there yet.)

I knew I hadn’t told her.

I knew Bryan didn’t know anybody in the worlds Michelle and I shared–the neighborhood, our church–well enough to have leaked anything accidentally.

I certainly hadn’t told anyone else who could have told her.

And God knows she had never seen me hanging around with Drew himself because, well, that had never happened.

And yet, somehow, she knew that I knew.

About Drew.

You know: The Great Imposter.

*    *    *   *

Sometimes, the way you get to know somebody is by glancing off each other at the slightest of tangential angles, barely leaving a mark.

The way I got to know Drew was this:

Our church had a revival.

Not in name only. Those happen all the time. At least once a year in any self-respecting Southern Baptist congregation.

Usually, a “revival” is a ritual. A chance to hear a different preacher than your own for a few days. Maybe take up an extra offering or two. Put a few conversions and rededications on the books. Possibly even add a new member or two.

This particular revival was different. It was the only revival I was ever part of that was actually a revival–the Holy Ghost sweeping in, allowing no one present to indulge the safety of denial.

Ours was a small church, pulling maybe sixty people a week at the time.

Ours was also a wounded church. Deeply wounded.

We had been founded as a mission by a larger church in the early sixties (a church whose pastor through most of my childhood, eventually to be referred to by my mother as simply, “that puke,” would one day be a leader in the unholy movement that bound evangelical bodies to the Republican Party, an unmitigated disaster for both sides, but that’s another story for another day). After we became a full-fledged congregation, officially part of the Southern Baptist Convention, with my mother (though not my father, who converted only years later) as a charter member, the church grew for a while and then it split.

Then it reformed and began growing again. And it grew for a while and then it split.

Then it reformed and…well, you know what happened next.

Only the last time it happened, this most recent time, had only been a couple of years earlier and it had been the most painful of all, in part because we thought we had been experiencing a genuine revival then!

We had fallen for the oldest trick in the book–a charismatic preacher with something to gain!

That part might have been easy to guess. But the part we didn’t get right was that we thought we were the gain.

It turned out he had other fish to fry, but in order to fry them properly he had to hook them first.

So hook us he did.

He was Brother Herbert (actually Dr. Herbert but, for some reason “Doctor” always went with a last name–I never once heard anyone call him Dr. Herbert–and I’m not going with last names here because this thing called the internet has a long reach and, even though I know for a fact he’s now gone to his reward, I don’t want to dignify his memory with honorifics) and, like I said, he was charismatic.

Charismatic enough to double the membership (yet again). Charismatic enough to lead my father back to Christ. Charismatic enough to lead me to Christ. Charismatic enough to bring Michelle’s whole family into the fold. Charismatic enough to baptize us all.

Charismatic enough to lead my father into the ministry and get him ordained by our deacons.

Very, very charismatic.

Savvy, too.

He waited until he thought he had a solid majority before he made his big move, which was to convince the congregation to change our affiliation from Southern to Independent Baptist.

He probably did have a majority too. A solid majority.

He only had one problem.

He didn’t have my mother.

And, if he didn’t have my mother, then he didn’t quite have all those women like Michelle’s mother who had, one time or another, needed a rock to lean on.

And that meant he didn’t have a majority after all. Any majority.

Which meant we weren’t going to vote to change our affiliation.

Southern Baptist we would remain.

And that meant Brother Herbert was going to be moving on and taking enough of us with him that we were cut deeper than we had ever been cut before.

The cut was deeper in part because of the sheer numbers–maybe forty people, which is a lot when you start with a hundred.

But it was deeper than that because now, unlike those other times, there was a cult of personality involved. Now, people who had been the closest of friends weren’t merely going to separate churches. They weren’t speaking to each other.

A few of them weren’t even speaking to my mother.

Which meant that, for some of them, there was no more rock to lean on the next time the wind blew.

And the wind will blow.

Life goes on.

Charismatic preachers look around one day and conclude that their work is done. The new flock that broke away from the old flock isn’t meeting in the fire hall any more. They’ve got their own auditorium now and their new affiliation is secure and–as part of a head count designed strictly to increase a flock–they’ve probably reached their limit.

All of which means it’s time to move on and be charismatic somewhere else.

So Brother Herbert left the flock he tore away from us and went somewhere else to carry on with his mission to grow the Independents and the new Independents were left with a new church that was fighting even harder to survive than our church was.

And the wind blew harder. It blew into all their lives and all of ours, but it blew hardest into the life of my mother’s friend Doris, who had left to be part of the new flock and hadn’t spoken to my mother for two years until she called on the phone one day and my mother answered and Doris was crying.

She was crying from pain–because her husband had just been diagnosed with cancer. And she was crying from shame–because she had followed a charismatic preacher to another church and fallen so far under his spell that she had stopped speaking to my mother.

And she was crying from desperation–because she was going to have to live in Orlando while her husband was getting treatments and she had a friend who could take in one of her boys who was in junior high, but no one who could take in the other because he was still in elementary school and had to maintain residence in our school district to avoid being transferred to another school at mid-year, only to be transferred back when her husband either recovered or didn’t.

