A New Future For An Old Museum, Woodchester Villa Part 1

WOODCHESTER VILLA AND ITS FUTURE - WHO REALLY KNOWS?

RESTORED FOR A SECOND TIME, BUT WILL BE RE-OPENED AS A MUSEUM?

     Over the next few weeks, and just in case you read the local press, you might see my name associated with media reports, about the future of the newly restored Woodchester Villa, in Bracebridge. It is the community museum that opened in the early 1980's, in the former home of Woollen Mill founder, Henry Bird. The house has an octagonal design, based on an historic model perfected by American phrenologist, Orsen Fowler. It is said that the octagonal design promotes healthy living, and more efficient home economics. It was opened as Bracebridge's first community museum, and represented two buildings, one being an early church building on the property, which was totally rebuilt, plus the restored Bird House, on the upper bank of the Muskoka River.
     In the next few weeks, according to media reports, Woodchester will be the subject of a special meeting, of Town representatives and possibly interested parties, to discuss the future of the newly refurbished house, and whether or not it will resume its tenure as a community museum, or instead, be redisignated to something better suited. I had suggested, shortly after the museum was closed in 2009, after it suffered structural consequences, due to snow load, that it might be better suited in the future, as an arts centre, to connect with the Chapel Gallery, in what had been the museum annex building in the early 1980's. I played a small roll in this transition from museum to art gallery and it helped the budget-strapped Bracebridge Historical Society continue operation for quite a few more years, do to cost sharing on the property.
     I was one of the founders of the Historical Society, with the express purpose of opening the town's first community museum. I was a director and past presidents of the Historical Society, and served several years as its operations manager, paid and unpaid, and our entire family served as volunteers, when there were staff shortfalls, which was frequent in the late 1980's.
     I have written a substantial journal about my own years with the Historical Society, and our family's relationship with Woodchester Villa. Now that the town has decided to deal with the future property use, of the Woodchester site, I may have objections from time to time, depending on the nature of the published reports. I really dislike distortions of historical record, especially to a chronicle of which I was intimately involved. I have found reason to object early in this project, and have submitted clarification to the local media this week, regarding some major oversights made about the former museum, and how it fell into disrepair. There's a much bigger story here than simply the weight of a large amount of snow collapsing the decking. So, I have offered the media as much background material as I possess, and volunteered to discuss details of that legacy if required, so that news stories are correct when it comes to circumstances and decisions made in the 1980's, that in some reports have almost been entirely dismissed as being unimportant. This is not the case. I can prove it!
     I have run these journal-pieces in the past, several times in fact, via my blog, to make sure there is a social / cultural record, of what it was like in the early years, trying to stave off shuttering the house, due to lack of financial resources. Wishing to create an expansive base of information for future operators of Woodchester; because I have been reasonably confident there will be short-cuts taken in media coverage ever after. They have a particular relevance now, and for the next week, I will be re-running the blog pages, just in case anyone interested in Woodchester's future, including councillors of the Town of Bracebridge, wish to know more about its early days as a community museum. I can not let these fledgling years, as a struggling museum, be lost in the zeal for a new beginning; because there are a lot of lessons embedded within, that can assist those who are appointed to carry its future to a new horizon. It may not be the most exciting collection of stories, but they are honest and straightforward, and I hope they will demonstrate clearly, how much our family cared for the Bird House, for our years of service on that beautiful hillside above the Muskoka River. Backers of the museum project were quite literally the who's who of Bracebridge, and their contribution should not be forgotten, no matter what the future holds for Woodchester.
     Early on, in the most recent forced closing, I offered my assistance to help secure the museum, and make sure artifacts and antiques were safe-guarded. I have been eager to help with this restoration, and to offer an opinion about the best use of the property in the future. I have not had a good working relationship with the town since the days I protested the sale of Jubilee Park, and since then, my services have not been required whatsoever. That's pretty clear by the fact I haven't heard back from the town, and don't expect to! It is thus even more important, to make sure this background material is published for those who want to know how it all began, and what went wrong that forced the museum to close in 2009. It's as much a template for a site history. I won't have my interest and enthusiasm in Woodchester diminished, by those parties that wish to shun the historian-me. They're the folks who look pretty foolish doing so!

AT WOODCHESTER VILLA, THE LOVE FOR ANTIQUES AND WRITING INTERESTS CAME TOGETHER

It’s now more than 30 years now since I helped launch the Bracebridge Historical Society, and eventually Woodchester Villa and Museum. A university grad with a degree tucked under his arm, back to the hometown, to lend my two cents’ worth. Whether it was wanted or not!

News this week is that it will take a half million dollars to renovate the octagonal concrete building, which dates back to the late 1800's. The outside, second story walkway, which wrapped around the building, collapsed as a result of the snow-load, deposited during the wicked December storm of 2010.....the same week my father had a stroke. It was a milestone period. The museum I operated for many years was in great disrepair, and I had to pass it daily on the way to visit Ed Sr at the hospital. Both caused me grief.

I began the museum project with great enthusiasm. So did everyone else. It was a behemoth effort to acquire, restore, re-furnish, promote and operate the unique property. Right from the beginning however, there were signs we all picked up on, that just possibly we should have been better prognosticators of the future. Even after a couple of years of museum operation, the volunteer brigade was exhausted. After incredible strawberry and blueberry socials, antique car shows, antique shows, Christmas in July events, concerts on the lawn, theatre in the round, and a hundred programs of every description, we’d spent more of our volunteer’s time than they could afford to invest. It caused stresses on everyone involved, and by the five year mark of operation, and the ongoing challenge to fundraise, and obtain grants, even the Board of Directors roster looked like swiss cheese. It was a weary bunch. It’s not to say they didn’t have fun working at Woodchester, or at the many Historical Society events, but it was all becoming more like work than feeling pleasurable.

From the beginning the town was worried about the burden a museum could represent down the road. They were right to be concerned. In this case, they were not just prophetic but realistic. It would become a burden, and in my time as president to boot. We just reached a stage when it was absolutely necessary to approach the town, cap in hand, and explain how we went from zero to a hundred miles per hour and then back down to near zero again within several years. By the late 1980's, Suzanne hated me for asking her to phone some of the volunteers on our tattered list. She was tired of rejection. It became almost impossible to get any one to help out. There were a lot of critics but nobody wanted to pitch in with everything from lawn mowing, painting, weeding the walkways and gardens, cleaning the house, volunteering for daily tour guides or even offering to spell us on occasion from what had become a drudgery. I hated to think this way but while Suzanne was teaching at the high school, I was looking after two wee lads, while working at Woodchester on a list of chores as long as your arm. Carol Scholey, as one of the last volunteers standing, used to work up a list for me that, in her mind, was a week’s worth.....when in reality it was more like a year-long project. I even had a play-pen set up in the museum annex for son Robert, while working in the nearby office. Andrew played with his toy cars amidst a towering volume of farm implements hung on the walls, and set out on floor displays. Andrew thought it was neat. His music shop today looks the same.....as he still considers clutter and heritage his true comfort zone.

Suzanne and I used to rush to Woodchester at all times of day and night, to handle tour groups, school outings, and any other visitors passing through the region. We’d open the museum for a small group if and when we could. I conducted many tours with one youngster in tow, and another in a snuggly against my chest. Family responsibilities were getting in the way of museum life and times. Then there were the midnight runs with the OPP. That was because, when the attic was wired for a security system, the coating on the wire......to a squirrel, apparently tasted like licorice. I can’t tell you how many nights in a year, I had to travel through the house with an officer, looking for evidence of a break-in. It took most of that year to figure out that our perpetrators were squirrels. When they weren’t eating the wire coverings, causing false alarms, they were setting off the motion detectors.

The real gem was when some of our student staff decided to play with a Ouiji Board during their lunch and coffee breaks. As communications director, at the time, as well as editor of The Herald-Gazette, I found a breaking ghost story, on my desk, written by a reporter for that week’s edition. We were a pretty conservative bunch on the Historical Society directorate, and this communicating with the deceased feature-story, looked like trouble. It was far more complicated than this but suffice to say we decided it was relatively harmless. “Ghosts speaking through Ouiji Board at museum.” What could it hurt? Right?

I just didn’t expect it would involve the word “kill”, “murder,”or the statement “Get out of the house.” I certainly hadn’t anticipated that the staff would turn their attention to an allegedly unoccupied family grave, found in a local cemetery. Next thing I know, a television crew was on its way to report on the alleged murder that might have happened on the upper staircase of the old house. Implicated in this was the family of woolen mill founder, Henry Bird Sr. It didn’t take long before the poop destroyed the fan, and the public relations director was in serious trouble, having to make apologies all round. How they linked it all into a concealed murder was beyond me but it was on the nightly news so.....according to most of the town’s population, it must have been true.

It wasn’t. Plain and simple. But the damage had been done. The Ouiji board was removed from the museum, and the staff was asked to take a more passive approach to drumming up business......until the controversy blew over.

It’s not that the house didn’t have its spirit-kind. It most certainly did. And we weren’t the only ones who experienced manifestations. To me it was a fascination more than a haunting, as such, and we took it pretty much in stride. I’ve written about this extensively on my Muskoka and Algonquin Ghosts blog site. I spent a lot of time alone in that house and I was never frightened by anything I encountered. It was a cheerful place to work, most of the time, and I looked forward to the special occasions we had planned for open house......such as the Christmas event. What great fund it was to decorate a Victorian home for the holidays. I used to play a tape recording of “A Christmas Carol,” while we worked.

I’d sit in Henry’s office, overlooking his former mill site, and write about my experiences with the museum. I wrote a lot at his former desk. It was a quiet, interesting office. Generally it was a calming, embracing old dwelling......and maybe it did have something or other to do with its octagonal design.

In the late 1980's, as the recession loomed, and I had three jobs and an antique business, on the go, two kids, and a new Gravenhurst residence, I couldn’t handle the same level of responsibility. I didn’t have the best working relationship with town council at the time, especially my liaison, and it seemed the perfect time to turn over the reins to someone with a better plan. I was happy to have been able to revitalize the museum annex, which was turned over to the Muskoka Arts and Crafts community, to use as a gallery.......a thriving centre still a going concern after twenty years. It was hard walking away from the museum and I don’t get teary-eyed often but a lot of my early family history was etched on this hilltop overlooking the Muskoka River. I didn’t get so much as a card of thanks from any one, including the town, and I assumed their opinion was “good riddance to Mr. Currie.” I think we all needed some distance and time.

Several moments ago, I submitted a note to the media, suggesting I’d be more than happy to assist the town or a new committee, to support the refurbishing of this wonderful old building which still possesses the strong spirit and intense character of Henry Bird, that I admired way back when........and what still compels me to come to its assistance. I’ve got good memories of Woodchester Villa. And although Suzanne and the boys still wince a wee bit, when I talk about the old days at the museum, we still get a chuckle about how our family album was so much different than any one else’s. Woodchester always seemed to be in the background of important moments in our budding family history. My mother worked part time as a tour guide in the late 1980's, and Ed would help out where he could......mostly looking after the boys when I had meetings and labors that didn’t allow for child-minding.

I don’t know if they’ll want my help or just rub a clove of garlic and make the sign of the cross when they find out I’m willing to rejoin the museum gang. I’ve mellowed over the years and I don’t bite any more. I hope other folks will offer help as well. It is a good cause. But a big one.

I owe it to old friend and former Historical Society President, Wayland Drew, to give it a try, at the very least......just as we did in 1978 and for many years thereafter.

