Out on the perilous deep
Where dangers silently creep
I’m gonna die today.
29 last month.
And, I’m gonna die today.
Consider this my last letter.
About 12 hours from now I’m gonna take that slow walk.
To The Chair.
To The Chair.
I been drifting too far from the shore for a long time now.
Drifting too far.
Counting down the hours sets your mind thinking all right.
Mine goes back to the beginning.
A cabin in the Piney Woods.
Listening to the radio at night with the moon and stars shining through the windows and ol’ Bill Monroe (with Mama’s harmony) singing me to sleep.
Ain’t no one sing like Bill.
Today, the Tempest rose high,
And clouds o’ershadow the sky
There’s many a guy in here who’ll look you straight in the eye and tell you they is innocent.
Not one of them telling the truth.
Well, not me.
Not me.
I’m here because I killed a man.
Shot him twice through the heart.
Caught him carrying on with my wife.
Glad I done it.
Ain’t no reprieve from The Governor coming.
Just counting down the hours.
Counting down the hours.
Eight hours now.
Eight hours.
Drifting too far from the shore.
Drifting too far.
Can’t get that song out of my head.
Come to Jesus today,
Let Him show you the way
Padre came.
Told me all about repentance and forgiveness.
Told me all about tender mercies waiting for me.
Mama would have said the same.
Jesus name was never very far from her lips.
Just tidying up she would be singing, ‘Kneel At The Cross’ or, ‘Just A Closer Walk’.
She was a true believer.
True believer.
Never did take with me.
No, when you go.
You go.
No Sun. No Moon.
No Heaven. No Hell.
Black earth and the worms.
Four hours now.
Four hours.
Still, I sure would like to hear Mama sing Drifting Too Far one more time.
No one forgets their Mama’s voice.
No One.
One more time Mama – as I drift further and further away.
Further and further away.
Sure death is hovering nigh,
You’re drifting too far from shore
Well, I had my steak and eggs.
Everybody’s lined up.
Lined up to take me away.
Minutes not hours now.
Minutes not hours.
Drifting too far from the shore.
Drifting too far.
I’m gonna stand up straight and walk with my head up.
Ain’t gonna cry or scream.
Keep my eyes open wide when they shave my legs and head.
Can’t get that song out of my head.
This time.
This last time it’s Hank Williams I hear.
He never made it to thirty too.
If there’s one man who looked over the River of Death then it has to be Hank.
He walked with Death all his life.
Walk with me now Hank.
Walk with me.
Hold my hand Hank.
Hold my hand.
Hold …
Notes:
If you want to assess the influence and reach of Drifting Too Far From The Shore consider this statement from Bob Dylan The Keeper of American Song:
Maybe when I was about ten, I started playing the guitar. I found a guitar… in the house that my father bought, actually.
I found something else in there, it was kind of mystical overtones. There was a great big mahogany radio, that had a 78 turntable–when you opened up the top.
And I opened it up one day and there was a record on there–country record–a song called “Drifting Too Far From The Shore.”
The sound of the record made me feel like I was somebody else …
that I was maybe not even born to the right parents or something.”
Bill Monroe – the Father of Bluegrass and one of the greatest figures in 20th Century music first recorded Drifting Too Far with his brother Charlie in the 1930s.
I like to think this was the mystical version that opened up Bob’s head!
The RCA/Bluebird recordings of The Monroe Brothers are eternal treasures.
Boone Creek – featured the wonderful high tenor voice of Ricky Scaggs and the Dobro King, Jerry Douglas.
Their late 70s recordings, ‘Boone Creek’ on Rounder and, ‘One Way Track’ on Sugarhill glow with passion.
Emmylou Harris – Her luminous version of Drifting Too Far is from her, ‘Angel Band’ collection of Country Gospel songs.
Hank Williams – His version was unreleased during his lifetime. One thing I can say – you can never have too many Hank Williams records.
Sometimes you just need that Bim, Bam, Boom – or think you do.
You like to be in a place where everyone knows your name but nothing really important about you.
You like a place where the Jukebox is stuffed with drinking, fighting and cry, cry, crying songs.
The ones you sing along to under your breath without even realising that’s what you’re doing.
The ones that bring those stinging tears to your eyes.
The ones that remind you of all the things you had.
The ones that remind you of all the things you lost.
No, the things you threw away.
Threw away.
Threw away in a joint just like this.
Threw away because you thought you needed a head full of Red, a bellyful of Beer or the wild song of Whiskey in your blood before you could face another Night or find the courage to face another Day.
In the end the nights and the days bled into each other and love and happiness drifted away with the alcoholic tide.
Too late you finally see.
Too late.
Time now to call on The Killer.
He knows a thing or two about throwing things away.
Hey Hank – right now I cant read too good – what number is, ‘What Made Milwaukee Famous’?
‘A1’ ‘A1’
Aint that just right.
Funny, every time this song comes on the place goes quiet and the murmur of the Loser Choir drowns out the Air Con.
Take it away Jerry Lee.
Sing this one for me.
Jerry Lee Lewis! Jerry Lee Lewis!
Now, it would take the combined genius of William Faulkner, Flannery O’Connor and Harry Crews to invent a character half as extraordinary as Jerry Lee.
For my part let’s just say that with Ray Charles I consider him the greatest song stylist of the modern era.
I’m not one for joining Fan Clubs.
But, at 17, I did join the Jerry Lee Lewis Fan Club and much as I looked forward to my subscription copies of The New Yorker, Southern Review and The London Review of Books coming through the letter box none of them quickened my pulse like seeing the bulky envelope with, ‘Fireball Mail’ stamped brightly in red hitting my mat!