Above all that, she was crying because she had poured her heart out to someone else who hadn’t spoken to my mother for a couple of years and they had said “Call Barbara,” meaning my can-hardly-breathe, hardly-stand, hardly-see mother, and Doris couldn’t bear the thought of it, because the one thing worse than not having the rock to lean on anymore would have been to crawl back to the rock and find that it was no longer there.

She was crying, then, because she couldn’t possibly see how my mother could take her back.

The only thing my mother couldn’t understand was how Doris could have ever thought she wouldn’t.

“But Doris,” my mother said, when it was clear Doris couldn’t quite believe there was nothing to forgive. “I never left you. I never would.”

When she realized that my mother truly didn’t understand what the fuss was, Doris started crying so hard she had to hang up and call back later.

The upshot was that Doris’ son, Jimmy, several years younger than me, came to live with us for a couple of months.

And from there, from my mother insisting there was nothing to forgive, the healing began.

People began speaking to each other once more, calling each other on the phone, asking for personal forgiveness and the Lord’s. There were shared services.

But there were still two churches. Two buildings. Two congregations.

The wound was too deep to overcome that.

So when Brother Dan–so charismatic he made Brother Herbert seem like a dead jellyfish washed up on one of our beaches–came up from Big City Baptist (I’m being coy, because I’m not naming names, but let’s just say it wasn’t very “big”–or even “city”–except in comparison to us), to preach that year’s revival at our church, we were maybe a little more prepared than usual for that once in a generation arrival of the real thing–the moment when the air comes truly alive.

Whether we were extra well prepared or not, we certainly knew one thing. The Spirit was upon us like never before. And, even when you’ve been fooled before, when it really happens, it is not mistakable for anything else.

Brother Dan preached up a storm and what he preached we were ready–desperate–to hear.

It’s probably safe to say he was of fundamentalist stock, which was a bit unusual for us (though hardly unheard of). He laid down the law, kept it straight and simple, and people flocked forward.

Then they told their friends and family and the friends and the families came in droves and they flocked forward, too. There were conversions and rededications  and new memberships by the score.

The first dreary, ritualistic night Brother Dan took to the pulpit, in the Summer of ‘73 (or thereabouts–the memory hazes), we were pulling fifty of our own (though he brought at least that many more with him.)

Within a week we were breaking a hundred and within a few months we were pushing past two hundred, setting attendance records right and left.

And we had a new sister church in Big City Baptist. A new congregation to meet with, pray with, congregate with, fellowship with and raise our consciousness with.

One of the ways we Baptists like to raise consciousness is by prayer retreats and pretty soon we had one. Our congregation (all ages) and Big City Baptist’s (all ages) retreated to a place called Lake Yale for a weekend of reflection.

At Lake Yale, the grown-ups had their own cabins and the kids had theirs.

The kids had theirs divided by age groups.

And, of course, gender.

That wasn’t exactly where I met Drew. I’d seen him around in all the group-mixing between his church and mine.

But that was where I got to know him. Just a little.

Just enough to know I didn’t need to know him any better.

It wasn’t any big deal really. Drew was a classic say-anything, do-anything, live wire kind of natural leader (a lot like my my friend Craig in that he was a natural, but completely different in that he was also looking for the job, as opposed to having it fall to him in the course of human events). Within the 12–14 age boys’ group at Big City Baptist he was the King, the straw that stirred the drink.

Within our group of boys the same age, we didn’t have a King, or a straw, or a natural leader. We probably all knew each other a little too well for any of that.

At least that’s what I thought.

Drew seemed to think otherwise. Because when he had his Big Idea, there in the boys cabin at Lake Yale, it seemed more than usually important that I, of all people, go along with it.

Or else that my own boys, the boys I had known my whole life, turn on me.

One of those.

Natural leaders who look for the job instead of having it just fall to them are kind of like that. They don’t much care for the idea that somebody–anybody–is going their own way, unless maybe it’s them, in some carefully arranged snit designed to test the Court’s loyalty and, ultimately, draw it closer around.

It was all supremely ridiculous, of course.

And supremely serious.

Another of boyhood’s inevitable tests.

Drew’s Big Idea, which I didn’t so much resist as roll my eyes at, was a Lake Yale Panty Raid to bond us beyond mere fellowship rituals and bible studies.

I have to confess that, to this day, I don’t quite know what a “panty raid” is for. Is the object to see panties? Steal them? Scare the girls who are wearing them?

I swear I didn’t know then and I swear I don’t know now.

If you know, please don’t tell me.

The main thing to bear in mind about panty raids, for the purpose of following this story about “(He’s) The Great Imposter,” is that Drew wanted very badly to lead one.

As a matter of fact he was going to lead one. Anybody who didn’t want to follow clearly risked not achieving favored status at the Court of Drew.

So he tried me on and I yawned him down for two basic reasons.

One was that I wasn’t interested. It sounded kind of stupid and pointless even before Drew announced the target was not the cabin with girls our own age but–rise Spartacus!–the cabin with the high school girls!