February 4th, 1971 Rolling Stone Gives Readership, Leonard Cohen

FEBRUARY 4TH, 1971 AND ROLLING STONE MAGAZINE GIVES ITS READERSHIP, "LADIES & GENTS, LEONARD COHEN"

AMONGST THE STORIES ABOUT BUSTS, LEGAL DEBACLES, "WHO IS SUEING WHO", AND THE BEST LP'S OF THE WINTER OF '71, HELLO LEONARD

     I can remember sitting in the newspaper office, of the Muskoka Lakes-Georgian Bay Beacon, situated back then, on the main street of the Village of MacTier, (circa January 1979), crying towel on my lap (below the desk so no one could see it) and feeling the salt stinging the open wound, sprinkled liberally, by each song, I emotionally recalled, from "our once upon a times," now blaring out of the office radio. All that winter, I hated the radio and the songs it transmitted. The layout staff wouldn't let me shut it off. I wanted to stomp on it, like she stomped on me. Those songs that reminded me of my former girlfriend, and our five years together, (and all the friends we had to socialize with, in those good old days, that I lost in the settlement); and then there was the happenstance framing of the wretched way I felt then, having just received the proverbial heave-ho, with no solace whatsoever to be found in music! Music was not helping me at this point. All of which imprinted upon my worn-out soul, with the sharp essence of sadness, that I was unhappily single again. What was the point of it all? I'd given the best years of my life to this women, and then she ripped my heart out of my ear, and then danced an Irish jig on the lowly beating vestige of my humanity! Yes, I did feel like a tool for taking it this hard. It's also true, that eventually, a more substantial foray into music of the period, broke me free of the broken relationship syndrome. If I was to admit my revitalization was courtesy the LP's of "Kansas" and "Toto" would you be surprised? I was! Still am!
     What is music supposed to do for us hardcore, semi-hardcore, dedicated, but not obsessed, casual, but-not-reading-stuff-into-it listeners? Seeing as there aren't any rules about this, unless you happened to be a musician, or music scholar, generally speaking, and I think it's pretty safe to say, one takes from any musical experience, what they find appealing or not so much. We all have those moments in our harried everyday existence, when music inspires us onward, and potentially, also becomes an annoyance under certain circumstances. If you happen to have a pounding headache, maybe the sound of genuine silence is what is best suited. If you are just about to enter an ultimate fighting, or cage-match, maybe you need some upbeat music, like Rocky, before he met Apolo Creed in the boxing ring. I have always used music in this way, and although I hate to admit it, especially with an excerpt of a 1971 interview with poet / musician, Leonard Cohen, presented below, you see folks, I have never paid particular attention to the words. I like the work of Cohen and Bob Dylan, but mostly the music. The only way either performer could have been my motivation, at any time, was due to the instrumentation; the music and not so much the words. The words to Don McLean's "American Pie," for gosh sakes! Everyone knew and sang along when it came on the radio. Being honest with ourselves for a moment, how many great songs out there, have mumbled lyrics that are buried by the power and glory of the tune; and I for one, can live with that reality. For a whack of songs, made popular as political and anti-war protests, you pretty much needed, in my day, the actual music sheet in front of you, with words, and a side-bar booklet, to explain what it all means.
    Even astute lyric followers, have been fooled by hidden meanings in the lyrics. Ah, the poet / musician. I have always felt it was a tremendous shortfall on my part, avoiding the embedded message of these hugely influential social / cultural songs we marched to, in spirit, letting "the man" know how oppressed we were feeling. I wonder what percentage of these musicians were aware, just how many listeners out there, were embracing their music, without knowing what the hell the words meant; or what protest they may be embracing without knowing it? I think this statistic would be pretty alarming to musicians who expect their lyrics to mean something, to fans, more than being a sort-of wordy static, we have come to accept as part of the whole listening experience. Many of the great symphonies didn't have lyrics, and they were adored by fans?
    No matter how much I try to justify being a heathen, not knowing the words of the song (just about any song), point is, there's a lot of us, and we support musicians endlessly, as is evidenced by the billions that are spent each year, by fans expressing their opinions on what is popular and what isn't. Should they be given a test however, how many out of every thousand hardcore fans, could accurately represent the lyrics, and the message, by only listening to the music? From a scholarly perspective, I do find it interesting, in my own retrospective, however late in life, to revisit this shortfall of music knowledge. I've got a long way to go, in order to catch up with my sons, who have a much better appreciation of lyrics; in part, because as music teachers, they feel obliged to learn the songs they teach. They inspire me to seek the truth. Yup, and sometimes I've even ruined the good vibes of a song, by finding out, when reading and interpreting the lyrics, it meant something completely different than what I had for long and long, believed. Now that's a bummer.
     Weird thing is, I studied poetry and creative writing in university, with some well known Canadian poets, and learned all about those magnificent hidden meanings, that tempt the reader to delve deeper for greater satisfaction. I just never applied it to musicians and song writers' craft. I knew I should have, but all the easy listening made me lazy.

     In this, the last chapter of my week-long foray, into the popular music scene of the late 1960's, and early 1970's, courtesy the small but neat collection of "Rolling Stone" magazines, son Andrew purchased recently, from a local collector. It's been an enlightening couple of weeks, and I've re-lived quite a few of those music moments, that I knew from my teenage years, including my jags of unspecified rebellion, the angry years, the drinking era, and the love and lost-love period of my early twenties; when every song on the radio reminded me of old girlfriends and the friends I used to have! Thanks for joining me on this little trip back in music history, and thanks so much, to the publishers of Rolling Stones, for all these years keeping us informed about the lyrics we didn't appreciate, and the performers who asked too little of us, or way too much. Here now is the final installment, and I'd liked to begin with a little offering of Leonard Cohen, a deep, deep well of profound thought! I'm pretty sure!
     "SAN FRANCISCO - Leonard Cohen's fans are 'word' people. They believe a song's lyrics are more important than its instrumentation, packaging, or the lead singer's crotch. It could even be that for most of them, words have become the first-aid station, in the preventive detention camp of the feelings. Certainly they are all helpless romantics, trapped by rage in the age of efficiency," wrote Jack Hafferkamp, in the article running the length of page 26, in the February 4th, 1971 issue of Rolling Stone. The article falls under the black and white portrait of a mindful, philosophical Cohen, looking up from the microphone, as if expecting, well, "the unexpected."
     Hafferkamp continues his overview of Cohen, writing, "Cohen, of course, is crazy, but he is cunning enough to keep on the loose. A mystery man with a big nose, he is a 'beautiful creep.' He wants to be handsome but settles for looking better than he expected. And wishing to be slick, he succeeds just enough to keep on wishing. He has no desire to be a pop star, yet he wants to sell records."
     The Rolling Stone article continues, "Over the house phone at Berkely's stately old Claremont Hotel, he agrees to a few questions, only after I assure him that we will meet on equal terms. 'I never do interviews,' he says. 'I prefer an interviewer to take the same risks that I do. In other words, not to make a question and answer kind of scene, because I'm interested in......like a description from your side,....to practice the novelist's rather than the interviewer's art. Say, like what was the feeling of the interviewer, and how does that relate to the work we all know. Rather than like....put me on the line for this or that type of question'. Cohen ordered a scotch and soda for me from room service - at the time it seemed like the perfect drink. He introduced me to Charlie Daniels, a member of his touring band, the Army. Once an 80 cigarette-a-day addict. Charlie is now down to five sticks of gum at once."
     "As I set up the tape recorder, Cohen turned down the sound from the TV. He left the picture tuned to Lassie. A definite feeling of uncertainty settled around us, the intruders. Cohen carefully scrutinized us. He repeated his insistence that our meeting be held on common ground. 'I had to be reminded of other things I've said. It's just sheer fatigue which has allowed me to conduct this whole scene. I don't believe in it, you know. One of the reasons I'm on tour is to meet people. I consider it a recognissance. You know, like in a military operation. I don't feel like a citizen. I feel like I know exactly what I have to do. Part of it is familiarizing myself with what people are thinking and doing. The kind of shape people are in, is what I am interested in determining....because I want to lay out any information I have, and I want to make it appropriate. So if I can find where people are at any particular moment, it makes it easier for me to discover if I have anything to say that is relevant to the situation."
     Hafferkamp writes of Cohen, "A refugee from the men's garment industry (he pushed clothes racks for a time), he has arrived at 36 years of age. He is tastefully dressed in conservatively flared tan pants, black shirt, and bush jacket, but he carefully denies affluence by keeping himself particularly emaciated. He firmly believes that women are gaining control of the world and that it is just. He empathizes, 'Women are really strong. You notice how strong they are? Well, let them take over. Let us be what we're supposed to be - gossips, musicians, wrestlers. The premise being, there can be no free men unless there are free women.'
     "His stories, poems and songs are all quite personal, written to and about himself, and the lifetimes, he has drifted through. Sometimes nakedly, but just as often humorously, he looks down from the cross and decides that crucifixion may as well be holy. He answers cautiously, but once begun, his conversation glides as easily from the writing of his books to the writing of his songs. 'As I've said before, just because the lines don't come to the end of the page doesn't necessarily qualify it as poetry. Just because they do, doesn't make them prose. Oh, I'm continually blackening pages."
     I think the most profound article I've read so far, in this spiraling down through the ages, of the Rolling Stone magazine, is the same issue's, part two interview with John Lennon, entitled "Life With The Lions," by writer, Jann Wenner. It sums up for me, much of what I've questioned, about musicians and artists, however latently, during the period of the late 1960's and 70's, and about the idolization of these celebrities, some worn-out and tossed aside when the trend of affection wears thin. In the opening paragraph of the interview, Lennon makes it abundantly clear, "If I could be a f---in' fisherman I would. If I had the capabilities of being something other than I am, I would. It's no fun being an artist. You know what it's like, writing, it's torture. I read about Van Gogh, Beethoven, any of the f--kers. If they had psychiatrists, we wouldn't have had Gauguin's great pictures. These bastards are just sucking us to death; that's about all that we can do, is do it like circus animals." He continues his rant, "I resent being an artist, in that respect. I resent performing for f--king idiots, who don't know anything. They can't feel. I'm the one that is expressing. They live vicariously through me and other artists, and we are the ones...even with the boxers - when Oscar comes in the ring, they're boeing the shit out of him; he only hits Clay once and they're all cheering him. I'd sooner be in the audience, really, but I'm not capable of it!"
     Geez John, now I feel really bad about my music appreciation inadequacies. What's a lost soul in music to do? "Dust in the wind," yup, just dust in the wind. I feel it blowing now.
     What's Yet to Come for This Blogger - It's a month and a couple of days, until I ripen and fall off the vine, Suzanne tells me, which means I hit the six decade mark; "the one foot in the grave" time of life, she says, with a cheek to cheek grin, although I have the last laugh. Suzanne is a year older than me. I figure I've got to have the month of my life then, in order to hit sixty on the fly. I'd like to go pubing in England and Scotland, but work prohibits such extravagance. I might like to canoe through Algonquin Park, on my seemingly endless quest to find out who murdered artist Tom Thomson. I've got two years to work on this, to match it up with the 100th anniversary of his death, of alleged drowning, in early July, 1917, while traversing Canoe Lake on a fishing trip. This is a more likely scenario, that jumping aboard the Orient Express, for one of those wild train adventures you see in films, or heading to some exotic south seas island, to write my long-planned novel. I should be able to wrap it up in a month. Suzanne tells people, interested in my historical vignettes, published on her Facebook Page (Currie's Antiques), that I am a prolific writer, and I'm pretty sure to her, it means "space hog," and "I can't believe this guy won't stop writing for God's sake." After reading John Lennon's interview, back in that 1971 Rolling Stone article, I don't know whether I've been having fun as a writer for all these years, or that I've just been fooling myself, about the virtues of being creative. Methinks it has a lot to do, I hate to admit this..., "not" being as successful as John Lennon was, because honestly, unless it's been an extended dream to the contrary, I've never felt in demand, only to make coffee and donut runs for the newsroom, and to my knowledge, I've never had one groupie, to call my own, or one pair of knickers thrown at me....from a fan. I enjoy myself as a writer most of all, because there is no great demand, and thus, no weight of responsibility, to out perform the last best effort. I suppose I do know what John Lennon was writing about, and I suppose, reluctantly, that obscurity and mild success has been good for me. I'm going to hit 60 years of age, feeling pretty much unscathed by the burden of celebrity. I have no strings attached, unless you count my joint ownership in this family antique business, and the fact I'm the lead picker running from sale to sale, venue to venue, to keep up our stock. Oh well. At least I've got the quiet time of being an unfettered writer with a Pulitzer head of steam. To hell with 60. With all the juice and vegetation, Suzanne insists I consume, as part of my healthy lifestyle, I figure it's entitled me to a second shot at the fifties I spent worried about turning sixty.
     Lots more to come, as I find adventures out there on the hustings. I've got a lot of living to jam into the next sixty years of my life.