What Made Milwaukee is from 1968 when Jerry Lee was rebranding himself as a Country Singer( having had more than a few run ins with the press, the radio, local sheriffs and the whole damn, petty, you can’t do that here!, official world which just couldn’t cope with a bona fide Wild man).
A Wild Man who also happened to be by an act of will and character a conduit for the great streams of American Music.
Jerry Lee, is of course, a Father of Rock ‘n’ Roll as well as a Country Singer to top all except George Jones.
Goodness gracious Jerry Lee can sing the Hell out of any song that’s ever been written and make it 100% Jerry Lee.
100% Jerry Lee.
And, Glen Sutton, when he wrote, ‘What Made Milwaukee Famous’ sure gifted Jerry Lee one fireball of a song.
Now, as is so often the way, the song was not the product of careful deliberation and prolonged polishing.
No.
Glen was reminded by a music publisher that he was supposed to have songs for The Killer who was due to be in town tomorrow.
What had he got?
With a professional’s presence of mind (Glen also wrote ‘Almost Persuaded’ and, ‘Your Good Girl’s Gonna Go Bad’ among many other classics) he looked down at the beer mat next to the phone and said, ‘Its a drinking song – should be perfect for The Killer!’
Nw, it was simply a matter of working through the night to turn the slogan on that Schlitz beer mat, ‘The Beer That Made Milwaukee Famous’ into a song that would appeal to Jerry Lee and the record buying public.
I think we can agree he succeeded!
Jerry Lee recorded the song the next day and gave it a regretful stately majesty powered by his rolling piano, glistening fiddle, and a vocal that proceeds with the awesome certainty of a Paddle Steamer navigating The Mississippi.
Follow that!
Very few could (you’ll find numerous versions of the song if you search) but there is only one other version which can stand comparison with The Killer’s.
One by another great song stylist who, when he was on his game, treated songs with a profound respect and care.
A singer who had an instantly recognisable voice – a voice which could express deep emotions with elegance and elan.
Let’s call Rod Stewart to the microphone!
On the evidence of this magnificent performance it seems to me that Rod missed a trick in his career by not recording an album of Country Songs.
Had he teamed up with a producer like Cowboy Jack Clement and launched into, ‘There Stands The Glass’, ‘Cold, Cold, Heart’ and, ‘Heartaches By The Number’ I think we would have had a record for the ages.
Still, lets look at the glass as half full given his bravura take on ‘Milwaukee’.
Of course, Rod, knew a fair bit about drinking as a member of The Faces who were Olympic Champions of partying.
At his best Rod’s let’s live it large! relish for life combined with an acute emotional intelligence when reading a lyric made him a truly great singer.
One entirely ready to share a microphone with The Killer.
I’ll leave with Jerry Lee, live at the piano, performing with his trademark insouciant charm.
‘Well it’s late and she’s waiting
And I know I should go Home.’
There are some sentences you know you will have to write one day.
Still you hope it wont be this year or next.
So, reluctantly and with regret, I write the following sentence.
Fats Domino, Rock ‘n’ Roll Forefather has died in his 90th year.
Thinking of all the immense pleasure his music has given me and millions of others I could not let such an event pass without a full salute from The Immortal Jukebox.
I also want to pay homage to the magnificent saxophonist Herb Hardesty who died just before Christmas last year.
That’s Herb you can hear soloing on, ‘Ain’t That A Shame’ and, ‘I’m Walking’ and that’s him too playing one of the most perfect parts in all Rock ‘n’ Roll on, ‘Blue Monday’.
I am also adding what may be my all time favourite Fats track – ‘Be My Guest’.
A record which beautifully illustrated the sheer joy woven into every bar of a Fats Domino record.
A record which demonstrated the glorious camaraderie of the Fats Domino Band.
A record which, especially in the wildly addictive horn breaks, virtually provides the corner stone sound for Ska to develop in Jamaica in the 1960s.
God bless you Fats!
Had I been born in Louisiana in the 1920s I know what I would have done with my life if I had survived World War Two intact and by fair means or foul accumulated a decently thick bankroll.
I would have bought a roadhouse on the outskirts of New Orleans.
Let’s call it, ‘The Blue Parrott’. And, all the dollars I spent and all the hands I hired would have had but one aim – to make the Parrott the jumpinist, jivinist, most joyful Joint for hundreds of miles around.
On the door and looking out for trouble before it becomes TROUBLE is an ex Marine called Tiny who stands six foot six and weighs in at 250 pounds. Tiny stormed the beach at Guadalcanal and came home with a limp and a chest full of medals.
Tiny never gets mad but he does get mean. No matter how drunk the drunks get and no matter how tough they think they are when they’re drunk no one, no one, thinks they can take Tiny down. Tiny maintains good order.
Behind the bar is Pops. Pops has looked sixty years old since I was six. He always will. Pops has heard and nodded sympathetically at every hard luck story ever told as he pours another shot of alcoholic redemption. Everyone know Pops understands. Everybody loves Pops. Pops has never touched a drop.
Out of sight in the Kitchen is Ferdy our chef. Ferdy don’t talk much. In fact he rarely says a word. Nobody cares about that because Ferdy can cook. Really cook.
So people who don’t come for the booze or the company or the music come anyway because they can’t resist Ferdy’s food. He will have you licking your lips just inhaling the aromas from his Gumbo, Jambalaya, crawfish étouffée and shrimp creole.
In the corner there’s a Wurlitzer Jukebox primed to pump out Hank Williams, Joe Turner, Louis Jordan and Harry Choates until the wee small hours.
I must, of course, have live music. A Roadhouse needs a House Band. So, I want a Band that’s has rural roots and city smarts.
I want a Band that folks will want to dance to, to listen to, to cry into their drinks to, to fall in love to, to remember the good and bad times in their lives to, to stare out the door and dream of another life to.
A Band people come to see the first night they get home from the Service or the Slammer so they can believe they really are home.