Now, I didn’t know much about the high school girls who went to Big City Baptist. But I knew the high school girls who went to our church. I had known them my whole life, too. And I knew if we showed up looking for their panties, the only thing that would keep them from wearing us out, both physically and verbally, was if they died laughing first.

So there was that.

But there was also a second reason–one which might be recognizable to those who have known me since–and that was my natural tendency to belong everywhere having a limit.

All the places I belonged, there was one place I never belonged even a little.

I never belonged to anyone’s Court.

Let’s just say that, when the moment of truth came, the boys I had grown up with–under Drew’s spell to a man, except for me and my friend Ricky–basically told Drew, “You might as well give it up.”

It would be a long time before most of them saw through Drew. But they knew me.

They knew if I said I wasn’t going, the usual taunts weren’t going to make me.

There were some huddled conversations.

I heard the word “chicken.”

Or maybe it was “chicken?”

I heard the word “Naw-w-w-w.”

I heard “He’s just….”

I didn’t hear the rest, if there was any “rest.”

Me and Ricky stayed behind.

The rest of them, Drew’s old Court and his new one, went on the Panty Raid.

Me and Ricky spent half an hour assuring ourselves that we weren’t missing anything, mostly by not talking about it. If I know me and Ricky, we probably talked about baseball instead.

Then we went to sleep.

I didn’t wake up when Drew and his various Courts returned.

I had to wait and hear about the Panty Raid the next morning.

“So how’d it go?” I asked my friends Carson and Bruce, though, judging from the mournful expressions all around, and Drew’s own highly uncharacteristic reticence, I could make a pretty good guess.

“Aw-w,” Carson said. “They locked the doors and shut the windows….We couldn’t get in.”

Bruce nodded. Or grimaced.

“Oh,” I said.

There was no sense pointing out the obvious.

I hadn’t thought of it the night before. It had played no part in my resistance. But in the cold light of day, something besides the morning sun shone clear.

On top of everything else, Drew was a loud-mouth. The kind who gives things away. Apparently, the only people who hadn’t known about the “panty raid” a full day ahead of schedule, were the boys in Drew’s Courts, who had followed so faithfully along the night before.

That’s the grown-ups for you. Always doing reconnaissance. Always keeping an eye out.

Always knowing kids better than they know themselves.

At least that’s how it was back then, when there was still such a thing as a “grown-up.”

It had evidently been decided that the best punishment for Drew was a full day’s worth of high school girls asking him if he had gotten a good night’s sleep and junior high girls assuring everybody that if they thought what the high school girls had in store was something you should have heard what they had cooked up.

If only Michelle had been there.

But she wasn’t. I don’t know why, but I know she wasn’t there because there’s no way she would have been going with Drew a scant few months later if she’d had the glimpse of who he really was that was available for just the briefest of moments that following day.

She never saw that Drew–Drew in defeat, hanging his head, snapping at his Court, looking for scapegoats.

Truth be told, he stayed away from me. But I kept an eye on him. Just for that day. Just to see if he was any better than I thought he was.

He wasn’t.

So, from then on, I knew who he was. But I didn’t tell anyone. I certainly didn’t tell Michelle. Not before she started going with him, which–in the mysterious manner of certain attractive females everywhere, came about without her seeming to be the least bit interested until the day he was walking into church with his arm around her.

And, until the thing with Bryan came along, I never gave it much thought.

Six months, I thought. Tops.

I knew Drew. And I knew Michelle.

I knew Michelle was a good kid, like me, and she’d see through him soon enough.

I also knew half the girls in our church, the ones who had been at Lake Yale and should have therefore known better, were what you might call green with envy.

See, if you didn’t know Drew as anything but the King of his Court–if you weren’t paying close attention that one day he let the mask slip just a little–he was considered quite a catch.

I could hardly begrudge Michelle a catch–a “take that” in the face of all those girls she was competing with who had never given her the time of day because….Well, because she wasn’t really one of what, for lack of a better term, I’ll call “us.”

She was the second of five kids who had showed up in our church with a single mother who turned out not to really be single but a criminal’s wife (and, believe me, the years hadn’t made him any less of a criminal, or her any less single, second husband or no second husband!)

Somewhere in there, I realized that Michelle, who seemed so naturally sociable, had it harder than me.

Odd a duck as I was, I belonged. At least in the neighborhood and the church, I belonged as much as anyone.

I could choose to join in or stand apart. She could only choose to stand apart. Any joining in had to come by way of an extended hand.

Which never came from anyone but my mother or–by extension–my mother’s son.

I suppose that absence of true belonging might have been part of why Michelle wasn’t on that retreat with the rest of us. Part of why she didn’t get to see Drew at his worst in the Summer of ’73 and had to wait until she saw whatever made her break up with him in the Spring of ’74.

It might not have seemed like so much fun to be on a retreat and stuck in one of the girls’ cabins if you weren’t one of the girls.

There had, in fact, been only one very brief moment when Michelle was such.

It came after one of Brother Dan’s very first sermons–one of those sermons that lit the fire that very first week he came to us a solid year before.

It was the night he preached about pants and dresses.

