I also left off b-sides that were hits (think Ricky Nelson’s “Helly Mary Lou,” which definitely would have been here otherwise, or Bruce Springsteen’s “Pink Cadillac” which might have been). I also limited myself to one record per artist (else the Shangri-Las would have three or four).
And because I already covered the true obscurities, these are all by successful artists (as opposed to one-hit wonders)–most people know the acts, even if they don’t know the records.
What’s left is still a weird and beautiful secret history of rock and roll. If these were the biggest/best hits these acts ever had, the world would not have been the worse for it.
1959–“What About Us” (A-side: “Run Red Run”) The Coasters
The Coasters/Robins were not exactly slouches in the B-side department themselves. I picked this one because, in combo with “Run Red Run” it’s an early example of the concept single, which a lot of crit-illuminati types think couldn’t possibly have existed before “Strawberry Fields” or, at the very outside, “Don’t Worry Baby.”
1964–“Silence is Golden” (A-Side: “Rag Doll”) The 4 Seasons
I first heard this on a Seasons’ comp in the late seventies. I remember being shocked–I don’t think benumbed is too strong a word–to learn it was never promoted as a single (i.e., that there had once been a world where this could be relegated to a B-side because the A-side was only “Rag Doll”…and that, little more than a decade later, such a world no longer existed). Then I found out it had been a hit for an English group called the Tremeloes. Then I heard the Tremeloes’ version. Good God.
1966–“I’m Not Like Everybody Else” (A-Side: “Sunny Afternoon”) The Kinks
This is in the conversation for the greatest record the Kinks ever made. If the conversation is with me, it’s not even a conversation. And yes, I’m aware of the extreme competition.
1967–“I’ll Never Learn” (A-Side: “Sweet Sounds of Summer”) The Shangri-Las
Speaking of being shocked and benumbed…The record I think of first when I think of all that’s been lost in the fifty years since. Mainly the future that never arrived…and I don’t just mean Mary Weiss’s career.
1967–“I’ll Turn to Stone” (A-Side: “7-Rooms of Gloom”) The Four Tops
No way a handy ten of epic B-Sides would be complete without Motown, but this is a new discovery for me. I came across it when I was researching a possible post on co-writer R. Dean Taylor. To think: “7-Rooms of Gloom” as the upbeat, radio-ready side! (And FWIW it replaced the Go-Go’s “Surfing and Spying” which is the proof that Charlotte Caffey was a walking encyclopedia of surf guitar and sadly missed. Like I said, ten is a measly number.)
1968–“Daddy Rollin’ (In Your Arms)” (A-Side: “Abraham, Martin and John”) Dion
I love “Abraham, Martin and John” unreservedly. But I can only imagine the shock that must have occurred to anyone who turned it over in 1968. It’s still shocking.
1969–“Making Love (At the Dark End of the Street)” (A-Side: “Snatching It Back”) Clarence Carter
A sermon on sex. Guilt-free, too. Until the end. Starts funny as Richard Pryor. Ends deep as James Carr.
1973–“Something” (A-Side: James’ nine hundredth version of “Think,” all necessary.) James Brown
George Harrison’s favorite version….of hundreds.
1977–“Silver Springs” (A-Side: “Go Your Own Way”) Fleetwood Mac
Left off Rumours as a casualty of the permanent psychodrama that was Buckingham/Nicks. Else they just didn’t have room (hahahahaha!). Restored to various versions of the album in the CD-era, with stunning outtakes added on the multi-disc release. The rare song left off a classic album which, when restored to its original running order (at the top of the second side), doesn’t just improve the album but force-multiplies its power.
1981–“Psycho” (A-Side: “Sweet Dreams.” What else?) Elvis Costello and the Attractions
I was gonna go with Tanya Tucker’s “No Man’s Land,” which is scarier, but I decided to keep this an all rock and roll affair.
Love the cheering at the end. What else should one do after “Mama why don’t you get up?”