I want a Band that can whip up a storm one minute and lull a baby to sleep the next. I want a Band that you can stand to listen to three nights a week for year after year.
I want the Band to have a front man who makes people feel good just looking at him.
I want a guitar player who never shows off but is so good he makes other guitar players despair and consider taking up the banjo.
I want a Bass player who everybody feels but nobody notices.
I want a piano player who has the left hand of a deity and the right hand of a angel on a spree. I want the piano player to sing with such relaxation that it seems like he is making up every song on the spot.
I want the Band to have a secret weapon in a songwriter and arranger who knows all the music of the past and has worked out a way to make the music of the future from it.
I want Fats Domino, Earl Palmer, Herb Hardesty, Red Tyler, Lee Allen, Ernest McLean, Frank Fields and Dave Bartholomew.
I want, and will have, the best damn Band that ever came out of New Orleans – The Fats Domino Band!
Well, well, well …. Wah, Wah, Wah, Wah, Wah, Wah.
Baby that is Rhythm and Blues and Baby though you didn’t realise it at the time – Baby that is Rock ‘n’ Roll.
By my reckoning Fats Domino’s, ‘The Fat Man’ recorded in December 1949 in New Orleans and co-written with Dave Bartholomew and blues history is the first great record of the 1950s.
Some things are immediately apparent. Fats Domino sings with overflowing charm while his piano combines surging boogie-woogie with irresistible triplet flourishes. Right about here the great Earl Palmer invents Rock ‘n’ Roll drumming with his driving backbeat which lifts the Band and our spirits until his final fill decisively says, ‘That’s All Folks’ and you rush to cue it up again.
For the musically sophisticated there’s an excellent analysis of the crucial role of Fats Domino’s Band in the development of Rock ‘n’ Roll in Ned Sublette’s book, ‘The Year Before The Flood: A Story of New Orleans’.
For the rest of us all we need to understand is that Earl Palmer’s bass and snare drum attack owed a lot to the style of New Orleans Parade Bands and that the way the whole Band locked into its rhythmic parts drew on Cuban, ‘Latin’ traditions to create something new under the sun in the Crescent City.
Listening here it’s abundantly clear that this is a Band that really does know its way around and that we should sign up now for a glorious cruise into the future. Of course, New Orleans picked up on Fats first with some 10,000 citizens putting their money down to buy, ‘The Fat Man’ in the first fortnight after its issue. A million or so sales followed as the entire United States fell under Fats’ spell.
We scroll forward half a decade now to a record which still sounds dew fresh 60 years after it was recorded in 1955. ‘Ain’t That A Shame’ was an instant classic and the passage of time has only added to its charms.
Fats grew up speaking Creole French and that must be a factor in his immensely winning vocal style. The Lower Ninth Ward where Fat’s family settled after moving Vacherie still retained a country feel despite its proximity to the city. So there always remained something of the relaxed rural about Fats nature.
Maybe that explains why I can’t think of anyone in the entire history of Rock ‘n’ Roll who exudes such bonhomie as Fats. As soon as he starts to sing the clouds part and the sun lights up clear blue skies. It’s an amazing gift he shares with his great New Orleans forebear Louis Armstrong. His piano adds further shimmer and dazzle.
Herb Hardesty has a lovely sax part here which always has me sets me gleefully swaying along with him and the Band. It seems the recording was compressed and speeded up to ensure favour with the mainstream (white) audience. Well, that sure worked!
‘Ain’t That A Shame’ is regularly used in movies to evoke the1950s most notably in George Lucas’ best film, ‘American Graffiti’.
Not too long after it was issued at 251 Menlove Avenue Liverpool the first song full time teenage rebel and would be rocker John Lennon learned to play was none other than, ‘Ain’t That A Shame’. John would formally tip his hat to Fats in his essential covers record, ‘Rock ‘n’ Roll’.
Following the major success of ‘Shame’ both through Fats version and Pat Boone’s cover the doors to the pop world swing widely open and Fats, always guided by Dave Bartholomew, took full advantage with a series of huge hits that had global impact.
Blue Monday tells a tale we all know all too well. Oh, I’ve had many, many, of those Sunday mornings when my head was bad yet I still grinned at the apparition in the mirror and concluded as the Seltzer fizzed that it was all worth it for the time that I had.
Naturally while reflecting that the awful ordeal of Monday would have to be faced I consoled myself that Fats knew and understand my feelings and somewhere in the grooves of his song lay the promise of the next, sure to be even better, weekend to come. This is one of the great vamping grooves that engages you from the get go to the thumping valedictory chord.
Blueberry Hill had been recorded many times before Fats took permanent ownership of the song in 1956. Fats and the Band invoke a bitter sweet recollection of the trajectory of love; part rural reverie, part lazy post love making langour. Their collective vocal and instrumental sound glides you through the song like an expertly piloted pirogue.
One last song. From the pen of superb singer and songwriter Bobby Charles the hypnotic marvel that is, ‘Walking to New Orleans’. String arrangement courtesy of Milton Bush. The relaxation maintained throughout with the sure groove could only be Fats Domino. This is one of those songs that the entire family sings along to when we are on long car journeys!
Fats Domino was and remains the King of New Orleans. The unique rhythmic signature of the city resounds joyfully through every bar of every Fats Domino recording.
They ought to put a statue up in the Lower Ninth and name a Square and a Bridge or two after him. He deserves nothing less.
Some personal memories to conclude.
In the late 1970s I went to see Fats Domino in concert at London’s Hammersmith Odeon. I only decided to go at the last minute and despite my silver tongue couldn’t persuade any of my hipper than hip friends to accompany me.