It was an aside really. He wasn’t the kind to make an entire sermon about men wearing pants and women wearing dresses. He wasn’t the kind that was ineffective and comical in other words.

No, he slipped it in.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” he said in the middle of his real preaching. “God frowns upon it.”

Men wearing dresses, he meant. And long hair.

And women wearing pants, he meant. And short hair.

“God frowns upon it and I believe it’s wrong.”

Just that. No more. Straight back to preaching.

I honestly didn’t think anything about it. I didn’t imagine that anyone would, what with the Spirit moving through us in so many truly profound ways.

I was not, however, a teenage girl faced with the dread prospect of having to wear dresses to school. Every day. In Florida. In 1973. Like Quakers or something.

So I didn’t take much notice of the knot of girls who gathered outside in the dark after the invitation that night and were whispering, whispering, whispering among themselves with what was obviously far greater urgency than usual.

I did note that it was an odd grouping. Odd because it included all the usuals…plus Michelle.

For once, included, and–not unusual for her in any group where she was included–animated.

A shrinking violet she was not.

But, as I say, I didn’t think much of it, even so.

A quirk. Nothing more.

Who knew what girls got excited about?

Not me, certainly.

I was standing beside my mother, though, and they kept looking over at us. We were gonna be there for a while (my mother and me and probably some of the girls as well) because the leading men of the church (who, by now, included my fully ordained father) were still in the auditorium, down front, counseling the night’s tidal wave of converts and re-commitments and new memberships.

Finally, they fell silent and began moving towards us in one body.

I won’t say their names. It doesn’t matter. They were good kids, too, and if they didn’t take to Michelle beyond the requirements of Christian duty simply because she had dropped in from a world so utterly alien to ours and their mothers weren’t my mother, that’s nothing I can hold them accountable for in that moment or any other.

But I can remember them. I can see them as clearly as I can see the hand in front of my face.

And I can hear them, too.

To a person, they might not have noticed I was alive. They were fixated on my
mother.

“Mrs. Ross,” one of them said, to my mother, the barely-breathing, barely-seeing, barely-standing rock. “Are you gonna wear pants?”

My mother didn’t miss a beat.

She probably knew what they were going to ask before they did. And she probably knew that the one who did the asking would be the very one who resented her most for being a such a hard-ass about things like choir practice.

Anyway she had her answer ready.

“Well,” she said. “I just bought a beautiful new pants suit last week. And I’m sure the Lord wouldn’t want the money I spent on it to go to waste.”

I can see them now, spreading like a flock of sparrows. And I can hear the voices–whispered a moment before, now bold and confident, like they were proclaiming a new  and much-improved Gospel.

“Mrs. Ross says it’s fine.”

“Mrs. Ross is gonna wear pants!”

“Mrs. Ross….”

The case was closed.

Brother Dan held a lot of sway in that moment and rightly so. He had brought the fire.

But his influence only stretched so far.

No mother was going to have to make her daughter quit wearing pants–or quit wearing pants herself.

The real authority had spoken.

And every teenage girl in our church had known–as I, until that moment, had not–who the real authority was.

So, for one moment, Michelle, who loved to sing and was the apple of my mother’s eye, and all those girls who privately, or not so privately, thought my mother was a hard-ass for making them practice so much, were one.

It didn’t last. And I’m guessing that even if it had, there was enough water under the bridge for Michelle to watch Drew the King watching her and think: “Why not?”

Why not have her mother take her down the road to Big City Baptist every Sunday morning? Why not make half the girls in our church (and I do not doubt half the girls in his) jealous?

Why not believe he was who he seemed to be when he was putting on a show for the grown-ups and the girls?

And why not feel like I should have told her who he really was–if indeed I read her right, when she said:

“He’s not anything like Drew is he?”

“No,” I said, knowing my word would count, that we both knew what we both knew, about a lot of things. “He’s nothing like Drew.”

She left it at that. We talked a little while longer, about this and that. Then, eventually, as the vote count mounted ever higher for Bryan–stuck on the podium the while, trying so hard not to pay us the slightest bit of attention and, if you don’t count having his eyes sticking out about a foot from his head and not being able to turn away from us or pay the least bit of attention to his impending victory in the closest thing the school had ever had to a school-wide election, succeeding admirably–she stood up.

“Well,” she said, just before she strolled away. “You can tell him if he asks me, I’ll say yes.

*    *    *    *

So Bryan won the election.

He gave his victory speech. He stayed after for pictures. I think he had to talk to the guy from the radio.

The memory hazes.

Kids kept filing out. Including Michelle.

I stayed, of course.

I thought Bryan might want to thank me or something.

Plus, I figured he would want to hear the news.

You know. The real news.

The whole thing wrapped up around 3:25.

Five minutes to spare!

There were maybe fifty kids left by then. Enough to make a crowd when we all made for the exit.

Bryan fought through the crowd to get to me.

I’m pretty sure a Red Sea full of Egyptian chariots would have constituted no credible barrier at that point.

When we were finally face to face, he had a look on his face I had never seen before.

“Congratulations man,” I said.