October 24, 1974-Where Were You? Rolling Stone Magazine

OCTOBER 24, 1974 -   WHERE WERE YOU? WHAT MUSIC WAS TURNING YOUR CRANK? DID YOU KNOW ABOUT "STRANGE RUMBLINGS IN PEPPERLAND"?

WHAT WE MAY HAVE MISSED, NOT READING "ROLLING STONE"

     "You've got food on your eyebrow," my charming wife advised me, a moment ago, after of course, I had been talking to an array of customers for the previous half hour. Which did explain why they kept looking at my forehead; which is kind of wide these days due to a lack of hair. "How do you eat your lunch, that you could possibly get food in your eyebrow," she asked. I retaliated, by suggesting, that she could use this, as a title, for the biography she will write about me, one day, when I've gone to push up daisies. Think of it: "Food on Your Eyebrow - The Ted Currie Biography, About Eating, Writing and Complaining!"
     Suzanne thinks I'm going through a late-life, (better late than never) "mid-life crazy" episode, by burying myself in these back issues of the Rolling Stone, that son Andrew purchased as a collection, a few weeks back. The issues are from the period of the late 1960's, but mostly the early 1970's, the period I was most interested in music, and acquiring records. I didn't have much money to spend, but I was a radio fiend back then, and even at my summer job, as a painter, at South Muskoka Memorial Hospital, I never worked a single hour on my three story scaffolding, that I didn't have either CFTR or CHUM radio, in Toronto, belting out the top tunes of the week. I was reminded on numerous occasions, that the volume had to be kept low, so as not to disturb the patients inside. Actually, I think the inmates enjoyed the diversion, when things got particularly funky, and I started gyrating on the scaffolding, depending on the music at that moment. Which of course, sent paint splatters everywhere. When I finished my last day of painting, that late August of 1977, my radio was pretty much a block of white paint, because it was always positioned just below where I was working. It was an RCA portable, that I got for Christmas, and it kept on working for years after, despite the fact, the sound was a little muted, because of the dried paint blocking-up a portion of the speakers. One afternoon, I was so funked-up that I missed a step on the scaffolding, fell a short distance to the ground, with the paint can following, spilling into my lap, as I watched my scaffolding begin rolling down the minor knoll of land behind the north wing. The music played on, by golly, as the scaffolding made it to the valley. When it finally stopped moving, and I could relax that it hadn't come apart, or run over anybody, I looked up to thank God, only to see the faces of dozens of doctors, nurses, lab technicians, patients and visitors, staring down at me, covered in paint....watching as my boss in maintenance, was coming-up over the embankment behind me, with a worried face, and hand on his brow. The radio had fallen to the planking on the bottom level, yet amazingly, it was still playing. I was reminded by my boss Ken Dawson, the importance of making sure the brakes were locked on the wheels, before I began work on the upper levels. He advised me to mop myself up, and clean the paint off the grass. Have you ever tried to do that before? Good thing the radio was still in working order, because that was a crappy job on a hot summer day, but it seemed to entertain the hundreds of folks in the hospital who stayed at window-side until the end of my shift.
     What a great, color enhanced, nostalgic front cover it was, on October, 24th, 1974, when the Rolling Stone magazine rolled hot off the press. The teaser above the banner, reads, "POLITICS: THE MINISTRY OF GEORGE C. WALLACE," and on either side, just below the three color "ROLLING STONE" it reads, "THE TEXAS RANGER: Last Gasp of Frontier Justice," and "Lily Tomlin - Live Times." On the bottom right, "Paul Anka Sings for Lover's Only," and on the left bottom, "Strange Rumblings in Pepperland." As you can see from the graphics of the front cover, the Beatles appear, in an image from earlier days, on what appears to be a vintage tin lunch box. Great stuff for a nostalgia nut like me.
     On page 44, which I raced to see, like the kid I have always been, just to read the multi-page article by Joel Siegel, entitled "BEATLEPHILIA: STRANGE RUMBLINGS IN PEPPERLAND." Siegal begins the article, "The biggest rock & roll concert had just ended. Sid Bernstein, who'd produced it - who'd been offered $500 for a pair of tickets, and a brand new 1965 Plymouth for a block of four - was feeling awfully good. 'I decided to check-in on the first-aid room just to make sure,'Bernstein told me. 'About a dozen girls were lying on cots. They'd fainted from excitement, the interns said, but they were OK. Then one of them recognized me. 'That's Sid Bernstein,' she told her friend. 'Sid Bernstein? Oooooooh! Did you touch Paul's hand?' I said 'Sure.' 'Can I touch yours?' I said 'Sure,' and she fainted again'. Nine years later, at a combination eulogy and trade show called Beatlefest '74, Sid Bernstein is reminiscing for 4,000 kids packed into the ballroom, of New York's Hotel Commodore. There are cheers for every mention of John, Paul, George or Ringo. Bernstein mentions Brian Epstein, 'may his soul find peace,' and....a standing ovation."
      "They were young faces, incredibly young. Fourteen and 15 year old faces, that hadn't started kindergarten when the Beatles invaded America; faces that hadn't even begun to flesh out into adulthood when the Beatles last played together. All the lonely people, where do they all come from..."
      "Joe Cocker - Academy of Music, September 21st, 1974 - Well, he went on. Stood out there in the spotlight and sang. Out in the street the freeloaders and ticket beggars were truly frenzied, having harder luck than Bangladesh in coaxing tickets out of the affluent, notes the Rolling Stone review of his concert. "People turned up to see if what The Village Voice casually called 'everybody's tragic drunk,' would turn up, would fall over. Not perhaps the best atmosphere, but news of his Los Angeles debut exhibition traveled. 'If you see him and he's standing, he's digging in,' said an apparently knowledgeable New York manager, just before Howard Stein ushered Cocker onstage. Cocker was standing. He was singing, but his thermostat was turned down and no amount of urging from the partisans out front - a sellout audience - could release any of the old Cocker energy. The body that used to go spastic with delight on an up-tempo blues, was almost comatose at the mike, standing on tiptoe and lurching but not quite stumbling around. It was a defused Cocker in person and in voice. You get obsessed with the condition rather than the performance - when he sings, 'Why should I care, doing the best I can,' there's a definite sympathy surge for his apparent confused state. Some of his old intense wrenching cries emerge as croaks."
     The review continues, "But he was digging in. He kept on - an hour's set, and judging by an onstage remark, the new band's complete repertoire. Cocker was at his best on the simple songs, such as 'Randy Newman's 'Guilty,' given austere accompaniment, and his considerable debt to Ray Charles was laid on the line. Here the raw material showed itself intact, but in total it was a sad evening and the help from his friends in the audience couldn't bring out the real - the old - Joe Cocker."
     On page 14, there is Tom Dupree's fascinating feature article, "Lynyrd Skynyrd in Sweet Home Atlanta," which begins, "ATLANTA - "I'm a boy 'only a mom could love,' says Ronnie Van Zant (killed in plane crash in 1977) as he watches the interstate roll past the windows of Lynyrd Skynyrd's customized Greyhound bus. Ronnie normally has a grizzled look, but even though it's early in the day, and the next stop down the road, Nashville, is far away, he's especially haggard because, just before an otherwise flawless concert last night, somebody gave him a bad drink. 'You can't come to Atlanta without something happening,' he says. 'There are a million people backstage, and you know most of them'."
     The article continues, "The backstagers last night included brass from MCA (record label), who had come to present Lynyrd Skynyrd with a gold record for their album, 'Second Helping'. Skynyrd is only the second southern band to have reached this pinnacle; and they wanted the presentation to be in Atlanta, where just three years ago they were a rowdy bar band playing legendary local spots like Funocchio's. Now, as established album sellers with a single, 'Sweet Home Alabama,' bulleted high on national charts, they are headliners in the Georgia Tech coliseum."
     "Last night's audience knew the band well; many had followed Skynyrd since before Al Kooper heard them on an Atlanta trip that was the genesis for his 'Sounds of the South Records'. To underscore the homey nature of the visit, the Georgia Tech show opened with a spotlight on a huge Confederate flag, while a big-band version of 'Dixie,' boomed out of the PA (we don't do that up North,' Van Zant said). The crowd bawled a lusty ovation when the gold record was announced, but they were saving most of their strength for the magic lines of 'Sweet Home Alabama.' 'Well, I've heard Mistuh Young, sing about us, Well I've heard old Neil put it down. Well, I hope Neil Young will remember. A southern man don't need him around anyhow.'
     "When Van Zant sneered out that final line, the electricity almost became visible, and the entire coliseum exploded in a triumphant roar. Our boys! they screamed. The group that had given it to a hated high school gym teacher, called Leonard Skinner, by naming their band after him, had now answered Neil Young's 'Southern Man,' vindicating the thousands of kids who were wondering why they didn't feel guilty above loving life in the deep south. 'We thought Neil was shooting all the ducks in order to kill one or two,' says Van Zant, who wrote the lyrics to the song. None of the seven members of Lynyrd Skynyrd, have gotten any personal reaction from Young on 'Sweet Home Alabama,' but Ed King, one of the group's three lead guitarists and, with Van Zant and Gary Rossington, a composer of the song, knows him personally from a tour years ago on the West Coast. 'I showed the verse to Ed and asked him what Neil might think,' says Van Zant. 'Ed said he'd dig it; he'd be laughing at it.' A cut from Young's 'On The Beach,' album, 'Walk On,' is widely taken as an answer to 'Alabama,' although the response is, if anything, generalized. 'I hear some people been talkin' me down, Bring up my name, pass it 'round, They don't mention the happy times, They do their thing, I do mine, Oh baby that's hard to change, I can't tell them how to feel, Some get strong, Some get Strange, Sooner or later it all gets real, Walk on.' Van Zant has not interest in turning the dialogue, into a volleyball match. He smiles and says, 'Neil is amazing, wonderful....a superstar."
     In the "Random Notes," section of this issue of "Rolling Stone," it's reported that "Uriah Heep's bassist, Gary Thain received a severe electrical shock, during the group's September 15th concert, at Moody Coliseum in Dallas. He is expected to be fully recovered by mid-October, but the group had to cancel the remaining three appearances of the tour, which also forced cancellations for the unfortunate Suzi Quatro, billed with Uriah Heep. This was her first major concert tour in the U.S. A prior appearance at New York's Bottom Line was aborted when a phoned-in bomb threat interrupted her performance."
     "20/20 News: Bob Dylan is back in the saddle, recording his first completely new album for Columbia in four years, with Eric Weissberg and Barry Kornfeld, accompanying him thus far." "Muddy waters: 'Paper Lace,' the British rock group, thought the City of Chicago might be grateful for the publicity to boost it, got via their hit, 'The Night Chicago Died,' - a rather sympathetic ditty about Al Capone, and the gang. Since the group was going to be in town during a U.S. tour, they wrote to ask Mayor Richard Daley if his office had any helpful suggestions to promote the event. The response was comparable to England's reaction when Randy Newman made the remark, 'I think you have a cute little country,' a couple of years ago. The group received the following letter from Jack Reilly director of special events for the city. 'We do have our own ideas, with a bit of cooperation on your part we might persuade Paper Lace and the author of 'The Night Chicago Died,' to come to Chicago and jump in the Chicago River, placing their heads under the water three times and surfacing twice. The lyrics are the greatest assemblage of garbage ever to be published. Our interest is zero minus. Thank you for contacting us. Pray tell us, are you nuts?"
     If you can believe this, I was in England in March of 1974, with the rest of the Bracebridge and Muskoka Lakes Secondary School Band, under direction of band leader, John Rutherford, at a time when "Paper Lace" had made a pretty fair splash across the pond to North America, with their song, "Billy Don't Be A Hero." The band was from Nottingham, where we were staying during our several week performance tour, and we were supposed to meet up with the group, if memory serves, at Trafalgar Square in London, but I don't think they showed; leaving us with more photographs to expend elsewhere in the big city. I know a few of us bought their 45's while we were there, hoping to get them autographed. Geez, I wonder how they did, when they visited Chicago, a little later on. I can only imagine.
     Today, although I love it (music immersion) to bits, I do realize that my music appreciation, is heavily weighted and biased, to this kind of 1960's and 70's retrospective. I have an unspecified but sincere respect for the songs of my youth, more than I have, unfortunately, for anything contemporary. This is crazy backwards of me. I can't help it. It's mind over matter. I keep feeling I've got a lot to catch up on, because I missed so much of the music scene, from my teenage years, because I had my head in a hockey helmet, or was staring down a pitcher at the plate, looking for, at the very least, a clean stand-up single to first base. It's true what I wrote earlier. I did listen to a lot of music in my youth; I just didn't understand it, as I do today. The bias toward vintage, isn't entirely helpful, considering I often do concert and show reviews now, of up and coming Indy artists; and I frequently get the opportunity to meet with well known musicians, of considerable accomplishment, from the past quarter century, who happen to be visiting our Gravenhurst studio. The reason I paw through these old magazines, whenever I'm afforded the opportunity, is as much, to find, and draw parallels between the decades of music heritage. Music precedents, you might say. I know that on most occasions, I prefer hunkering down after a long work week, with reminiscent LPs that I grew up with, than the work of contemporary artists. This is no reflection whatsoever of the quality of their music, but rather, the deep and long rut an old fart like me, has gotten into, in part, because I didn't have many records of my own, when I needed them most. So I've been retrospective in this regard, ever since, and it's the fault of a sentimental heart, more than the failing of a musical ear, that I slip back in time, however awkwardly, to find my true comfort zone of listening pleasure.
     After a full week of immersing myself in the back issues of "Rolling Stone," I do feel the exercise has had a scholarly purpose, and given me a more enlightened advantage, in terms of research-in-tow, and not that I will ever have the competence of a true music historian, I do believe it will help nurture, over time, in the old gargoyle-me, a more ambitious spirit, to zap-electric through the ages, to find all the links of relevance, between the music that inspired me, and the contemporary music scene, of which I am imbedded by circumstance, here in what is quickly becoming a small town, rural mecca of old and new musicians. Please join me for another look back at music heritage, as presented by these back issues of Rolling Stone; and the modern day, pleasant intrusions, of musicians, carrying on up the road, still breaking trail, from here to there!