I was marooned up in Row YY at the very back of the Upper Circle. Friendless and far from the Bar. None of that mattered once Fats opened up with, ‘I’m Ready’. For the next hour or so as Fats played standard after standard with wit, playful power and affectionate authority I transcended to a state of near nirvanic bliss.
It was a rain soaked night but I waited for an hour after the show outside the Stage Door just to call out, ‘Thanks and God Bless You Fats!’ as he got into his bus.
That night remains one of my benchmark nights for musical excellence and personal happiness. Thanks and God Bless you Fats.
Now that there is more than a distinguished tinge of grey in my beard I lean more and more on the sovereign, reliable pleasures of life.
A good night’s sleep next to the woman I love; a mug of fresh brewed coffee in the morning, a walk on the common, the poetry of Herbert, Heaney and Hopkins. A glass of Malt Whiskey as the sun sets. The films of John Ford and Buster Keaton and the good humoured, life affirming, music of Antoine Fats Domino.
And, echoing Fats I’m ready, willing and able to follow this regime until someone puts out the big light.
Now, everything down to the teacups and the toothbrushes is labelled, wrapped and ready for our new Home.
How did we accumulate so much stuff!
A major winnowing exercise lies ahead (honest!).
Soon, we will finally move into our Home in the Hills.
Everyone hearing where we are moving to says ‘It’s nice up there before adding with a shake of the head – of course you can be snowed in there for weeks, weeks!.
But, before we cross the threshold of our Shangri-La we are going to check in to a Hotel for a week.
Hotel living will be a blessed relief after all the clearing, packing and cleaning.
Room Service! (Talk me through your list of Malt Whiskies).
Now, you wouldn’t expect me to take up residence in a Hotel without sending the Jukebox Research Department (AKA my memory) off in search of songs featuring Hotels would you?
One fine day I’ll give you 5,000 words on, ‘Heartbreak Hotel’ and somewhat fewer on Chris Isaak’s, ‘Blue Hotel’ and They Might Be Giants’ ‘Hotel Detective’.
Despite the many merits of the above works the song that agitated the neurons most intently was the Carveresque ‘Third Rate Romance’ performed below by The Amazing Rhythm Aces.
A short story in song filed with dry wit and hard lived wisdom featuring a laconic vocal, a lovely guitar break and adept ensemble harmony – that’ll do for me!
The Aces came out of Knoxville originally before hitting their stride in Memphis.
Barry ‘Byrd’ Burton provides the liquid guitar line.
Jeff Davis and Butch McDade keep the rhythm flowing on bass and drums.
BIlly Earhart and James Hooker add keyboard colour.
Lead vocalist and principal songwriter Russell Smith has a keen eye for the way frail selves behave, especially when away from home, when it might appear identities and loyalties can be checked in at the front desk (for an hour or a night).
There’s some acute observation in the lyric:
‘She was starin’ at her coffee cup
He was tryin’ to keep his courage up …
‘… talk was small when they talked at all
She said, “You don’t look like my type
But I guess you’ll do …
He said, “I’ll even tell you that I love you
If you want me to …
Call me an old romantic but I like to think the above two lines were internal mental conversation rather than spoken out loud!
Undoubtedly though many a Hotel has been the venue for just such a Third Rate Romance.
Just such a low rent rendezvous.
Half truths .. evasions.. the devalued currency of adultery:
‘ I’ve never really done this kind of thing before, have you?
‘ Yes I have but only a time or two ….
Third rate romance.
Low rent redezvous.
Third rate romance.
Low rent rendezvous.
Now let’s see what chiselled retro Honky Tonk hero Dwight Yoakum can make of the song!
Well, that’s surely rugged, rowdy and more than right!
Dwight has a Voice.
Sure, Dwight looks like a Country Star precision fashioned by Hollywood central casting but it turns out he has a voice like the high desert wind and a real feel for classic hardwood floor Country.
I like the way this live performance uses Tex – Mex accents to suggest that the low rent Hotel is maybe whichever side of the border the participants are least likely to be recognised.
Now, if you and your sweetheart fancy a twirl or two around that sprung hardwood floor you can always rely on Alan Jackson to set those dancing shoes in motion.
Like the man says he put a little flavour on that one!
Have to admit I did more than a little high stepping as that disc was playing.
Time for me to check out for this week.
I got a first class Hotel waiting for my family and me.
Notes :
I strongly recommend The Amazing Rhythm Aces debut Record, ‘Stacked Deck’.
Farming country criss crossed with ancient footpaths.
Moving all our stuff.
All our stuff.
All the Books!
All the Vinyl!
All the DVDs and CDs.
All the accumulated treasures and trifles of a lifetime to be boxed, bagged and loaded.
Now that is hard work!
Hard Work.
So, Dear Readers, precious little time to research and ponder deeply before writing.
So, so, I set the numbskulls free to roam in my brain’s music data base with ‘Hard Work’ as the search tag.
And, look what emerged!
From the 1970s two paens to the Working Life.
First up Saxophonist John Handy.
An alumnus of the Great Charles Mingus Band.
Classic solo on, ‘Goodbye Pork Pie Hat’
Here, he digs in and you just gotta go with the groove.
Hard Work. Hard Work.
Next. From the Soundtrack of Paul Schrader’s, directorial debut, ‘Blue Collar’ the one and only Captain Beefheart in the guise of a classic Blues Singer with, ‘Hard Working Man’.
Can’t you feel the gears grinding and the metal shuddering!
A constellation of talent on show.
Written and produced by Jack Nitzsche a shadowy guiding hand and presence involved with many great records for decades.
Time to gather the family, rev up the family car (The Roadster safely tucked up in the garage) and set off to the far, far West.
Finisterre as it were.
The Atlantic Ocean thrashing and murmuring through the hours according to the dictates of the distant Moon.
The last rays of the Sun over the land.