(This is a new category which I’ve been thinking about adding for a while. Most of them will also be additions to my informal, uncategorized series which I like to call “Scenes From an Actual Boyhood” a play on Richard Linklater’s film Boyhood, in which he fantasized about boyhood and left out anything and everything pertaining to boys that didn’t fit the dream life of middle-age soccer moms.)
Back in the Spring of ’77, a time in American history which seems to have left no trace on the future, I was in my junior year of high school in the Florida Panhandle, that part of Florida which is sometimes jokingly, sometimes wistfully, referred to as L.A.: Lower Alabama.
One Monday morning I showed up at school, stepped out of my ride’s car in the parking lot, and felt something different….something I hadn’t felt since the spring of ’74 when I was in the eighth grade in another part of the state known, then and now, as the Space Coast.
I had been in Lower Alabama for three years by then, but the culture shock hadn’t worn off. (Comes to that, I’m not sure it’s worn off yet–must be some reason I prefer living like a hermit.) That feeling in the air when I got out of the car that Monday morning was the closest I had ever felt to a real connection between the two places.
So I knew right away it had something to do with the one thing every Southern place shares with every human space occupied by what are now called “multi” cultures: Race Tension.
The Tension soon had physical manifestations: The sound of a body being thrown against a classroom wall. Black kids with picks and blades trying to decide whether they wanted to descend from the school’s back door to a parking lot (yes, the same one my ride parked in) full of rednecks standing next to pickups with hunting rifles hung in the back windows (the black kids thought better of it–first Rumble averted). Reports of a fight. An actual fight. Then another actual fight.
That was the first couple of days.
After that: A teacher promising to give everybody ten points on next week’s test if the violence planned for Friday recess (planned by who, nobody knew….the plan had its own life, like the new Air) failed to materialize. White boys muttering darkly about the privileges granted blacks. Black kids muttering darkly about the privileges granted whites. Me telling my ride how not entirely unhappy I was to no longer be riding the bus where, in my freshman and sophomore years, I had usually been the only white kid (an experience worthy of its own post some day, now that I’ve opened this can of whup-ass memories).
And, of course, discussions all around about “here it all came from.
A general consensus formed, among white folks at least, that a black kid from New York had moved to the area. Though he didn’t go to our school, he shared Vo-Tech classes with some who did. Word was he had a habit of calling the local kids Uncle Toms for not standing up to the Man, meaning White People, meaning….us. Word was some of them had decided to show him–and us–what they were made of.
It seemed outside agitators had come to Lower Alabama.
Once that idea took hold, no amount of Confederate cannon-fire could have dislodged it.
The additional word was this had all come to some sort of head–at a party? a club? an impromptu meeting of a newly formed local chapter of the Black Panthers?–the weekend before the Monday I showed up at school and, from the nearly empty parking lot, with no evidence available to the eye or ear that suggested it was anything but another school week, I thought, unbidden: This feels like eighth grade.
Through all that I’ve described above and more, that feeling persisted and grew for two full weeks. Every day a little stronger.
There were moments when it not only seemed possible that some terrible thing might happen but that–no matter how many times we white kids reassured ourselves that it would be absurd, ridiculous, suicidal, for black kids to “riot”–there was simply no way it wouldn’t happen.
It was coming. There was no way to avoid it.
Because it was in the Air.
And what did I, no great respecter of the Air, do through all this?
I did what I always did.
i practiced the careful art of doing nothing.
Except for the day when the art of doing nothing sort of accidentally became the art of doing something.
My usual nothing consisted of sitting around during break times–recess, lunch, school assemblies I had a habit of spending in the library—with my nose in a book.
None of that changed during the two weeks of the Race Tension.
Come recess, lunch, assembly, you could still find me, alone in a room, or off in a corner somewhere, reading.
And the time you could be most alone, I found, was recess.
I actually did get out and about a bit at lunch. Even I had to eat.
And not even I could get out of every assembly.
But literally nobody else stayed in his seat reading a book during recess.
Which is why I found it a little odd, on Wednesday of the second week of the Tension–to find myself in Social Studies (my next class), during recess….and not alone.
I was sitting in my usual seat. Second row if memory serves (and dammit, memory, you better serve–this is a memory piece!). And there were several kids sitting behind me.