Janis Joplin, February 1972 Rolling Stone

UPDATE ON THE PARKING ENFORCEMENT ISSUE, HERE ON GRAVENHURST'S MAIN DRAG

READER THINKS SELECTIVE PARKING ENFORCEMENT "O K A Y"  - TWO HOURS JUST PERFECT TO HAVE LUNCH AND A SHOPPING GIG

     I don't generally get into "Letter to the Editor" pissing wars, that might, for gosh sakes, go on for half a year, and finally have to be ended with binding arbitration, without anything clearer than the stupidity of it all, and lots of spatter, to show for it; at the end of the effort on clarity's behalf, no one is the wiser! So seeing as we got a response to a recent submission, we sent to The Banner, re: $20 parking ticket, it's clear in the letter writer's mind, we most definitely deserved the punitive measure, in ticket form, for violating the two hour parking limit, by that whopping five minutes. Hey, everyone deserves a shot at rebuttal. It's the kind of response I was anticipating, from the enablers out there, who help the town maintain their pecarious hold on the status quo they value so dearly. The rule, "Cause we said so!" The big issue here, other than the fact the town only enforces the parking bylaw during the tourist season, is that in legal terms, it's pretty hard to defend a part-time bylaw; that's good for one half of the year but not the other. As for parking meters, well, although I'm against them, it at least allows the visitor, to get an absolute time on the meter, to allow for a stress-free lunch, or shop to shop browse through main street businesses, without having to run out in the middle of a sandwich or a sales transaction, to check out the tire marking; or if they've let you slide for another wee bit! In Gravenhurst your time begins when the bylaw officers mark your tires, and who knows when that might be? Got to be ever-watchful if you park here. It's not a good system of parking enforcement, and the town knows it! At some point this issue will be in front of the courts, when someone, with a hat full of moxy, who feels they have been ticketed unfairly, seeks the clarification on whether the town's parking bylaw, even has a wobbly leg to stand on. In the meantime, until they can figure it out, how about giving main street shoppers the same parking freedom, as those visiting The Wharf. Now that's progressive and free time in a bundle.Now wouldn't that be wildly fair to all?

   

   
FEBRUARY 27TH, 1972, "ROLLING STONE" ISSUE NO. 102 -

JANIS JOPLIN IN RETROSPECT, AND "JOHN & JERRY & DAVID & JOHN & LENI & YOKO"

     When Andrew and Robert were still enjoying the precious charms of childhood, Suzanne, sensing another long, hot summer, trying to keep the lads entertained, decided one afternoon, the time had arrived to integrate, ever so slowly, more music into their lives. At this same time, after our television blew-up (popsicle stuck in the back), and we didn't have the money to buy a replacement, we would listen to old records at dinner, and afterwards, we welcomed them to play records that interested them. Suzanne had hundreds of 45 rpm records, that she had been given, as a teenager, by the owner of the juke box, her parents rented for The Skipper, the snackbar above the family marina in Windermere. Mr. Arney, as Suzanne knew him, would give Suzanne the discs that had been replaced on the Juke Box he tended every few weeks, and it was how she built a small but significant collection by time the business was sold later in the 1970's. She gave it all to the boys, and it was the starting point, let me tell you, for everything that has happened today, to put these same lads in the middle of the contemporary music business, as both instrument suppliers, record retailers, and on the recording side, possessing a studio that gets quite a work-out, only a few feet off the main street of our hometown. Did music influence these chaps? Of course it did. From record collectors, they then branched out as musicians-with-high-hopes, trying to mimic the songs they admired most, of their newly expanded record collection. It's not a front page biography, best suited to the Rolling Stone, but by golly, it still reminds me rather poignantly, a self professed historian, just how important it is to have healthy roots in the profession you happen to belong. When a visitor to the shop, makes some demeaning comment, about both boys being too young to be mouthing off about the roots of music, well, all I can say, is like me today, with these Rolling Stone magazines, the boys have never been standoffish about immersing in what they love. And they love music.
     Once again this morning, I started my day with a cup of locally purchased java, (hot and flavor-full), a quick glance at the local weekly newspaper, and yes, even enjoyed a day-old scone, I had hidden behind some crackers in the bread-box, the day before; and then settled into the pile of unread Rolling Stone magazines, son Andrew purchased a couple of weeks ago, as part of a job-lot that came through the door (as happens frequently). I've spent the past two weeks, investing any spare moments, here in the Gravenhurst sound studio, buried in these great vintage publications, dating back to the late 1960's, up to the mid 70's. As I inch my way toward the big "6-0" in July, (in a minor panic) I gravitate toward anything that makes me feel youthful. I get a lot of things thrust at me, these days, that remind me how old I am, including my wrinkled brow, and whitening beard, but very few that relieve the vibrant sense of elder-statesmanship, frankly I could do without. These back issues are great fun to browse through, but what is most remarkable, is how they've become such amazing sources of new-age enlightenment; how's that for a contradiction? Something old-time, written and published before my first real date as a teenager, that is so contemporary in spirit and sensibility, it could be published as part of a brave new world, in almost any modern day publication. Stories that would be appropriate to the new music consumer, who has never confessed to self doubts, about why they spend the way they do, to entertain themselves. I think there are lots of stories offering enlightenment, and of this, I am a willing student. I missed the period when these magazines first hit the news-stands in the 1970's, because I was deep into sports and a lot less into music; the listening part, yes, but there was no analysis on my part. To arrive at this time in my life, and realize I have little knowledge of the music of my youth, gives me every reason to dive into these incredible archives now, offered for my reading pleasure. Andrew pointed this out to me, with a wink and nod, when he handed me the box, shortly after buying them, "Hey day, this will remind you of the good old days. Do you even remember that far back." Smart ass! But, truthfully, I was too embarrassed to let him know the truth. I was ignorant about ninety percent of what was making music news when I was a teenager. I was however, willing to brush-up, and in no time at all, I was conversing with son Robert, about the music news I found most compelling. I was excited by my music re-boot, which was really a case of entertainment education 101. Here are some of the articles that caught my attention. I have read them all the magazines cover to cover, but there were highlights I wanted to share with you folks. Let's walk down memory lane together.