He grabbed my shoulder.

“What did she say?”

I decided to keep it simple. It wasn’t my style, but I had a sense of occasion.

“She said yes.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Yes to what?”

The other kids moved around us and we were, at last, alone.

“She asked what kind of guy you were and I told her,” I said. “And she said if you ask her to go steady, she’ll say yes.”

He dropped his hand from my shoulder and that expression I had never seen before deepened. His lips got very tight and he looked me straight in the eye in that way that boys almost never do.

I looked back, smiling.

“You’re lying,” he said.

I laughed. Which was probably the wrong thing to do.

“Bryan,” I said, “I’m not lying. Believe me.”

“You think I can’t tell,” he said. “But I can tell.”

“Bryan, I promise I wouldn’t lie about a thing like this.”

For just a moment–one brief, flickering instant–he seemed almost assured.

“That’s really what she said?”

“Yeah, that’s really what she said.”

He refused to look away and I refused to stop smiling.

I mean, come on. You gotta have a little fun in this life.

He sighed.

“You can’t fool me,” he said. “I know when you’re lying.”

“Bryan….”

It was time to go to the bus.

He pointed his finger in my smiling face, more in sorrow, it seemed, than anger.

“If I find out you’re lying,” he said, “I’m gonna kill you.”

*    *    *   *

Jackie DeShannon and Sharon Sheeley–the first truly great and truly successful all-female song-writing partnership in the history of American music (if anyone has joined them since, I haven’t heard about it)–wrote “(He’s) the Great Imposter” in the very early sixties.

It became a modest hit (#30 in Billboard) for the mighty Fleetwoods in 1961.

From which point it has never quite left whatever is left of the nation’s collective conscious.

I probably first heard it in, yes, 1973, when my sister and my brother-in-law took me to see what was, after Gone With the Wind (courtesy my parents) and 2001 Space Odyssey (courtesy my brother who had to explain the ending to me after I fell asleep, hahahahaha!) my first “adult” movie.

americangraffiti3

There was a modest, though I imagine serious, discussion about whether my twelve-year-old self should be allowed to go. It had some cursing in it, apparently, and I think the deal was that my sister would hustle me out of there if anything crossed the line. Or maybe I was just supposed to cover my ears.

Anyway, it turned out there was nothing in it I didn’t hear on the junior high bus (the one I rode with Michelle) every day. Nobody had to cover my ears and I liked the movie very much–I even thought I recognized a lot of the characters as types who went to my own school, maybe saw a little of my future self in the Ron Howard character, was knocked out by Cindy Williams, and genuinely moved by the famous ending.

I was just old enough to wish they’d shown more of the blonde in the Cadillac!

americangraffiti1

One thing that didn’t make much of an impression on me was the music.

By which I mean it really made no impression at all. No song stood out. If anything, I probably found a few spots annoying because I couldn’t hear the dialogue.

That’s a funny admission now. It would have seemed a strange reaction to anyone who knew me even three or four years later.

But in those days, I didn’t know from the fifties–or 1962. I had been born at the tail end of 1960 and, if you don’t count Peter, Paul and Mary, I doubt I knew the chorus to ten “pop” songs that had hit in my lifetime.

In some ways that was good. I certainly missed a lot. But when my personal floodgates finally opened a few years later I was ready to be swept away.

I mention this because I can’t pretend the snatch of “(He’s) The Great Imposter” that plays in American Graffiti made any impression on me at all–even though it’s one of relatively few songs I can say for certain where and when I first heard it.

When did it make an impression? That I know.

It was when the radio died (to my ears anyway) a year or two after I started listening to it in 1975-76. That was when I started haunting bargain bins in places like Woolco or Woolworth’s for the few records I could afford and, modern radio being dead to me, I started moving backwards in time.

Beyond guaranteeing it very definitely wasn’t the cover that grabbed me, I don’t know exactly when this album came home with me….or, beyond me knowing it contained a couple of hits, exactly why:

fleetwoods3

I do know it was sometime in the very late seventies. And that, while I loved the big hits like “Mr. Blue,” and “Come Softly To Me” and “Runaround” and liked all of it, the song that really grabbed me, in that way that never really lets go, was “(He’s) the Great Imposter.”

The song is sung from the perspective of a romantic male who has lost his love to….well, somebody like Drew. I didn’t think about Drew when I heard it. I’d met a few Drews by then. And I had never lost anyone to somebody like Drew because there had never been anyone to lose (and, as it turned out, never really would be, though I didn’t imagine that part then).

But it’s right there in the first line, as it’s written and as it’s sung, everything you need to know about how you will feel, if it’s really love and she really does fall for him when she could have, should have, fallen for you.

Now I went and lost her
To the Great Imposter

This was so completely me–not even the real me, but the imagined me that would actually never come to be–that if you had told me S. Sheeley and J. DeShannon were women (and very young women, at that) when they wrote it, I would have immediately assumed they were geniuses of the first order.

Which, as it turned out, they were, but my point is, I didn’t need to know anything else about them to know that they were already my idea of genius.