The room had risers, so they were not only behind me but above me. All black kids–four? five?–whispering among themselves. Whispering, I assumed, because they did not want to be heard by the only other occupant of the room. Namely me. The only white boy.
As time passed, their voices got a little louder. This was a phenomenon I was already a bit familiar with, one which time has consistently reaffirmed: If you are in a room with a group of people from which you are for some reason excluded, they will begin by worrying about whether you can overhear them. If you are quiet long enough, they will become worried that you don’t hear them.
So their voices got louder. And, eventually, I heard them.
They were talking about the Rumble. The new Rumble that was going to be, if nothing else, more effective than the Rumble that had broken on the wave of all those rednecks standing next to all those shotguns. It was going to be more effective because it wasn’t going to be a Rumble. At least not according to any definition I had ever heard.
This was all going to be planned, rather like D-Day. Nothing would be left to chance this time!
Come Friday recess, every black kid was going to find a white kid–their special white kid, by prearrangement with all the other black kids, so there would be no duplication of effort–and “get even.”
This was the memo.
By the Wednesday before the Friday of the new, improved Rumble, everybody had gotten it. Some of the white kids were complaining because all they were allowed to pack was a pocket knife, which wasn’t much good against a steel pick. At least a couple of white kids were rumored to have started carrying their own steel picks (though I confess I never saw one).
And what the black kids who were sitting up behind me at recess on Wednesday in my Social Studies classroom were talking about–I see you Michael. I see you Daryl, Jeffrey, Ricky….Walter, is that you?–was the memo.
Who was going after who.
More time passed and I heard some names: “I got ____!” “You got____?” “Who got ____?”
I also heard their growing indifference to my presence becoming mingled with their increasing need to engage me–their awareness of my awareness of their awareness.
So, finally, one of them–Jeffrey, is that you?–speaking low enough to pretend he didn’t want me to hear and loud enough I couldn’t miss it.
“Who got Ross?”
At which point there was a small silence.
Apparently nobody had Ross.
Which I took for a good excuse to put my finger in my book, bend the page over the finger, and turn around.
I made sure to smile the smile with which Michael and Walter, at least, were intimately familiar and to shake my head.
Then I rolled my eyes.
Then I held up my book.
“If ya’ll get it figured out,” I said. “You know where I’ll be.”
At which point we all started laughing.
Did it matter? Did it matter that it was me? That it was them? That I reacted the way I did? That they reacted the way they did? That I was there, where I always was? That they were there, where they never were?
Maybe the Rumble–the Big One, the Efficient One, the One that Couldn’t Possibly Fail to Come Off This Time!–would have failed to come off anyway.
Maybe one of the hundred other things that can prevent such a thing would have happened and the whole thing would still have died on the vine.
Maybe one–or ninety-nine–of those things did happen and I never heard about it.
So far as I know, none of the others who were in that room with me, ever ventured any ideas about why it never came off. They certainly didn’t say anything to me. After the other kids started filing in, on the Wednesday-Before-the-Friday after recess, it was like it never happened.
What I did notice was that, for me–and I suspect for them–the air broke in that moment we all started laughing.
It broke because, in a single instant and all together, we realized how stupid it all was–and, far more important in our teenage world, how stupid it would all look….if it even tried to come off.
Suddenly, we all saw there was only one way for it not to come off stupid, not to come off looking the one thing no teenage boy ever wants to come off looking–and that was for it to never come off at all.
Coincidentally or not, it didn’t come off.
Of course, when I got out of that class an hour later and walked the halls again, amongst all those people who hadn’t been in that room, I realized that the Air hadn’t broken for anyone else. For everyone else the Tension was still real and palpable. For them, the Rumble was still inevitable and queasy-making. It was still all of that even on Friday afternoon, after first recess, then lunch, had passed into history, and the Rumble hadn’t come off.
Even then, the Air was still the Air.
It still promised we had come to a place–a place perhaps even teenagers in Lower Alabama in a time as lost as the late seventies must come to now and again to feel alive–where anything was possible.