Suitcases stowed along with :
Surfboards, Wetsuits, Kites (Kites are skittish things), Quoits, Cricket Bats and Compendium of Games (can I retain my title as supreme draughts/checkers champion?).
Laptops, IPods, IPads, Cameras, Tripods, assorted chargers and batteries.
For me three books guaranteed to please whatever the weather.
To make me laugh out loud P. G. Wodehouse :
‘It’s no use telling me there are good aunts and bad aunts. At the core, they are all alike. Sooner or later, out pops the cloven hoof.’
To inspire me, ‘Stepping Stones’ – conversations between Seamus Heaney and Dennis O’Driscoll illuminating the great Poet’s dedication to his vocation :
‘If you have the words, there’s always a chance you’ll find the way’.
To utterly sweep me away, ‘Moby Dick’ :
‘Yes, as everyone knows, meditation and water are wedded forever.’
Obviously, a selection of music to suit all our ages, all times of the day and night and all our humours.
As we drive down we check off the Way stages of our journey laughing as we recount previous adventures.
Old memories celebrated. New memories minted.
And, there’s always one song that elects itself our Summer Song.
A mysterious process but agreement on the chosen song is always by acclamation and lusty choral sing song.
So I am pleased to open the envelope and announce to a breathless world that this years song is the fantastic, frolicsome, ‘Bibbidi, Bobbidi, Boo!’ by the one, the only, Louis Armstrong!
Take it away Satch!
Well, I have to say I can’t think of another song by another singer more guaranteed to have a family laugh out loud with delirious pleasure!
Louis Armstrong was a certified musical genius.
But, he was also a man who radiated warmth and bonhomie.
I only have to imagine his face or listen to the echo of his unique tones to feel that life is a very fine enterprise.
I wholly agree with Tony Bennett – ‘The bottom line of any country is, What did we contribute to the World. We (the USA) contributed Louis Armstrong.’
Now, I’m aware many of you are not on Holiday.
No, you’re straining at the coal face or the chalk face or the work station counting down the hours.
There are, I am told, many fine books on mindfulness and mediatation that might help you in such circumstances.
Yet, I have never found a better way to lift my mood than to call up Louis Armstrong in my mind and sing, sing, sing,
When I launched The Immortal Jukebox in March 2014 I had, as they say, no expectations.
I just knew that it was time to find out if I could think on the page with the same fluency I could talk about the music I loved.
My readers are of course the judge and jury as to whether I have managed in my writing to convey the depth of my passion for the music and musicians from the golden age of recording – by which I mean the late 1920s to the late 1970s.
It seems I have now written some 200 Posts here on The Jukebox – each one a letter from the heart.
Starting out with just my family and a handful of loyal friends I now see, with some amazement, that my combined WordPress, Twitter and Email followers are now approaching the 10,000 mark!
I determined from the beginning of this adventure that all my posts would read as if no one else could possibly have written them and that no matter how well known the record or artist featured I would illuminate their particular merits from my own unique angle.
I also decided, as time went on, to risk inserting fictional elements and personal anecdotes and reflections into the mix.
It’s my Blog and I’ll rant, rave, laugh and cry if I want to!
Heartfelt thanks to my readers who have produced so many intelligent and inspiring comments and so much warm encouragement.
Remember a handful of Nickels and The Jukebox is a cure for all your ills.
In reflective mode, I’ve been reviewing my Stats and thought I would share some of my discoveries with you.
Top 5 Posts :
1. ‘Ordinary (Extraordinary Stories) featuring Mary Gauthier & Iris Dement
If you’ve missed out on any of these – catch up now!
I would be fascinated to know which Posts make your own Top 5 – set the Comments section ablaze!
To conclude let me thank every one of my readers for supporting The Jukebox.
I’ll sign off now with a song from the Patron Saint of The Immortal Jukebox – Van Morrison.
Heart stopping. Spirit lifting.
Hey Girl! Hey Girl!
An eerily beautiful prefigurement of Astral Weeks dreamlike mood.
Van takes a walk and watches the boats go by in the early morning light.
A spectral flute welcomes the wind and sun as Van’s vocal caresses each word of the lyric in which once again he encounters the young girl, his Beatrice figure, who will almost make him lose his mind.
The track is only three minutes and ten seconds long yet seems to last much longer – indeed seems to have stopped the flow of Time itself.
Loyal readers of The Jukebox will recall my previous post in the, ‘Way Out West’ series which was themed around an unlikely friendship formed through a mutual love of, ‘Ghost Riders In The Sky’ (go straight there as soon as you finish this if you haven’t read it already!).
Ghost Riders was voted No 1 Western Song of all time by the Western Writers of America.
My friend Carl and I didn’t know that as we sang it into the tequila fuelled small hours back in those dim and distant days.
We just knew it was a great song and that singing it never grew old.
Finishing Ghost Riders the next song that floated to the tip of our tongues was always Marty Robbins immortal classic, ‘El Paso’.
This one has everything you could ever ask for in a Western Ballad.
A West Texas location.
A Mexican maiden with flashing eyes whom a young cowboy can’t resist even at the cost of his life.
A gunfight over this fatal maiden leaving a handsome young stranger dead on the floor.
A hurried escape in the night on a fast stolen horse to the badlands of New Mexico.
The fateful return to Rosa’s Cantina even though a posse and deadly bullets surely lie in wait. For, in truth, the attraction of love really is stronger than the fear of Death.
A deathbed reconciliation sealed with a tender kiss.
What more do you want!
Well you might want this ballad to be sung with swooping authority by its author and have him backed by ringing Spanish guitar licks which echo through the song like chimes of destiny.
Take it away Marty Robbins and Grady Martin!
Now some sources will tell you that Marty wrote this song in less than 5 minutes and some say it was the work of several months. You choose.