I’ve never been able to find out anything at all about the inspiration for the song, or the specific circumstances in which it was written. Did it spring from personal experience? Sharp observation? Theoretical discussion?

Professional diligence?

A deadline maybe?

I really don’t have any clue.

But this is a song, written by very young women, which is telling a story from a very specific male perspective.

Most love songs, whatever their angle, can be sung from the perspective of either gender. Sure some make more sense coming from a woman (“Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow” comes to mind, so does “Give Him a Great Big Kiss,” which acquires a stalker edge when sung by a male). But they can still be sung credibly by a man, just by changing a word or two. Same for most songs that make more sense coming from a man (“This Guy’s In Love With You” for example).

Very few make total sense–both lyrically and emotionally–from one perspective and virtually no sense at all from the other. “(He’s) The Great Imposter” is one of those few. And it goes a lot deeper than “her” rhyme-flowing a lot easier than “him.”

I stood and watched her fall,
Couldn’t help her at all”

Oh can’t she see,
tomorrow’s misery?
Soon she’ll learn her fate
But it will be too late

All her friends they just watch her
For they know the Great Imposter.

Note her friends.

Believe me, “all his friends” don’t stand around watching him fall for some girl and pine about it. Maybe one does, if there’s a man-crush thing going on (and a Drew will tend to have one of those lingering about, it’s true, but then, he is the Great Imposter, not the man in the shadows), but not the whole gang. Not even if the whole gang is the actual Imposter’s own Court. It’s not the way boys think. And it’s certainly not the way they admit they think.

And, of course, “he” isn’t going to “fall” and find “misery” in the way a girl will, i.e. by getting pregnant out of wedlock, which is the lyric’s clear implication, even if it couldn’t be spoken when the song was written and first recorded. And that implication would be a thousand times less potent for being made explicit even if the times had allowed it.

So a song that’s less than two minutes long and seems to have one, very direct, perspective, really encompasses a world deep enough to qualify for true, and deep, narrative. Lots of very fine films and novels have offered less.

It’s one of those high school setups, common in early rock and roll but never done better than here, that sets you up for a life time. Anyone with any perception at all can find a way in. Even the Imposter, if, by chance, he ever grows up.

If that’s all “(He’s) the Great Imposter” was, it would just be a great song, written by a couple of great song-writers, and a great record, recorded by a great vocal group.

But that’s not all it is.

That’s just the beginning

*   *   *    *

Listen, I’ve heard the record a thousand times. The first few times I heard it, it cut me to pieces. Any time I laid the record down, I would deliberately let my fingers fall limp, faux causal, pretending I wasn’t going to let it reach me. Every time I lied to myself. Every time it reached me and every time I knew it would. I wanted to stop listening and I wouldn’t have stopped for the world.

Then, one of those early times, I thought of Drew and Michelle and, yeah, maybe me.

And ever since then–thirty-five years or more–it has always cut me to pieces…and always made me smile.

The song has no ending.

There’s doom and finality in some of the lines and, certainly as the Fleetwoods sang it, in that way of theirs that nobody should ever bother trying to follow, in the very air of the thing.

She won’t see through the Imposter in time. The misery will be deep and permanent. The narrator will never find another like her because, well, there is no one like her.

If he does find another, he’ll go around the world to avoid admitting it, even to himself.

But, since the song has no ending, it doesn’t have to remain static, or even abstract.

It could play out a thousand ways.

I knew that by the time I really heard it.

*    *    *    *

A lot had gone by, by then.

The day after Michelle told me she would say yes and Bryan said he would kill me if she didn’t, she said yes.

They were still going steady a few months later when I moved away.

They were still going steady the following summer when I came back for a visit and saw Michelle for the last time.

As far as I ever knew they were still going steady when she moved a few months after that.

And that was that.

We all moved on. Most of us, in the modern American fashion, moved quite literally.

I’m sure Bryan didn’t have too much trouble finding another girl friend, but, for the record, I never saw him again after that spring.

Except for Michelle and the kids at my church I never saw any of them again. After the following two summers I never saw any of them at all.

Last I heard, my friend Craig’s parents still had their cool house on the River Road but, our family relations being what they were, I never dropped in.

Last I heard, some time in the late seventies maybe, my friend Ricky was pitching for a small college in Texas and had just thrown his arm out after going 5-1 with an ERA under 2.00. After that, no word.

Last I heard, my friend Carson’s family had put a chain across their property to separate it from the falling-down trailer park where my friend Bruce used to live when it wasn’t falling down at all. I don’t know if Carson or his family were home. There house was a long way behind that chain. I didn’t bother to honk the horn. I just drove away.

Last I heard, my friend Bruce won a college baseball game on a fine spring night in South Florida with a last inning home run some time in the early eighties. Instead of taking the team bus from Central Florida, he had driven down so he could stay after the game and have dinner with his South Florida girlfriend. On his way home he evidently fell asleep at the wheel and drove full speed into the back of a semi. I heard his parents moved away about a year later because they couldn’t stand the memories looking back at them everywhere. I doubt that the trailer park in front of my friend Carson’s gate going straight downhill thereafter was entirely a coincidence.