     "NEW YORK - John sat propped up on the bed next to Yoko, who was wailing away on her tom-tom. John's rimmed eyelids and the neck of his new fibreglass Mitchell Special, along with the steel soundbox, stared directly into the mouth of Muhammed Ali, brought into their new West Village flat, and the foot of the bed, through the courtesy of New York's public tube facility, channel 13. Muhammed's mouth was moving, obviously he was saying something, but it could not be heard over the piercing scare-the-devil screams of Bible Belt crusader, Dr. Jack Van Impe, recorded live at Landmark Baptist Temple, Royal Oak, Michigan."
    This was the work of Rolling Stone writer, Stu Werbin, responsible for the front page story beneath the heading, "JOHN & JERRY & DAVID & JOHN & LENI & YOKO." The large photograph above, shows Janis Joplin wearing beads and bangles and nothing else. There is a huge, multi-page story, published inside issue No. 102, as a sort of entertainment post mortem of the rock singer's tragically short life.
     Stu Werbin reports, the television broadcast, of Dr. Van Impe, stating that "Nineteen Hundred and Seventy Four is the year they are planning for sex on the street in every major city from coast to coast. And get ready for a shocker. The music they are planning to use to crumble the morals of America is the rotten, filthy, dirty, lewd, lascivious pink called rock and roll. God help you compromising preachers who allow this rock beat into your pulpits on Sunday just because it has 'Jesus Saves' tied to it. It isn't just the words, it's the beat." The television doomsayer, goes on to state, "Four hundred girls in the Detroit area, interviewed as to why they had illegitimate babies said it was not just the words but the beat. The fertility rights of the jungle are the same beats recorded into the modern rock to stir them up." According to Werbin, "Dr. Jack used a portion of his speech to re-acquaint John and Yoko with the lives and writings of another couple, also seated in the flesh around the bed. 'You say I don't know what I'm talking about? The White Panthers leader Sinclair, is now in prison for selling marijuana; he was the leader of Michigan's biggest rock and roll group, MC 5. This is a revolutionary group. You're not hearing from a preacher now, you're hearing from the White Panther leader planning a revolution, a sex revolution by 1974 and all through rock music. Don't you dare defend it. In my city-wide crusade, I preach against immorality, sex, liquor, I can preach against tobacco, name it, they take it. But I've had two churches pull out of my crusade because I hit on rock and roll music. Brother, if it makes the Devil that mad, there has to be something wrong with it'."
     The Rolling Stone article continues, "John Sinclair, at the edge of the bed, laughed so hard that the huge abdomen heaved up and down like a whale breaking waves. His wife Lori, bobbed on his arm with every heave." And "Right on right on right on, Yoko tapped defiantly on her tom-tom."
     In the page 43 article, entitled simply, "Janis," written by David Dalton, the story preamble, by Jonathon Cott, explains how and why the writer began research on Janis Joplin toward the end of her music career.
     "I'm going to write a book about you, David Dalton told Janis Joplin, when she was beginning her first tour with her Full Tilt Boogie Band in Louisville, Kentucky. 'Honey.' Janis replied, in partying manner, and with an eye to the future, 'If you can pay for the plane tickets, then you can follow me around for the rest of my life.' In the beginning of July 1970, David (David Dalton) and I were riding the Festival Express, the amazing communal train trip from Toronto to Calgary, on which Janis played a funky Eleanor of Aquitaine - Catherine the Great, queen to a court of jamming musicians, including the Grateful Dead, Delaney and Bonnie, Buddy Guy, Eric Anderson and Ian and Sylvia. One afternoon as the train sped through the Saskatchewan plains, Janis and Bonnie Bramlett were conversing in the bar, having invited David and his cassette machine to record the dialogue, when David's tape ran out. Janis was just beginning to recount her experiences, of being on stage for the first time with the Big Brother and the Holding Company."
     "They threw these musicians at me, man, and the sound was coming from behind, the bass was charging me, and I decided then and there, that was it. I never wanted to do anything else. It was better than it had been with any man, you know. Maybe that's the trouble....hey where's David?' 'He went to get a tape,' I said. "Goddamn, he's missing great stuff here. Hey, David! Get back on in here!"
     Jonathon Cott concludes, "The night before we reached Calgary, Janis was dressed up for the journey's most glittering and happiest hours. A 'bacchbanalian Little Red Riding Hood, with her bag full of tequila and lemons, lurching from car to car like some tropical bird with streamline feathers', as David described her, she sat with about fifteen musicians and sang renditions of 'You've Got to Hide Your Love Away," and "Bobby McGee." Finishing a song she said something and cackled, then turned around to David, asking, 'Are you remembering what I just said, honey?' Transported and in deep reverie, David mumbled a complaisant 'Sure Janis,' - a Boswell caught thinking of everything but the ineluctable modality of the visible and audible."
     On page 63 there is a full-page article headed on the page, "A New Year's Message from Terry Night," for the inset article, republished from the December 23, 1971, issue of "The Village Voice," entitled "Culture unrecycled "The Next Big Thing," is the next dead thing," by Harold Carlton. It begins, "Remember when culture used to have a capital 'C'? Or when music on the radio used to be just that? There were record albums to buy in stores, too, but nobody expected each performer to launch a whole new culture, an alternative life style, to be a fashion article or to lead a revolution."
     Carlton writes with a crisp assault on the trending of the day, noting, "When I lived in New York City, from 1964 to 1966, it felt as if the whole city would collapse if the radio stations went off the air for too long. We all needed that big beat to wake up to, go to work on, go to sleep to; the best was the beat was the pulse of New York, throbbing through the air like electricity or oxygen, like caffein in coffee, out of laundromats, out of transistors tucked into the bosoms of cleaning-ladies; on the stoops of Harlem where everyone seemed to have a mysterious pre-arranged agreement, to tune into the same station. A few cents' worth of batteries made you feel part of the whole listening audience."
     "There is an annual lecture series on the BBC, called the Reith Lectures. Often more original than (Marshall) McLuhan and more thought provoking than books like 'Future Shock,' they are written by experts and professors, some times pertaining to our wonderful world of media. In that hesitant, modest, British way of university dons, the lectures are delivered without fuss and quietly reprinted in something known as 'the BBC's own organ,' a thin newspaper called the Listener. One lecture-series some years ago was dedicated to the idea that the media, far from propagating the arts, was helping to destroy appreciation of them. Amongst other examples, it stated that owning a recording of, say, a Beethoven symphony, could be harmful, since repeated listening to a recording established a pattern in the listener's mind. When he heard the symphony live, at a concert, he would be disappointed if the live performance did not tally exactly with the version on his recording. Certainly everyone reading this, has had that happen to him at least once, either at a concert or an opera. Or perhaps when seeing a group so attuned to sessions, in the studio, that they cannot perform live, or singers who rely over-much, on engineering effects, to amplify their often meagre voices."
     He goes on to opine, that, "Today, even more than ruining our culture by over-dissemination, we are cutting it off almost at its source. I want to use James Taylor as an example, although half a dozen other uneasy examples would do as well. I want to write of the kind of music which eight years ago, might have been played a few times on the radio, bought in modest quantities in recordings, and been allowed to grow slowly to maturity. Instead James Taylor is playing and singing disposable music. Thanks to a star-hungry public too greedy to allow its stars to be born, every singer must almost immediately, be termed a superstar, or aspire to be one. Only huge worldwide success, is good enough. Let a genuine talent attempt to sing to a small public, and he might find Time Life, or record-company spies in the audience, all of them on the track of 'The Next Big Thing.' Singers are not the only artists being eaten alive by the process; actors, directors, writers also suffer, but singers suffer the worst because a big record can happen much faster than it takes a book to be published, or a film to be completed. I would suggest that if we can get away from the concept of 'The Next Big Thing,' we'd have a healthier arts scene. Like the commercialization of health foods, one begins to wonder whether all those vegetables, fruits and eggs can possibly all be organic."
     The writer concludes, "Two decades ago, and we might as well say a century ago, people bought Rosemary Clooney and Doris Day records, for humming along to. Those were the days; when pop was pure pop. The first rock 'n roll records were outbursts of energy rather than genuine protest. Dylan made pop literary. Dylan records were bought mainly for their lyrics, their poems. A James Taylor record does not represent music exactly, or just lyrics, but a life style, an attitude. Playing James Taylor on your record player is showing, in the vaguest, least committed way possible, which side of the gap you're on. Which gap" Any one you'd care to name."
     "So music as music is not being appreciated; not through its notes, its melodies, or is rhythm. Rather through its lack of rhythm, as in James Taylor's supine, weary cadence; a conscious rejection of modern-life pressures, opting out, music-to-feel-sorry-for-yourself-to; hippie Muzak. They are going to make a fortune out of it."
     Gads, how incredibly relevant this is today. The names of performers have changed, but not the point of the argument. The bottom line of the story stays the same. "They (the industry) are going to make a fortune out of it!"
     Stay tuned to this blog, for yet another vintage "Rolling Stone" review, tomorrow, because, well, it's so much fun researching this kind of ancient history. As ancient as I am, thank you very much.
     Thanks for taking the time to visit.