And me and the kids who didn’t know the answer to “Who got Ross?” and everybody else, spent the weekend wondering what the following week would bring.
The confidence in the power of absurdity to finally embarrass everyone into inaction–the power I had felt so strongly in my Social Studies room at recess on the Wednesday-Before-the-Friday–waxed and waned.
Sometimes I laughed. Sometimes I shook my head. Sometimes I felt a little queasy.
Monday morning my ride took me to school like always.
Monday morning, on the drive in, me and my ride made some lame jokes to each other about what the new week would bring.
Monday morning, we drove into the parking lot and nothing felt any different there inside the car, where it was just us, with the Air left over from the weekend and the Friday before.
Monday morning, we rolled to a stop and then opened our car doors like usual.
Monday morning, we stood up in the actual air…and knew instantly that the Air was normal again, and that there was no more explanation for the return of Normalcy than there had been for its abandonment exactly two weeks earlier.
That was when I learned to respect the Air.
Since then, I’ve learned to pay attention to it as well.
It’s how I once knew something as historically insignificant as that it was okay to stay in our seats the last time FSU and the local HBC, Florida A&M, played basketball, even though a hellacious fight (which ultimately resulted in the suspension of the game) was breaking out on the court.
It’s also how I knew, as far ago as the summer before last, something as historically significant as that Donald Trump–a man I had never previously spent ten seconds thinking about–had a real chance to become President of the United States (and why I felt confident predicting his win on this blog).
It’s useful, respecting the Air.
Among many other things, it keeps you from being too surprised.
And, as I’ve mentioned here a time or two, it’s also defined my respect for artists, especially popular artists.
The best of them know the Air far better than you or I do.
They also know it way-y-y-y-y better than the highbrows do.
The Air belongs to the pulps, the singers, the comedians.
That’s why Elvis Presley and Chuck Berry were able to dream Rock and Roll America into being while the intelligentsia slept. It’s why Philip K. Dick’s “science fiction” novels have the jittery feel of the modern Security State down to a tee, while Norman Mailer’s “political” novels feel like ad copy and the famous dystopian models of Orwell and Huxley read like tracts. It’s why Ross Macdonald’s detective stories carry the weight of impending middle class doom and John Updike’s are strings of adjectives. It’s why Mary Weiss’s voice, from 1964, carries everything true that would come to pass in the cross-cultural maelstrom known as “punk” and why Johnny Rotten–who didn’t have the Air–always sounded like a fake to anyone who did. It’s why the primal scream of the inner city crack epidemic can be heard and felt, years earlier, in the voices of Al Green and Marvin Gaye, or the comedy of Richard Pryor, but not in the most beautiful or painful or lucid essays of James Baldwin and Ralph Ellison. It’s why the muffled moan of the “White Death” meth epidemic that has since descended upon Appalachia can be heard in Patty Loveless’s voice a quarter century ago.
The Artists–the real artists–know. They’re the canaries in every modern coal mine. They’ll tell you about the Air if you let them.
And they’ll keep on telling you.
Whether the big Rumble building just now comes to pass or not.
The week was filled with mostly mind-numbing buzz about Seattle defensive back Richard Sherman’s speechifying (and subsequent standard round of mostly mind-numbing non-apology apologies) after last Sunday’s NFC title game.
For all the fuss it kicked up, what struck me about Sherman’s immediate post-game spiel was that it just wasn’t very interesting. Words like “dull,” “witless,” “insipid,” “predictable” kept running through my mind when it was live and no amount of replays could dislodge them. I mean, as trash-talking goes, repeatedly calling a guy “mediocre” is about as lame as it gets. What’s he supposed to come back with?
“Well, you’re…you’re…you’re AVERAGE!”
It was, nonetheless, sadly inevitable that Sherman–being black–would receive a certain amount of racist bile in return (probably quite a lot, though it’s hard to know for certain–let’s just say any is far too much and far, far worse than anything Sherman himself did or said).