I certainly never saw Drew again.

Except in my mind’s eye, whenever “(He’s) the Great Imposter” plays.

I changed and the world changed.

I went from belonging everywhere to belonging nowhere, a status that would ultimately maintain.

I survived. I ain’t complaining.

But sometimes a song is a way back. A way back into the life you had–not as memory but as shared feeling. But, more significantly, a way back into the life you didn’t have and didn’t miss until you realized it had passed you by. Into the roads not taken as the poet famously said. At which point you realize you’d like to have certain chances again, but also realize you probably wouldn’t do anything different because you are who you are, stuck in the same old skin.

Drew was a Great Imposter and Jackie DeShannon and Sharon Sheeley nailed him to a tee.

But Michelle wasn’t really the girl in the song. She didn’t really fall (except just hard enough that she might have written a song about it, if she’d grown up to be a songwriter, like maybe Sharon Sheeley or Jackie DeShannon).

Bryan certainly wasn’t the boy in the shadows.

And, like I said before, I wasn’t really the boy in the shadows either. Just the boy who would be, metaphorically speaking. Because I was the boy with the blinders on.

Around the time I really began to hear “(He’s) the Great Imposter” the road turned in such a way that my father, who had, by then, graduated from the bible school that had pulled us away from the Space Coast to begin with in the summer of ’74 and, along with my mother, been appointed a Southern Baptist Home Missionary for North Florida, found himself speaking at the church Michelle’s family attended, somewhere around Jacksonville. They invited him home for Sunday dinner and to spend the afternoon. When Michelle, who was working her way through college, came in, she asked if he had a recent picture of me. It happened that he did. My senior picture.

I won’t say what my dad said she said about me when he showed it to her. It doesn’t matter.

I’ll just say that if I had possessed enough sense to get in the car and drive three hours, instead of sloughing it off, (even though I knew, from the weird, bemused expression in my father’s voice when he repeated what she said, as if he couldn’t quite believe it, that, for once, he wasn’t exaggerating, things he didn’t quite believe being the only things that had that effect on him), I might have gained a whole different perspective on the range of perspectives that make up “(He’s) the Great Imposter.”

That’s how I know it’s greater than anything Cole Porter or Ira Gershwin ever wrote.

Not better. I’m a rock and roller, but I’ll concede nothing’s better than them.

Just greater.

It has space in it. Space for any of its three characters, who might be any of us at one time or another, to grow into.

Sometimes the only reason the boy in the shadows isn’t pining is because he’s too stupid to see what’s in front of his face. I was never in love with Michelle–was happy to play wing-man for someone else and not think twice about it–for the stupidest of all reasons.

She was Michelle from the neighborhood.

I was too blind to see.

It took a decade and Sharon Sheeley and Jackie DeShannon and the Fleetwoods and the Woolco bargain bin and my eighty-dollar turntable to open my eyes.

By then it was too late to do anything but listen to the record one more time and be cut to pieces.

And smile.

Because it wasn’t so much that they–all of them, Sharon, Jackie, Michelle, The Fleetwoods, my mother–knew so much more than I did about guys like Drew, the Great Imposter.

It was that they knew so much more than I did about guys like me.

 

DIAMONDS IN THE SHADE (Jackie DeShannon Up)

“I Can Make It With You”
Jackie DeShannon (1966)
Billboard: #68
(Recommended Source: Come and Get Me: The Complete Liberty and Imperial Singles Volume 2)

jdeshannon1Except for her two big hits, “What the World Needs Now Is Love” and “Put a Little Love In Your Heart,” Jackie DeShannon’s entire career might be described as one big diamond in the shade. She was half of the first successful all-female songwriting team in the history of American music, the godmother of what came to be called folk rock, likely the first rocker to cover Bob Dylan, the progenitor of the ethos that came to be called “singer-songwriter” and a Hall of Fame songwriter who scored hits on other people for thirty years. Before and after she was all that, she was one of the half-dozen greatest blue-eyed soul singers. So, in anticipation of a very long, semi-autobiographical piece inspired by one of her great compositions (“(He’s) The Great Imposter”), which I’ll have up in the next day or two, I’ll choose to honor this little piece of her today.

 

MILEY CYRUS AT THE CROSSROADS, WHERE SHE’S HARDLY ALONE (Memory Lane: 2009, 2006 and Yesterday)

I remember hearing this on the radio exactly once when it came out and thinking: “Jesus, she’s got a chance to be Brenda Lee.”

I wasn’t thinking about record sales (by Billboard‘s count, Lee was the highest  charting and bestselling female vocalist of the 1960s). Once Hannah Montana broke, there was never any question about Cyrus selling records. The new model of fame generates it’s own momentum more reliably than even the previous quite reliable models.

Which meant record sales were a matter of course.

I was thinking, instead, that she could be the next in the straight, firm line that had, sticking only to the dead center, stretched from Jackie DeShannon to Stevie Nicks to Sheryl Crow and, moving just a little outside the center, included nearly every important female rock or country singer for four decades running and produced literally hundreds of great records.