Life In The Peace Loving Hinterland and The Rolling Stone

"ROLLING STONE," BOB DYLAN, TIMOTHY LEARY AND WHAT THE HECK WAS GOING ON IN MUSKOKA, IN 1971

LIFE IN THE PEACE LOVING HINTERLAND

     There was a time, when I was working on editorial copy for several local publications, from my home office, at Birch Hollow, when I had to shut off my source of music, because I found, that by the happenstance of exposure, it was heavily influencing the way I was writing, and the whole theme of the finished product. I would rise to what the music dictated, and react emotionally, when a piece would come on the radio, that inspired an uncertain melancholy or sadness. The bright, lively pieces made me too happy for my own editorial good. I was allowing the influence to push and shove me around editorially, and when I'd re-read the copy, prior to sending it off to the editor, for approval, gads, the obvious moodiness of the work, was like riding waves on the ocean. I could recall the musical companionship I had been exposed to, for every four or five paragraphs, and found that it was entirely reflective of its imbedded low-key but for-real message. I was trusting the music to get me through an editorial job, and it became increasingly evident, I was bowing to its commands. So I had to turn the radio and phonograph off, when I was writing-up interviews and related research-based pieces, in order to avoid the bias the music seemed to bring into the mix. If I happened to be working on an open-ended jag of creative writing, I was only too glad to crank it up again, and enjoy its influences. I wasn't aware just how adverse it was to the mission of unbiased reporting, and unfettered editorial content, to have music resonating in your ear, and massaging your emotions at the same time. I could work in a busy news room, with farting, yelling, arguing colleagues, all day long, and be able to compose emotion-free editorial copy; as long as no one turned on the radio, to infuse some joyful, thought-provoking music into the dank inner sanctum we benefitted from, because of what it didn't have as resident comforts and kind therapy. Sort of like a dungeon but not as clean.
     I have been listening to son Robert, fine tuning a recording he did, (most recently) for a local group, and I asked him, as a laymen of such things, why he had to listen, and re-listen a hundred times or more, to the same music passages. He took some time to explain the process of what he does to polish a recording, that will one day be mastered into a "for sale" CD, but all I really garnered, through the fog of techno-speak, was that he is persnickety about even the most minute detail of sound, its inherent perfection, or not to his liking, and quality of the finished product to the trained ear (of which his could do a hundred push-ups in sixty seconds). He was always a detail oriented little chap, especially as a guitarist, and now he has parlayed his overly fit musical ear, smack dab into the middle of the recording industry, where he has been a sort of small town rising star recently, with some plumes cast in his direction, by folks who have been imbedded in the industry for decades. Anyway, it's a privilege to be working alongside the studio wizard, who allows me, at the same time, (as long as I don't ask too many questions), to sit here and go through these back copies of Rolling Stone, for the purposes of my daily blog. When pages of the magazine slip onto the floor accidentally, the good son, will stop what he's doing, and help his old pop, gather up the scattered archives material. I just hope he's not sacrificing too much, in order to keep his fumbling old father, from screwing up his studio, trying to keep his crap together. I'm proud of the lad, and it's a real privilege for me, to sit in the studio and see how he puts it all together; to finish up with something that sounds so fantastic. I mean, if you're going to write about music, it can't hurt to be immersed in the culture as deeply as this armchair affords, even when the recording is over for the day, and a jam session breaks out in front. I love it!
     1971. I remember the long, hot, smelly days, working at Clark's Produce, up on Bracebridge's Toronto Street. I learned how to spot a rotten patch on a burlap bag of potatoes, before it, the putrid white ooze, connected with any part of my body. The owner, my boss, would come over, on first whiff, and turn the subject bag until the smell intensified, and he could see a wet spot on the burlap. He'd whip out a small pocket knife and cut out the bad spud. The smell of a rotten potato on a hot, humid day, can make someone with the strongest constitution wretch like a first time scotch drinker. Jimmy Clark, the proprietor of the produce wholesaler, with a huge array of camp and resort customers all over the Muskoka Lakes, liked to have his little portable radio playing in his office, which also had the only fan in the building, but it wasn't on any channel that would play top ten songs. It would have made carrying huge bags of onions and carrots on our shoulders, slightly more palatable, (but just as stinky) because it really was a horrible job, feeding the masses in the context of our grunt work. We might have been considered strapping young men, by initial appearance when we entered the warehouse, but by time we were dispatched, after loading all the deliveries for the coming morning, we looked like diminished coal miners needing retirement, or else. I worked back then for the going kid-labour rate; which for Jimmy C., was to pay us a less than generous buck an hour; and I had to petition Jimmy on many occasions, when he would cut me short, because I hadn't worked the full hour. If I was off by even ten minutes, he'd find it hard to justify full pay for time not worked. I wouldn't even get partial compensation, for the fifty or so minutes invested. I wouldn't get a thin dime. Until of course, the young man with rotten potato smeared on his shirt, protested, and threatened to miss morning deliveries altogether.
     The next morning, I had to get up at about five in the morning, still hurting from the night before, which could have gone from three in the afternoon, until ten or so. It may not seem like a long haul for young bucks, but for some of us slighter lads, the bags were just shy of our own height, and our body weight. It was everything we could do, to throw these bags over our shoulders as Jimmy insisted we handle them, over to the truck at the loading dock. We had a lift-cart but you couldn't use it efficiently for a few bags. It was for shifting skids back and forth in the warehouse, and to unload the truck when it came in full. He used to smoke a cigar in the cab of the truck he drove, in the morning, and he wasn't big on having the passenger side window down, because it blew his paperwork around, and sent ash flying from the tray. Hey, it was a job, at a time when many of my contemporaries were hanging around Bass Rock, swimming most of the day, and pondering where to get some spending money. I did hate the job, but it was one hell of a learning experience. It made me aspire to bigger and better things, and I can honestly say, Jimmy Clark helped me focus on the future. 1971 was a pivotal year of attitude adjustment. I will never forget the aroma of a mushy rotten potato on a shirt in ninety degree heat and humidity. I reiterate. Music, my music of choice, was re-playing in my head, and thank God for that!
      On the back cover of the March 4, 1971 issue of "Rolling Stone" magazine, is a picture of Bob Dylan, with the caption, "Bringing It All Back Home - Bob Dylan in the Alley, plus True Revolutionary Tales." On the front cover, beneath a large portrait of Steve Stills, the headline above the editorial copy reads, "Dylan Film, Opening Night: Fast On The Eve." The story, written by Jonathon Cott, reports from New York, with the following overview: "It was an early evening rain, night comin' in a fallin', and merely on the basis of short advance announcements in Rolling Stone, the Village Voice, and on Howard Smith's FM Radio show, a couple of thousand persons showed up at the Academy of Music on February 8th, to catch Dylan's one-hour color film 'Eat The Document,' shown twice at 7:00 and 9:00 with proceeds going to a Pike County citizen's group, which has been set up to stop strip-mining in the South."
     The article also reports, "Jerry Rubin and Gordon Lightfoot were there." Yup, our very own Gordon Lightfoot. We just don't think about these kind of things happening; Gordon Lightfoot hanging with folks like Bob Dylan, to companion a protest. It took a refresher from the Rolling Stone to upgrade myself to the incredible lives these performers have experienced, and the company they kept.
     On page 10, this is a small article with a big impact, entitled "Bennett's Canned," and comes from New York. "WMCA-AM commentator / disc jockey Alex Bennett, who aired a live interview with Tim Leary, from Algiers a month ago, has been fired. Peter Straus, station owner and general manager, admitted that a request for a tape of the Leary interview, had been received from the FCC complaints department, following the program. But he said Bennett's dismissal had nothing to do with this. 'His contract is not being renewed because his evening show would clash with sports events during the summer months,' Straus said. Bennett's program has had a high popularity rating, and he was the only commentator on AM radio, in New York, sympathetic to an FM oriented audience. His shows in the past two years, have featured interviews with virtually all leading rock musicians as well as politicos, such as Abbie Hoffman and the Last Poets. Bennett claimed that recently some major advertisers had boycotted his show. WMCA denied this."
     On page 16, an article mid-page, reports the big entertainment news of the month, as being "Tom Fogerty Leaves Creedence." "BERKELEY - When the members of Creedence Clearwater Revival threw a mammoth press party last December, they took pains to convince the assembled guests, that the band would be seeking new directions. The gist of the message was that John Fogarty would be stepping back a bit to let brother Tom Fogerty, bassist Stu Cook and drummer Doug Clifford, take a more active role in composing and playing, both on record and in concert. The changes had been brewing within the group for some time, but they apparently weren't happening fast enough for rhythm guitarist Tom, who decided sometime in January, to split after being with the band almost 11 years years. 'It was sort of dawning on me,' he said, 'that I hadn't been doing everything I could have been doing'."
     The article continues, "Creedence had been doing plenty, what with more than $30 million in record sales over the past two years, and a string of hits unmatched by any other American group, but when Tom began to explore his new creative role, he found that he didn't fit in the Creedence context any more - and there were other pressures. "Here I was, John's older brother (Tom's 29), yet not really leading and taking the thing anywhere, and I was just sort of frustrated by it,' he said, adding quickly that he has never minded working with John, and that his decision to leave is far more complex, than simply not being able to lead the group. And that there's no hostility involved."
     On page 18, there is a full page article, written by John Lombardi, beneath the black and white portrait of John Lee Hooker, that is entitled, "John Lee Bad Like Jesse James." "OAKLAND - Hands slap knees; glass clinks. A couple of thousand miles from his last ghetto, John Lee Hooker has re-established himself, family and entourage. The house is on 13th Street, but it is comfortable this time. The fact that Oakland is as much a ghetto as Detroit is beside the point. 'My mind still be back there,' John Lee croaks, and then his dark, Bantu face, uncut by the faintest trace of miscegenation, and solid as stone, cracks into one of the smallish grins he allows himself, when being interviewed by white writers, 'but the weather better here.' The people in the comfortable room guffaw. 'We gonna move to the country, anyway,' John Lee drawls, his voice dropping a whole key. Everyone roars. 'Tell it'!"
     "John Lee is 52, 55, 57, depending on who you ask. That, of course, is beside the point too. He is an old man now, and he has - in the limited sense that it can happen to blues singers - made it. Recently. In the last five years, his records have been selling well to a young, longhaired audience. (He has just cut a double album with Canned Heat, a project which should do him some good with the same market). It's to the point now where Tex Coleman, his old Detroit pal, and new personal manager, can afford to tell a higher-priced version of the old racial shuffle story: 'Yea, I wuz up in Santa Rosa lookin' over some propritty - we thinkin' of openin' a club. This po-leese come up an' ask me if I thinkin' about movin' in. Then he ask who I gonna put in the club. I tell him John Lee Hooker. 'Oh yea?' he say. 'You know him?' I told him I did, an' I knew a captain on the highway patrol, too. He stop lookin' fishy, escort me 'round the town'. The property, Tex adds, is worth $59,000."
     "Jim Morrison's Got the Blues," appears on page 22, beside the portrait of a bearded Jim Morrison, the Lizzard King, as written by Rolling Stone senior editor, Ben Fong-Torres, in "LOS ANGELES". He writes, "Jim Morrison and the Doors are back home in Hollywood and at work on an album - this time without producer Paul Rothchild, and this time featuring 'blues" Morrison says, 'Original blues, if there's such a thing'. Morrison, the ex-sex symbol of West Coast rock; the poet who called himself 'Lizard King,' is a convicted man, following a two-month trial in Florida, for his alleged organ recital at a March, 1969 concert Miami. He was found guilty of misdemeanors - indecent exposure and open profanity, and his case is on appeal - probably for an indefinite time. He's out on bail."
     The article by Fong-Torres reports, "Jim Morrison, all of the above, is still a Door. He continues the transition from rock 'n roll to poetry and films. And he has aged. His face is still jungular, but now more lion-like than Tarzanic, outline as it is by comfortably long dark hair, and full, dark beard. And he's got the beginning of a beer belly. Quiet about his Miami case in the Rolling Stone interview, he did in July, 1969, and silent, still, during the trial, Morrison seemed eager to talk a bit when we ran into each other in Hollywood - to put the old days in proper perspective, to discuss the Doors, and to assess the whole Miami thing, in his own words."
     On the right hand page, and beside the story, entitled "The Carpenters And the Creeps," there is an article headed, "Maybe What They Want is a Pig." The piece is written by Jerry Hopkins and is set in Beverly Hills. "The California cop largely responsible for the hang-loose law enforcement policies, introduced at the Woodstock pop festival, has been fired from his job, as Beverly Hills police chief, for the second time in under a year. Put another way by his attorney, the chief 'may be the only cop in the country the kids respect, and as thanks for his contribution, the city shoves a broom handle up his ass'. It was in August, 1969, after serving as security chief at Woodstock, that Joe Kimble told a newspaper reporter, hippies couldn't be stereotyped and that he had a 'strong conviction traditional police methods are not necessarily the best methods.' Since then, he's been in trouble back home, where according to local politicos, he has failed to project a Beverly Hills image."
     As for the "Carpenters" story, by Lester Bangs, reporting from San Diego, it begins, "Where there's lots of money being made, as any hack journalist will tell you, there's probably some kind of story; and when a once-floundering group has two giant hits in a row, some psychological transaction must be taking place between them and the public. Success stories like Melanie and Grand Funk are obvious; but what about a group like the Carpenters, who are at present riding high, even though they didn't seem to have any particular image, concept, much material, or anything definite except a pleasant-voiced girl, and a facile arranger? Is there some subtle catalytic ingredient hiding somewhere beneath that too-clear surface? Or is their whole phenomenon just blind coincidence?"
     "Thus it was that I took my musical sensibilities in my hands and attended a Carpenter's concert. Oh, I had really liked 'We've Only Just Begun,' - in fact, the reason why I'd just re-fallen in love with a childhood sweetheart, at the time it was riding the radio, and it was, well, it was Our Song. Even if it did originate in a bank commercial. Karen Carpenter had a full, warm voice, and her brother Richard's musical settings, were deft and to the point. The LP cover and promo pix, showed 'em side by side, identical, interchangeable boy-girl faces, grinning out at you with all the cheery innocence of some years-past dream of California youth. Almost like a better-scrubbed reincarnation of Sonny & Cher. What also sparked your curiosity was the question of audience; who pays five bucks for a Carpenter's Concert? Somehow you couldn't see the usual rock show crowd, of army-fatigued truckers and seconded stooges. But they must have found a major following somewhere, because, in San Diego at least, the show was totally sold out."
     On page 28 and 29, a Canadian music lover like me, is hit in the face by the double spread headlined, "Joni Takes A Break," about Joni Mitchell's early retirement from the wild ride of the music scene, as it ate-up performers in the late 1960's and early 70's. The well written article, by Larry LeBlanc, in Toronto, begins, "Canadians are stunned by the vague, awesome level that Joni Mitchell has reached. She was the least-known of the Toronto group of folksingers of the sixties. Joni returned to Toronto, this summer, to appear at the annual Mariposa Folk Festival on Toronto Island - her first public performance in more than six months. She has an undisputible genuine affection for the Mariposa event. One reason, is it is possible to find a degree of privacy here among old friends. In the afternoon workshop she freely doodled a dulcimer, smiled, and hummed in rhythm with her hands."
     LeBlanc writes, "She appeared shortly before eight, backstage, dressed in a short robe, belted loosely around the middle which clung without tightness to all of her. In the shelter of the trees along the lagoon we talked. The sun was gone, there was a shadow all across the grassy prairie-like opening, and a small cloud of insects hovered overhead. A few feet away, Gordon Lightfoot sat on a park bench, and said how great it was to be a spectator for a change. David Rae, who at last is emerging from the relative obscurity of guitarist for Lightfoot, Ian and Sylvia, and Joni, were there, cheerier than ever. Jack Elliott, with significantly smiling eyes, pulled his broad-brimmed cowboy hat over his forehead, put his thumbs in his pockets, and waited his turn at the bottle being shared by Mississippi Fred McDowell, J.B. Hutto and Lightfoot. Joni sat watching, curiously and quiet, nodding hello now and then. With her chin resting on her crossed legs, she seemed just a little self-conscious, but most inwardly serene. So perfect with high soft cheekbones, great bright blue eyes, bittersweet blond hair, dribbing down past her shoulders, she has a broad smile worth waiting for and a tremendous vanilla grin, which makes here always magical. Carefully, almost cautiously, she picked the words to describe self-exile from the pop scene."
     The writer, Larry LeBlanc, quotes Mitchel as saying, "In January, I did my last concert. I played in London and I came home. In February I finished up my record. I gave my last concert with the idea I'd take this year off, because I need new material. I need new things to say, in order to perform, so there's something in it for me. You can't sing the same songs.' She adds, 'I was being isolated, starting to feel like a bird in a gilded cage. I wasn't getting a chance to meet people. A certain amount of success cuts you off in a lot of ways. You can't move freely. I like to live, be on the streets, to be in a crowd and moving freely.' She confirmed that she was still uneasy of the great army of photographers scrambling around her, of the crowds fawning on her at every turn, wanting something, wanting to touch her. In the center she worked hard to smile constantly, answer the seemingly endless questions, and made that magic."
     "It's a weird thing,' she said solemnly. 'You lose all your peripheral view of things. It has its rewards but I don't know what the balance is - how much good and how much damage there is in my position. From where I stand, it sometimes gets absurd, and yet, I must remain smiles, come out of a mood where maybe I don't feel very pleasant and 'smile'. Inside, I'm thinking; 'You're being phony, you're smiling phony. You're being a star."
     Well, with great interviews like this, from the vintage of the early 1970's, I could now very easily, and comfortably, spend my days, buried in these back issues of the Rolling Stone, acquired by son Andrew recently, with a collection of other vintage magazines. Here I am, in my element, reliving the music heritage I was influenced by, even if it was along the outside edge, experienced here in the hinterland of Ontario. Jimmy Clark wouldn't let us play-it in the warehouse of his produce company, or have it blaring through the truck radio, and the haze of his cigar exhaust, on those morning deliveries but it was playing in my head none the less, on all those hundred-plus mile romps around the lake, delivering lettuce, cabbages, cantaloupes, strawberries and, oh yes, potatoes and onions by the fifty pound bags full. When I got home, and cleansed away the mix of putrid juices and raunchy smells, associated with moist cigar smoke, and the plethora of aromas of the industry, I'd sit outside our apartment, in a nice shady spot, by the crabapple tree, and listen to my little portable radio; the one I got for Christmas, one year, with the cracked plastic case, and wonky dial. And inevitably, over an hour or so, of hearing my favorite songs, feel better about my lot in life; that was yet to be determined. I did know for sure, that I didn't want a career in vegetable or fruit distribution, (just from my own bad experiences, not that I begrudge anyone else from this enterprise) or to ever work for a guy who would blow cigar smoke in my face, to make a point about who was boss. Son Robert's only vice, other than liking his music loud, very loud,is strong coffee three times a day. I will re-evaluate if and when the little fellow starts buying cigars.
     Please join me again tomorrow, for another look at music from a bygone era. I'll have some more insights, from the Rolling Stone, regarding the death of "Pearl," Janis Joplin.