What is sure is that it was recorded on 7 April 1959 as part of an epic session which produced what will always be greatest Western Ballad collection as long as the wild West Texas Winds blow over the plains, ‘Gunfighter Ballads and Trail Songs’.
There was some nervousness at Columbia Records that at four and a half minutes El Paso might be too long for audiences to take in an era when many hit songs barely made three minutes. This was to underestimate the power of story.
For, once you’ve heard the ringing guitar intro and the first line … ‘Out in the West Texas town of El Paso I fell in love with a Mexican girl’ you’re hooked and wild horses couldn’t stop you from wondering what happens next!
Released in late October, ‘El Paso’ soon became one of those rare songs that wins universal affection.
By the dawn of the new decade it was Number One on both the Country and Pop Charts and lodged deep in the consciousness of several generations.
The story of the nameless Cowboy and his love for Faleena indelibly sung by Marty with the invaluable assistance of Bobby Sykes and Jim Glaser echoes through popular culture to this day.
Now, The Grateful Dead might have been the emblematic group of the 1960s, ‘Counter Culture’ but they were also young men who had grown up watching John Wayne, James Stewart and Randolph Scott heroically ride through the Western landscape winning the love of Grace Kelly or Maureen O’Hara (even if Katy Jurado got caught in the cross fire) as they brought summary justice to those lawless frontier towns.
The 1950s were, of course, the glory days of TV Westerns.
I’ll wager that Jerry Garcia and Bob Weir spent many an hour watching, ‘Wagon Train’, ‘Gunsmoke’, ‘Rawhide’ and ‘Bonanza’ and that that out of sight of parents they considered themselves to be six shooting moody hombres not to be messed with.
Surely, this history and the lure of a long gripping ballad with room for plentiful six string stretch outs explains their devotion to, ‘El Paso’which they played many hundreds of themes over their fabled career.
Their version has a charm which never fails to engage me.
Western stories and Western lore do cast a spell like the eyes of Faleena.
There are few pleasures as reliable as settling down to watch a Western Movie or listen to a Western Ballad.
I caught the bug early.
When my Mum was out doing nursing night duty my Dad and I, entranced before the flickering 12 inch TV screen, would delight in the adventures of Rawhide’s Gil Favor and Rowdy Yates.
We agreed that Dad was perfect for the role of the mature Gil while I was a natural for the more youthful form of Rowdy.
Between us there were no situations we couldn’t handle.
I remember vividly that for my 6th Birthday my present was a wide brimmed Western hat with matching six guns, holster and spurs. Since those days I’ve been lucky enough to have been given some truly generous presents from those near and dear to me.
However, hand on heart, I have to say that no present has ever given me the sheer joy that receiving my six shooter set did!
Maybe it’s that memory that haloes the songs and the films as I watch and listen.
Maybe it’s the mythopoetic allure of The Western.
Maybe it’s because I’m one moody Hombre. One moody Hombre.
I feel inclined to emphasise the South of The Border aspect of the song now.
So, let’s swoon as the golden vocal tones of The Mavericks Raul Malo evoke those wild Texas days as the night falls all around Rosa’s Cantina.
Though we know the Cowboy’s love for Faleena is in vain, doomed, somehow as Raul glides through the verses we cling to the belief that maybe this time, this time, the two lovers will ride out into the sunset together.
Together.
And, in a Cantina, far away, Faleena’s eyes will flash as they whirl across the floor together.
And, as the music plays they will laugh as they remember those days in El Paso.
Notes :
Marty Robbins was a considerable songwriter as, ‘Big Iron’ and ‘You Gave Me A Mountain’ (a live staple for Elvis) attest. He had 17 No 1 Country Chart Hits.
Grady Martin was a magnificent Guitarist whose splendid licks feature on Roy Orbison’s ‘Pretty Woman’ Brenda Lee’s ‘I’m Sorry’ and Ray Price’s ‘For The Good Times’ among scores of other Hits.
El Paso was produced by Don Law who also produced the epochal Robert Johnson Blues sessions in the 1930s as well as Bob Wills’ ‘San Antonio Rose’. That’s verstIlity!
PS Michael Gray, the premier authority on Bob Dylan, points out persuasively that El Paso might be considered the penultimate Western Ballad given that it leads to Dylan’s, ‘Romance In Durango’ – the ultimate!
In the expanse of the subterranean chambers where my record collection lies there is music from many, many genres.
Deep racks of Jazz, Blues, Country, Bluegrass, Folk, Gospel, Rhythm & Blues, Rockabilly, Rock ‘n’ Roll, Soul and Doo-Wop shimmer in the half-light as I peruse the shelves searching for the perfect sound for Now.
Yesterday, I took a left turn at New Orleans Jazz and came, whooping delightedly, upon the section labelled, ‘Cajun and Zydeco’.
Now, I like to have a framed picture of my favourite artist from each genre displayed proudly above each of the appropriate racks.
So, for Jazz it’s Louis Armstrong.
For Blues, Mississippi John Hurt.
Bluegrass nestles under Bill Monroe (of course!).
Folk has Woody Guthrie atop the US section while Sandy Denny and Dolores Keane are the eminences of the British and Irish scenes.
Gospel has Mahalia Jackson face to face with Sam Cooke.
The High Priest, Ray Charles, looks out over the serried R&B racks while Wanda Jackson looks after all those wild Rockabilly Rebels.
Elvis himself takes pride of place in the Rock ‘n’ Roll section.
Aretha Franklin reigns over Soul.
There’s a group portrait, from an Alan Freed Show of The Orioles, The Moonglows and The Five Satins, above the deep Doo-Wop collection.
Bob Dylan and Van Morrison stare moodily out above their special enclaves.
Above the Cajun Section I’ve hung Iry Lejeune.