And it was equally inevitable that well-meaning ignoramuses of varying stripes (all queuing up for membership or renewal in what we around here like to call the Dead Brain Cell Count Brigade, or DBCCB for short) would try to elevate his behavior by making their own set of race-specific assumptions (“He’s from the street man…and he went to Stanford, see, so he can’t be what you say he is, see,…The game just finished man and that’s how the game is and he was excited see,” etc., etc., etc.) and, yes, by just plain making stuff up.
My favorite example of this latter was the frequent assertion (frequent enough I even heard it on MSNBC, where nothing is ever said out loud unless it’s already been thoroughly processed as conventional wisdom) that ran along the lines of “I didn’t hear anybody calling Richie Incognito a thug.”
For those who don’t know or remember, Incognito is the white Miami Dolphins’ offensive lineman who was caught bullying an African-American teammate earlier this year with truly vile behavior that included dull, witless racial epithets and a dull, witless promise to defecate in his mouth.
Good, clean fun no doubt.
If you do a standard internet search using the phrase “Richie Incognito thug,” you will find pages and pages of items which are heavy on examples of obscure media outlets like the Washington Post and the Sporting News very specifically calling a white man (in this case Incognito) a thug, interspersed with a sprinkling of posts like this one insisting nobody has ever done any such thing!
The usual foo-fer-all between the usual intellectual titans in other words.
It happens that, entirely by coincidence, I’ve been reading the Library of America’s Ring Lardner collection (I’m planning to officially review it some time in February), which begins with Lardner’s first major work You Know Me Al, a short novel initially published in 1916. The book is, among many other things, a detailed essay on the finely nuanced art of trash-talking as it existed in the then national past-time sport of big league baseball a century past.
It’s narrated (through a series of letters sent to a friend who was evidently descended directly from Job) by a clod-hopper named Jack Keefe who is on his way to being the ace of the Chicago White Sox staff and far too clueless to know when he’s being ripped to shreds (especially by a coach named Kid Gleason) and wears his complete ignorance like a suit of impenetrable armor.
I’ll save the snappy lines for my review but, believe me, when it comes to smack, nobody has introduced any new angles in the last hundred years.
Just to see how things stood at roughly the half-way point between then and now, I went back to the work of another genius, Richard Pryor (I hardly need prodding), who has some version of playing the dozens (a specifically African-American version of America’s real national pastime–the putdown) running through his entire body of work and has a sort-of parallel version of Keefe and Gleason going on in his sketch titled “The Gang,” where Gleason is a kid named Clifford who tells jokes that are actually funny and Keefe is a kid named Bubba who tells jokes that make no sense whatsoever.
Everybody laughs at Bubba’s jokes anyway because his ignorance is as mighty a shield as Jack Keefe’s and–more importantly–he’s bigger than everybody else.
I just provide this brief historical perspective because none of the dozens of commenters I heard or read this week did anything similar. (Not saying that nobody did, just that nobody I sampled did and I sampled quite a few.)
Hence nobody I read or heard actually got around to calling out Richard Sherman’s real failure.
He played a great football game, made a great, game-saving play…then he choked on a bone during what we all know is now the truly important event otherwise known as the Post Game Interview.
With Ring Lardner and Richard Pryor (not to mention Muhammad Ali and Reggie Jackson) as role models (role models he might have been expected to honor and emulate being a product of both Compton and Stanford) he tried to step into their shoes and ended up sounding nothing whatsoever like a “thug” (that was just the stupid people talking and easily parried) but everything like a clod.
More Keefe and Bubba than Gleason and Clifford then.
And what was borderline tragic about all this is that, when other, earlier interviews with Sherman–taken in more sedate surroundings–surfaced later in the week, it turned out he’s normally genuinely funny and self-aware and sharp as a tack.
Alas, you only get one chance to make a lasting first impression and the real shame about last weekend is that Richard Sherman clearly could have been a contender in an age that desperately needs one–a true thorn in the side of the deadbeats who instead spent the week justifiably claiming him as one of their own and to whom he will now be forever indebted.
Guess if we’re seeking purely random inspiration we’ll have to stick with the rapidly receding past a while longer.