1974 Rolling Stone and Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, and My First Year of University

MAMA CASS - 1941-1974, WHAT THE FUTURE WAS DENIED WITH HER DEATH

THE "ROLLING STONE" MAGAZINE, OF AUGUST 1974 - CROSBY, STILLS, NASH & YOUNG - ANATOMY OF A REUNION

     I was scared sh____less! (Yea, shoeless). Honestly, I was out of my mind with fear, back in the late summer of 1974, working at Building Trades Centre, in Bracebridge, as a shipper, and thinking those nagging bad thoughts, about the coming first year's studies at York University. I wasn't worried about how I'd survive on campus, or the marks I'd get, (I knew I'd fit in, somehow). I was scared to leave my new girlfriend, with all the opportunist hustlers, the wolves, at the old school, who had no scruples about moving into another fellow's territory. Mine specifically. She had another year of high school left to finish. I think her male acquaintances even warned me, (I thought they were kidding), our relationship was in great peril once I left town. Fool that I was, I thought love was all-powerful, and you didn't confess it to one-another, without an iron-clad, almost blood-oath commitment. What I was to find out, was that confessionals like ours, made in the embrace of the sentimental Muskoka moonlight, weren't worth more than the lipstock smudge, on the tuxedo shirt's white collar, garnered at the graduation after-party.
     The music of the day either made me nuts with jealousy, or made me want to embrace her soft angel-kind, and never, ever let go! Music, in so many ways, was "the decider," in good cheer, melancholy, or what was certain to inspire unspecified fear and loathing. Was I losing her? What was my girlfriend up to? To make sure our love was true, in my clumsy attempt at this relationship thing, I came home every weekend, even if it meant hitch-hiking through a snowstorm. I suspected she was cheating on me. How crazy was that? Well, gosh, not so crazy! I found this out many years later, from my buddies, who all of a sudden, over a pint of lager, thought I could handle the news, of their former liberalities, to my very real consequence. I had been right all along. As they pointed out, "Hey man, it's ancient history now." I found that a somewhat flimsy argument. The music played on! Abba made me cry. Grand Funk made me care less! Meatloaf made me crazy. Toto and Asia were only played on lengthy love seeking road trips with mates, to find girls who didn't know our failings. It meant we had to drive for hours.
    It was, beyond this, one of maturity's great conquests. Forcing snotty nosed youth like me, against the tides of emotion, to move on, not just in musical taste, but to capably tame the resources of the big, beckoning, crazy old world. As I would find out, five minutes on campus, the high school experience hadn't prepared me for the independence of university study. But nothing open to me, as pre-therapy, at that time, could have prepared me, for the first lunch, outside of the Ross Building, on that sunny September afternoon, having my lunch with friend Ross Smith, also of Bracebridge; as without our notice for some time, first responders near by, were tracing a chalk line, around a jumper, sprawled to our right, who most definitely had expired quickly, as a result of a multi-stoy plummet to the concrete below. I couldn't understand how this hadn't seriously affected all the people, who, like us, were enjoying the sun, and open air lunches. We were the only accidental voyeurs to move away from the scene. First day, first suicide aftermath witnessed, and first serious regrets about why we had left small town Ontario in the first place.
    Ross, the artist, and I, comfortably of the rural bumpkin class, but having copious amounts of small town smarts, soon caught on to the events happening around us! Once we figured out this wasn't a drama department project, about death and stuff, beat a speedy retreat, to gather our country-honed balance of composure. We were roughly-hewn blokes, who hadn't spent a lot of time in the urban jungle as teens. Obviously, we had to learn fast, what we might run into by happenstance, being residents of the big smoke. Music? At that time it was a little confusing, as to what would make us feel better about the challenges we faced in the coming years, to fulfill the good faith our parents had in us, to finish what we began. I will confess, that my room-mate at the boarding house, in which the three of us, Ross included, were staying, introduced me to the more intricate stylings of Elton John, and the Yellow Brick Road, and for gosh sakes, it worked to sooth the savage beast, rather pissed at being in the city in the first place. When truthfully, I kind of preferred being-loved in the rural clime, where my girlfriend was redefining our relationship without my knowledge. Yup, 1974 was a year of redefinition for a lot of things I thought were solid and consequence-free. Boy was I wrong. Here's what was going on in the music world, as reflected so astutely, in the pages of that year's Rolling Stone magazine.  
     I won't lie to you. I was turned-on by the majesty, the regal, silken joy power, of Mama Cass's voice, best known from her years with the Momma's and Papas. Her voice got hold of my soul, and flung it all over the place, like a rag doll. I came out of the experience feeling spent, but looking forward to the next time we got together. I always left our date wanting more. When I pulled the August 1974 issue of "Rolling Stone," out of the collection of magazines, son Andrew purchased recently, I felt that pang of sudden loss all over again, as if it had happened yesterday. So there it was, a full page story on page 20, topped by the bold print headline, Mama Cass' Elliot Dead." I was crushed for a second time. I might piss-off a lot of Elvis fans, but the death of Mama Cass was like losing one's personal pleasure-advisor; a larger than life guru of happy times. She lifted my heart, and wow, she still had so much to give us, and our generation.
     "She was the queen of L.A. pop society in the mid-sixties. Her voice helped make the harmony that made the Mamas and the Papas; her house in Laurel Canyon was a gathering place for musician friends like David Crosby, Stephen Stills, Joni Mitchell, Eric Clapton and Buddy Miles. Crosby, Stills and Nash, in fact, first joined their voices at Cass's; from there they decided to work together formally. On stage, she was 'Mama Cass,' the comic presence. And, as her former manager, Bobby Roberts, said, 'She was overweight, but she carried it off like she was a beauty queen'." (Rolling Stone article, August 1974)
     The article continues, "Cass Elliot, 32, died in the early morning of July 29th, in the London flat of Harry Nilsson, where she was living with her friend and road manager, George Caldwell, during her stay in England. Death was ruled accidental at a coroner's hearing the next day; the post-mortem showed that she died as a result of choking on a sandwich, while in bed and from inhaling her own vomit. She had complained to friends recently of frequent vomiting, possibly the result of dieting. That evening, when her secretary, Dot MacLeod, failed to reach Elliot by phone, she went to the flat and found the body. Several persons, according to manager Alan Carr, had been in her apartment the morning and afternoon of her death, but thought she was asleep"
     The same article reports that, "Cass had just completed a successful two week engagement at the Palladium, Saturday, July 27th. To play the Palladium, comparable to Carnegie Hall to the U.S. 'was one of her lifetime ambitions,' said Bobby Roberts. As she left the hall, she saw the picture of Judy Garland in the gold frame inscribed with the dates Judy had played there. Cass said, 'I know what it must have meant to that lady to be a hit here, because I know what it means to be me.' She had attended a cocktail party Sunday night at Mick Jagger's home, but did not drink and departed early in the evening." The observation was made, that, "Lou Adler, producer of the Mamas and Papas, saw Cass's Palladium opening. 'She was really up,' he said. 'She felt she was opening a new career; she'd finally got together an act she felt good doing - not prostituting herself, but middle-of-the-road people enjoyed it and she enjoyed doing it'."
     One page back, in this same issue of Rolling Stone, flanked by the photograph of former Beatle, John Lennon, the sidebar story headline reads, "John's Legal Case: Few Options Left." The opening reads, "NEW YORK - On July 18th, the Justice Department announced that it had ordered John Lennon to leave the country (United States) by September 10th, after the Immigration Service denied Lennon an extension of his non-immigrant visa, because of his guilty plea in England on a 1968 marijuana charge. On the same day, a California state senate committee urged decriminalization of marijuana possession in the state, calling it 'no threat to public health, safety or morals'."
      The article notes, "Four days later the New York Post, in an editorial said, 'The crime for which John Lennon was convicted in London in 1968 would not even land him in a New York jail'."
     There is a huge, multi-page interview published, further back in the magazine, on legendary Canadian pianist, Glenn Gould, as a part two component, for an ongoing series. It begins, "A week after our initial talk, Glenn Gould called again from Toronto to finish up the interview. (Gould, who keeps in touch with friends around the world by means of the telephone, does not give personal interviews, at his home, or office) In the intervening period, he had gone to the studio to record the Prelude to Wagner's 'The Meistersinger,' the last three contrapuntal minutes of which required him to overdub another four-handed primo, and secundo dialogue. I asked him how his duets with himself had come out."
      Gould answers, "It just went swimmingly, to be immodest about it. At the end of the Meistersinger Prelude, the chap doing the primo stuff kept indulging in all sorts of strange rubato conceits, which were hard to mate up with, and I had to study his rather eccentric tempo notions for quite a while until I got with it (laughing), but once I did, on my secundo part, it was enormous fun."
     One of the real kickers to this story, is when he takes a shot at fellow Canadian, and media guru, Marshall McLuhan. The Rolling Stone thought the comment was important enough, to block and use as a heading for the story's continuation on another page. It reads, "I admire McLuhan very much,....but I always felt that, that sort of trend terminology that he got off on, in 'Understanding Media,' was a pity, that he would have been better off without it, and that we would have understood him better without it."
     The main story of this issue, as relates to the front cover art, is the multi-page feature, entitled "The Ego Meets the Dove - The Reunion of Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young," by Senior Editor, Ben Fong-Torres. It begins, "As Elliot Roberts, their manager, so daintily put it, they were pissing in the wind, these boy wonders of his who could make a million at the snap of four fingers. And yet, year after year, this all-time favorite group from out of the Woodstock era, these symbols of harmony in music, would try to get back together and would fail. 'We really did try, every year,' Nash would say. 'It just didn't f____ing happen, because it wasn't real'."
     The Rolling Stone article reports that, "From the beginning, in the spring of 1969, Crosby, Stills and Nash had been preparing the public for their breakup. I first met them back while they were cutting their first album, and they were all saying, and this was the bottom line of my story, that they were not a group." Writer, Fong-Torres, reminds readers, that "From the Byrds, the Buffalo Springfield and the Hollies, the three men had had enough, they said of outsized egos. Now they said they would band and disband as they pleased, go solo or form various duos, for tours and albums, as they pleased. They have been true to their founding principle. And it makes no sense. After you've become the biggest in the biggest of all entertainment businesses, you're supposed to look the other way and slip right by those old principles, on the way to four-way easy street. And if the public wants a reunion, a manager's supposed to make sure it damned well gets one. Even if his wonders have to stay in different hotels, travel in separate curtain-drawn limousines, and sing from isolation booths."
     Writer Loraine Alterman wrote the article, beneath the heading, "Foghat: Their Business is Rock & Roll," that begins, "So you want to be a rock & roll star. Well listen now to what I say. Just get an electric guitar and take some time to learn how to play'. NEW YORK - The song goes on to mention the agent man who sells plastic wares, selling your soul to the company and the general insanity of performing - touching the heart of the matter. During the past two years, Foghat, a four piece English band, has criss-crossed the U.S. five times, playing rock & roll pure and simple. Their first two albums each have sold in the neighborhood of 300,000. Their sixth U.S. tour opened July 23rd in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, and their fourth album is due in October. Their label, Bearsville, has high expectations of turning Foghat into big-time rock & roll stars. Album sales of 475,000 earn $1 million - a gold record, - and Foghat is reaching for it, but the transformation from middling success to certified stardom, hasn't been accomplished by magic. The group and its retinue of managers, agents and record company reps, have tinkered, invested and calculated - mostly calculated - every step of the way toward the top rung."
     An advertisement, toward the end of the magazine, reports that "More than a movie! An explosive cinema concert! Pink Floyd is making motion picture history with record-breaking engagements in Cincinnati, Indianapolis, Detroit and Milwaukee. Now watch for it at a theatre near you." Below this is a promotion for the new book by biographer David Dalton, entitled "James Dean - The Mutant King," price, $9.95."
     As it turned out, 1974-75 became a good school year, and I passed all my courses (by a hair's breadth), even the Humanities classes, that I couldn't bear to sit through. My relationship with my Bracebridge gal pal, would last for another four years, right into the heart of the disco craze, and arrival on the scene, of the Village People and the Bee Gees, her favorites. I would even, at one point, visit a disco, and dance beneath the glittering mirror ball, while feeling quite a lively, well-dressed dork. Music was as effervescent as it has always been, for me, and I loved it! I loved many genres of music, as I still enjoy today, for what they inspire in me; and how music has made the passage of time so much more pleasurable. "Music", the emotionally built bridge over troubled waters, some have said! Whether it was static-interrupted, from the tiny transistor radio that provided me with the weak signal of CHUM radio, during the day, and WLS of Chicago, at night, or a car radio blaring AC / DC, the home stereo skipping along with the Momas and Papas, or even the tiny one in my room, at Winter's College, belting out some Grand Funk, and of course, what the live band might have been playing at one of our favorite local and college pubs. I might like to say, if dreams really did come true, that I have lived the life of a musician, although I can't play anything more than the car CD player and radio. Yet, I have lived vicariously through so many thousands of talented musicians, that I feel like an invasive species. A tick who enjoys the excitement of music in all its forms, and from all its performers. Could anyone knowing my circumstance, blame me from burrowing inside the music scene.
     Strange thing, you know; it's how I feel, sitting here in this 1960's circa armchair, in son Robert's studio, listening to music production, every day of the week. I suppose, for all intents and purposes, my dream has come true, finally. I can die a happy and contented man. Join me for more vintage stories, from these back issues of Rolling Stone, resuming again in tomorrow's blog. Don't miss checking today's "Currie's Antiques" Facebook Page, for another glimpse back at nostalgic and historic Bracebridge.