There was never any question who would represent Zydeco.
The King of the Music. From Opelousas Louisiana, Clifton Chenier!
Being in a feisty mood I looked for a distinctive yellow Specialty 45 and laughed in anticipation as I pulled out, ‘Ay – Tete Fee’ (loosely, all my translations from Creole French are loose, ‘Hello Little Girl’).
This is a piquant gem, from 1955, indicative of the floor filling, floor shaking sound that echoed around Texas and Louisiana Dancehalls deep into the night when Clifton was in town.
Eh bien, mes Chers amis I think we can safely say that Clifton was right about the Pep!
With faithful brother, Cleveland, by his side on ‘Frottoir’ (a metal rubboard, of Clifton’s devising, played with bottle openers) and a successsion of brilliant guitarists like Philip Walker, Lonnie Brooks and Lonesome Sundown, Clifton burned up hall after hall with his indefatigable Band The Zydeco Ramblers.
A later Zydeco star, Rockin’Sydney recalls that in Louisiana in the mid 50s even Elvis wasn’t seen as being a big a star as Clifton!
He was born in 1931 in St Landry Parish and picked up the rudiments of accordion from his father, Joseph.
All around Opelousas there were house party dances, fais – do – dos, where sharp eared Clifton heard waltz time creole songs, Cajun two steps and fiddle work outs.
As he moved into his teenage years he heard, on the radio, Cajun, blues, R&B, Country weepers and hillbilly boogie.
He stored all these sounds away and thought about how he might integrate them all into his own music.
The roots of the name Zydeco for the music Clifton came to define are open to many explanations.
Sparing you the scholastic debate I’m going with it emerging, mysteriously, out of the old folk song, ‘Les Haricots Sont Pas Sale’ (the beans are not salted!)
Clifton’s debut recording, Clifton’s Stomp, had been cut in 1954 at a Lake Charles studio after the astute producer J R Fulbright correctly observed that he played, ‘Too much accordion for these woods!’
Clifton had created a wildly addictive music that merged R&B attack with romantic Creole sway. Excellent records, well regarded locally, unknown nationally, followed for Specialty, Chess and Zynn.
While Clifton could always fill halls in Louisiana and Texas he wasn’t able to sell records in big numbers. So by the early 60s he was playing without a band in Houston roadhouses and bars.
Enter, the extraordinary Chris Strachwitz, a true hero of American roots music.
Almost the same age as Clifton their backgrounds could not have been more different!
Chris, from an aristocratic German family, arrived in America in 1947 and was knocked for six by the sounds of Jazz and R&B on the radio and in clubs, ‘I thought this was the most wonderful thing I had ever heard’.
Chris Strachwitz was not a man to be a bystander.
Soon he was recording artists like Jesse Fuller and in November 1960 issued the first record on his Arhoolie Records, Mance Lipscomb’s, ‘Songster and Sharecropper’ in an edition of 250 copies.
Chris was a big fan of Lightnin’ Hopkins so naturally accepted his invitation one night in 1964 to go and see a cousin, one Clifton Chenier, in a Houston bar.
And, the chance encounter turned out to be immeasurably enriching for both men, Zydeco Music and music fans of taste and discretion all over the world!
Chris was stunned by Clifton’s presence and the combination of low down blues and old time Zydeco emenating from the stage.
The music he heard and felt in his heart, soul and gut was life enhancing music.
Music filled with heart and history.
Music filled with toil and tears.
Music filled with longing and love.
Music filled with jumping joy!
The very next day they were in Goldstar Studio cutting ‘Ay Ai Ay’ and a crucial artistic and personal partnership was born.
For the next decade and more Clifton as an Arhoolie artist produced a series of superb records which established him as a major figure and essentially defined the sound and repertoire of Zydeco music.
Clifton was a natural showman who was also a questing musician always looking to develop his sound. He was a virtuoso on the piano accordion so that in his hands it seemed to have the power and variety of a full band in itself.
He could handle any tempo from funereal slow to tarmac melting speed while maintaining swing and sway.
The early Arhoolie albums were matched with singles which came out on the Bayou Label.
In addition to relentless touring on the Crawfish circuit he began to play Roots Music Festivals where his brilliance attracted approval from journalists like Ralph J Gleason who recognised what an extraordinary musician Clifton was.
Here’s a delightful clip of Clifton at a Festival in 1969 with a lovely relaxed performance of the anthem of Zydeco.
Ca c’est tres bon n’est ce pas?
Clifton now put together a truly great Band, ‘The Red Hot Louisiana Band’ which to these ears stands with Muddy Waters pluperfect 1950s Chicago blues band.
John Han on tenor sax, Joe Brouchet on bass, Robin St Julian on drums, Paul Senegal on guitar with the stellar Elmore Nixon on piano combined with Clifton and Cleveland were a wonderfully vibrant group which no audience could resist whether live or on record.
The next selection today may be my all time favourite bluesy Clifton track.
A mesmerising, ‘I’m On The Wonder’ is the work of a master musician who lives and breathes and prays through the music he plays.
Now ain’t that the playing of a King! Yes, Sir, nothing less than a King.
Here’s a dreamy waltz (and anyone who’s ever taken some turns around a hardwood floor always welcomes a waltz!) to bring some languorous Louisiana warmth to your day wherever you may be!
The 1970s saw Clifton in his glorious pomp. A truly regal musician exploding with life and creativity. He WAS Zydeco Music and the recipe he created was one tasty gumbo!
Clifton died in December 1987 having given his life to the music he loved and nurtured.
What I crave, above all in music is flavour and when it comes to flavour it really doesn’t get more appetising than the music of Clifton Chenier.
All hail The King!
To conclude here’s a very evocative clip showcasing Clifford appearing at the legendary Jay’s Lounge and Cockpit in Cankton.