It’s a great, undervalued tradition and when I heard “Ready, Set, Don’t Go” riding around in my car in 2009, I had assumed it was dying out.

That it might be rescued by Hannah Montana brought a smile.

After that brief moment of hope, though, Miley started making “adult” records that were, of course, no better than the records all the other adults make these days. She also started selling a lot of them, pro forma, and I basically lost interest on the basis of my single, unyielding criteria: You don’t make great records, I don’t care about your shtick.

So, frankly, until this week, I assumed Miley had abandoned her talent in favor of the proper Show Biz model for the twenty-first century, as defined by John Lydon and perfected by Madonna and Donald Trump.

Make all your safe moves look like “risks.”

Or, as Hannah Montana would have it…

Understandable enough. I don’t begrudge anybody their success and there’s a reason why the easy road is easy and the tough road is tough.

But then Sheila O’Malley posted this a few days ago…

…and complicated my own easy, comfortable analysis.

I’m not sure about the reigning “let ’em do what they want, haters-gonna-hate” aesthetic either as a social model in general or a usual exception for celebrities who get to ignore the rules anyway. I don’t find the line between what I owe myself and what I owe the world to be quite so stark and I’m a little suspicious of those who do.

And, based on the YouTube surfing I did after I watched Sheila’s video link, I’m not sure Miley Cyrus is all that clear about it either.

The main problem I’ve had with her “in your face” act is that, on her, it has always felt forced and faked, by which I mean even more forced and faked than the usual forced fakery (most recently exemplified by Beyonce’s Super Bowl appearance, where the politics were faked right along with the idea that she can dance any better than oh, I don’t know, Miley Cyrus and produced the usual predictably fake outrage and seriously unfaked legion of yawns).

While it felt like that with David Bowie and Madonna sometimes, too, they were genius record-makers, in charge of every facet of their careers and their personas. And if, say, John Lydon couldn’t say the former, he could at least pretend to the latter long enough and well enough to make it stick as a kind of perverse integrity.

All these years later, it feels like Miley Cyrus, hiding back there somewhere behind the butch haircut and the hilariously (or, depending on your view, pathetically) bad twerking, is still trying to have the best of both worlds. That, for all the attempts to conform, there’s still some part of her that doesn’t quite fit and yearns to breathe free.

I suspect that part is called a singer.

Ten years after Britney Spears came to the same crossroads, she’s a footnote. If Cyrus, a much bigger talent, doesn’t want to be left beside the same highway, she’ll have to make up her mind soon.

I wonder if the choice she makes will say more about her or about us.

 

NOT SUCH A FOOL (Great Quotations)

EDDIEANDSHARON

(Eddie Cochran and Sharon Sheeley. At eighteen, Sheeley was the first solo female songwriter to write a #1 record for the Billboard Pop Chart. (It was Ricky Nelson’s “Poor Little Fool.” She stalled her car in front of his house and, when he came out to help her, convinced him she was on her way to deliver the song to Elvis and would he like to hear it first?) She was riding next to Cochran–by some accounts as his fiance–in England, when he was killed in a car crash in April, 1960. After recovering from severe injuries herself, she teamed with Jackie DeShannon to form the first (and, frankly, only**) successful all-female songwriting team in the history of American music. You wonder why I keep chipping away at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame? Because it’s a worthwhile institution overall and I cling to the hope that, some day, if enough small voices do the same, they’ll get it right, especially where women and secret heroes are concerned.)

This is from Joel Selvin’s obituary for Sheeley, (quoted in Real Life Rock, Greil Marcus, 2015, originally printed at Salon.com June 10, 2002):

“Although Sheeley lived 42 more years, she never got over Eddie,” writes Selvin, author of “Ricky Nelson: Idol for a Generation” and the unforgiving “Summer of Love.” “She was never able to stay with another man for long. Cochran loomed over her life. She will be buried in a plot next to him.”

“‘Poor Little Fool’ provided a modest annual stipend,” Selvin concluded. “She lived quietly with her grown son, across the street from her sister. She entertained visitors with hilarious anecdotes and reminiscences, peppered with sly humor and innuendo. Sheeley was the original Riot Grrrl, even if those in her debt never knew. One young music business secretary sighed to Sheeley about Cochran’s good looks a few years ago. ‘Honey,’ Sheeley said, ‘you should have seen him when he was breathing.’”

(“Somethin’ Else” was co-written by Sheeley and Bob Cochran, Eddie’s brother. I’ll have a good deal more to say about her ability to write from a rather different, specifically male, perspective in an upcoming post.)

(**In the Tin Pan Alley, Brill Building, song-mill sense, and I’ll just add that Sheeley and DeShannon did so as true free-lancers, without that kind of support system.)

[NOTE: This life-affirming post was in lieu of a negativity-fueled rant I had practically written in my head concerning the crit-illuminati wetting themselves celebrating the new Star Wars’ movie’s “diversity” because they’ve added Stepin Fetchit and Katniss Everdeen to the franchise. I don’t want anybody coming around here trying to collect any Pollyanna dues from me for at least a year.]