I sure would like to have seen Clifton tear that place up!
Notes:
There’s a superb compilation of Clifton’s pre Arhoolie sides on the Hoodoo Label entitled, ‘Louisiana Stomp’
On Arhoolie I recommend – ‘Louisiana Blues and Zydeco’, ‘Bogalusa Boogie’ (generally rated his best single album), ‘Zydeco Legend’ and, ‘Live at Longbeach’.
Clifton is the star of an excellent 1973 documentary film directed by Les Blank, ‘Hot Pepper’.
Two highly recommended photographic books :
‘Musiciens cadiens et creoles’ by Barry Jean Ancelet
Let’s get this Coconut Tree swinging with the man who translated The Monkey’s thoughts – New Orleans and American Music Master, Dave Bartholomew.
Yeah The Monkey Speaks His Mind .. discussing things as they are said to be
Now, when it comes to making great records there was no chink in the armoury of Dave Bartholomew. He could write a street smart lyric and invent winning melodies.
He could hand pick musicians and lead them from the bandstand or the Producer’s desk. He could craft arrangements to add colour and tone to his original conception.
Dave Bartholomew was the whole package. The Real Deal.
He is unquestionably a Roots Music All Star and season after season an obvious MVP pick.
This is the organising mind behind a string of classic records for Fats Domino, Smiley Lewis and Lloyd Price.
Yet, every time I thinks of Dave my musical memory lights first upon, ‘The Monkey Speaks His Mind’ for its wit, its wisdom and its one chord drive which lodges the song deep in the cortex.
Yeah, The Monkey Speaks His Mind:
‘There’s a certain rumour that just can’t be true. That Man descended from our noble race. Why, the very idea is a big disgrace!’
Perhaps such thoughts tormented the mind of King Kong as he swayed atop The Empire State Building preparing for his doom.
King Kong is one of the great tragic heroes of Popular Culture and you can be sure his dignity and nobility will always win him a revered place in the affections of humans with functioning hearts.
Yeah, The Monkey Speaks His Mind:
‘No Monkey ever deserted his wife, starved her baby and ruined her life.’
Let’s now call upon a man loaded with N’Awlins Mojo – Dr John.
In this live version his steam heat band soak us in jungle humidity and push up the ambient temperature of the Club.
Good job there were cooling libations to hand!
The guitarist and drummer exercise Zen mastery while the trombone solo sails acrobatically through the room.
Yeah, The Monkey Speaks His Mind:
‘And you’ve never known a mother Monk to leave her babies with others to bunk and passed them from one to another ‘Til they scarcely knew who was their mother.’
Such thoughts must surely have crossed the mind of J Fred Muggs as he surveyed the passing parade of human folly.
To emphasise the point I call upon one of the finest bands ever to emerge from Texas – The Fabulous Thunderbirds.
One thing you can rely on in this unpredicatable world. If you go to a Fabulous Thunderbirds show you are gonna get good and sweaty and have the time of your life.
I speak as as someone who has seen them in all the incarnations that have toured the U.K.
The blacktop blast of Kim Wilson’s harmonica and the perfect economy of Jimmie Vaughan’s Guitar with Keith Ferguson and Fran Christian anchoring the sound makes for an over proof combination that’s guaranteed to get the adrenaline pumping and the heart rejoicing.
Adrenaline would surely have been coursing through Ham The Chimpanzee when he blasted into space on 31 January 1961.
The success of Ham’s mission gave the green light for manned space flights to follow.
As he climbed to unimagined heights viewing the world below from a new perspective perhaps Ham reflected that:
‘You will never see a Monkey build a fence around a Coconut Tree and let all the coconuts go to waste forbidding other monkeys to come and taste’.
To conclude our meditations on the theme here’s a lovely lurching version from Jamaica, where the rhythms of New Orleans were readily appreciated and appropriated.
At the controls was Coxsone Dodd, founder of the legendary Studio 1 recording Mecca and label.
The vocal is by Denzil Thorpe having his brief moment of glory (Any information on Denzil’s subsequent career much welcomed here!)
Washoe learned to communicate fluently in sign language. In quiet moments I wonder if she signed to herself:
‘Here’s another thing a Monkey won’t do – go out on a night and get all in a stew. Or use a gun or club or knife to take another Monkey’s life!’
Yeah, The Monkey Speaks His Mind!
And, when The Monkey Speaks His Mind we would would do well to listen!
This Post dedicated to the great Dave Bartholomew. A Founding Father of Rock ‘n’ Roll still going strong at 98! Wishing him health and happiness and looking forward to celebrating his Centenary.
Notes:
Guy The Gorilla (Gorilla,gorilla,gorilla) was one of the most distinguished residents of London between 1947 and 1978. He is properly commemorated in a statue at London Zoo and in portrait paintings.
I saw him often when I was a child and clearly remember being affected by his immense physicality and his somber aura.
King Kong – there were many profoundly important events in 1933. Not least Kong’s appearance in the 1933 film bearing his name. Film technology is now immensely sophisticated yet it is the original King Kong who haunts the dreams.
J. Fred Muggs was one of the premier stars of American TV in the 1950s. As ‘Co-Host’ of the NBC Today Show he became a household name and reassuring presence.
Ham passed out top of his group of would be Space Monkeys and happily survived his voyage into space. He spent his remaining years in Washington D.C and North Carolina.
He was buried with appropriate honours, including a eulogy by Col John Stapp, in the Space Hall of Fame in New Mexico.
Washoe (1965 – 2007) developed a signing vocabulary of over 300 words and was able to see a Swan and sign ‘Water Bird’
Her example led to the institution of The Great Ape Project which aims to extend moral and legal protections currently only afforded to humans to the Great Apes.
The Immortal Jukebox 