MAMA CASS - 1941-1974, WHAT THE FUTURE WAS DENIED WITH HER DEATH

THE "ROLLING STONE" MAGAZINE, OF AUGUST 1974 - CROSBY, STILLS, NASH & YOUNG - ANATOMY OF A REUNION

     I was scared sh____less! (Yea, shoeless). Honestly, I was out of my mind with fear, back in the late summer of 1974, working at Building Trades Centre, in Bracebridge, as a shipper, and thinking those nagging bad thoughts, about the coming first year's studies at York University. I wasn't worried about how I'd survive on campus, or the marks I'd get, (I knew I'd fit in, somehow). I was scared to leave my new girlfriend, with all the opportunist hustlers, the wolves, at the old school, who had no scruples about moving into another fellow's territory. Mine specifically. She had another year of high school left to finish. I think her male acquaintances even warned me, (I thought they were kidding), our relationship was in great peril once I left town. Fool that I was, I thought love was all-powerful, and you didn't confess it to one-another, without an iron-clad, almost blood-oath commitment. What I was to find out, was that confessionals like ours, made in the embrace of the sentimental Muskoka moonlight, weren't worth more than the lipstock smudge, on the tuxedo shirt's white collar, garnered at the graduation after-party.
     The music of the day either made me nuts with jealousy, or made me want to embrace her soft angel-kind, and never, ever let go! Music, in so many ways, was "the decider," in good cheer, melancholy, or what was certain to inspire unspecified fear and loathing. Was I losing her? What was my girlfriend up to? To make sure our love was true, in my clumsy attempt at this relationship thing, I came home every weekend, even if it meant hitch-hiking through a snowstorm. I suspected she was cheating on me. How crazy was that? Well, gosh, not so crazy! I found this out many years later, from my buddies, who all of a sudden, over a pint of lager, thought I could handle the news, of their former liberalities, to my very real consequence. I had been right all along. As they pointed out, "Hey man, it's ancient history now." I found that a somewhat flimsy argument. The music played on! Abba made me cry. Grand Funk made me care less! Meatloaf made me crazy. Toto and Asia were only played on lengthy love seeking road trips with mates, to find girls who didn't know our failings. It meant we had to drive for hours.
    It was, beyond this, one of maturity's great conquests. Forcing snotty nosed youth like me, against the tides of emotion, to move on, not just in musical taste, but to capably tame the resources of the big, beckoning, crazy old world. As I would find out, five minutes on campus, the high school experience hadn't prepared me for the independence of university study. But nothing open to me, as pre-therapy, at that time, could have prepared me, for the first lunch, outside of the Ross Building, on that sunny September afternoon, having my lunch with friend Ross Smith, also of Bracebridge; as without our notice for some time, first responders near by, were tracing a chalk line, around a jumper, sprawled to our right, who most definitely had expired quickly, as a result of a multi-stoy plummet to the concrete below. I couldn't understand how this hadn't seriously affected all the people, who, like us, were enjoying the sun, and open air lunches. We were the only accidental voyeurs to move away from the scene. First day, first suicide aftermath witnessed, and first serious regrets about why we had left small town Ontario in the first place.
    Ross, the artist, and I, comfortably of the rural bumpkin class, but having copious amounts of small town smarts, soon caught on to the events happening around us! Once we figured out this wasn't a drama department project, about death and stuff, beat a speedy retreat, to gather our country-honed balance of composure. We were roughly-hewn blokes, who hadn't spent a lot of time in the urban jungle as teens. Obviously, we had to learn fast, what we might run into by happenstance, being residents of the big smoke. Music? At that time it was a little confusing, as to what would make us feel better about the challenges we faced in the coming years, to fulfill the good faith our parents had in us, to finish what we began. I will confess, that my room-mate at the boarding house, in which the three of us, Ross included, were staying, introduced me to the more intricate stylings of Elton John, and the Yellow Brick Road, and for gosh sakes, it worked to sooth the savage beast, rather pissed at being in the city in the first place. When truthfully, I kind of preferred being-loved in the rural clime, where my girlfriend was redefining our relationship without my knowledge. Yup, 1974 was a year of redefinition for a lot of things I thought were solid and consequence-free. Boy was I wrong. Here's what was going on in the music world, as reflected so astutely, in the pages of that year's Rolling Stone magazine.  
     I won't lie to you. I was turned-on by the majesty, the regal, silken joy power, of Mama Cass's voice, best known from her years with the Momma's and Papas. Her voice got hold of my soul, and flung it all over the place, like a rag doll. I came out of the experience feeling spent, but looking forward to the next time we got together. I always left our date wanting more. When I pulled the August 1974 issue of "Rolling Stone," out of the collection of magazines, son Andrew purchased recently, I felt that pang of sudden loss all over again, as if it had happened yesterday. So there it was, a full page story on page 20, topped by the bold print headline, Mama Cass' Elliot Dead." I was crushed for a second time. I might piss-off a lot of Elvis fans, but the death of Mama Cass was like losing one's personal pleasure-advisor; a larger than life guru of happy times. She lifted my heart, and wow, she still had so much to give us, and our generation.
     "She was the queen of L.A. pop society in the mid-sixties. Her voice helped make the harmony that made the Mamas and the Papas; her house in Laurel Canyon was a gathering place for musician friends like David Crosby, Stephen Stills, Joni Mitchell, Eric Clapton and Buddy Miles. Crosby, Stills and Nash, in fact, first joined their voices at Cass's; from there they decided to work together formally. On stage, she was 'Mama Cass,' the comic presence. And, as her former manager, Bobby Roberts, said, 'She was overweight, but she carried it off like she was a beauty queen'." (Rolling Stone article, August 1974)
     The article continues, "Cass Elliot, 32, died in the early morning of July 29th, in the London flat of Harry Nilsson, where she was living with her friend and road manager, George Caldwell, during her stay in England. Death was ruled accidental at a coroner's hearing the next day; the post-mortem showed that she died as a result of choking on a sandwich, while in bed and from inhaling her own vomit. She had complained to friends recently of frequent vomiting, possibly the result of dieting. That evening, when her secretary, Dot MacLeod, failed to reach Elliot by phone, she went to the flat and found the body. Several persons, according to manager Alan Carr, had been in her apartment the morning and afternoon of her death, but thought she was asleep"
     The same article reports that, "Cass had just completed a successful two week engagement at the Palladium, Saturday, July 27th. To play the Palladium, comparable to Carnegie Hall to the U.S. 'was one of her lifetime ambitions,' said Bobby Roberts. As she left the hall, she saw the picture of Judy Garland in the gold frame inscribed with the dates Judy had played there. Cass said, 'I know what it must have meant to that lady to be a hit here, because I know what it means to be me.' She had attended a cocktail party Sunday night at Mick Jagger's home, but did not drink and departed early in the evening." The observation was made, that, "Lou Adler, producer of the Mamas and Papas, saw Cass's Palladium opening. 'She was really up,' he said. 'She felt she was opening a new career; she'd finally got together an act she felt good doing - not prostituting herself, but middle-of-the-road people enjoyed it and she enjoyed doing it'."
     One page back, in this same issue of Rolling Stone, flanked by the photograph of former Beatle, John Lennon, the sidebar story headline reads, "John's Legal Case: Few Options Left." The opening reads, "NEW YORK - On July 18th, the Justice Department announced that it had ordered John Lennon to leave the country (United States) by September 10th, after the Immigration Service denied Lennon an extension of his non-immigrant visa, because of his guilty plea in England on a 1968 marijuana charge. On the same day, a California state senate committee urged decriminalization of marijuana possession in the state, calling it 'no threat to public health, safety or morals'."
      The article notes, "Four days later the New York Post, in an editorial said, 'The crime for which John Lennon was convicted in London in 1968 would not even land him in a New York jail'."
     There is a huge, multi-page interview published, further back in the magazine, on legendary Canadian pianist, Glenn Gould, as a part two component, for an ongoing series. It begins, "A week after our initial talk, Glenn Gould called again from Toronto to finish up the interview. (Gould, who keeps in touch with friends around the world by means of the telephone, does not give personal interviews, at his home, or office) In the intervening period, he had gone to the studio to record the Prelude to Wagner's 'The Meistersinger,' the last three contrapuntal minutes of which required him to overdub another four-handed primo, and secundo dialogue. I asked him how his duets with himself had come out."
      Gould answers, "It just went swimmingly, to be immodest about it. At the end of the Meistersinger Prelude, the chap doing the primo stuff kept indulging in all sorts of strange rubato conceits, which were hard to mate up with, and I had to study his rather eccentric tempo notions for quite a while until I got with it (laughing), but once I did, on my secundo part, it was enormous fun."
     One of the real kickers to this story, is when he takes a shot at fellow Canadian, and media guru, Marshall McLuhan. The Rolling Stone thought the comment was important enough, to block and use as a heading for the story's continuation on another page. It reads, "I admire McLuhan very much,....but I always felt that, that sort of trend terminology that he got off on, in 'Understanding Media,' was a pity, that he would have been better off without it, and that we would have understood him better without it."
     The main story of this issue, as relates to the front cover art, is the multi-page feature, entitled "The Ego Meets the Dove - The Reunion of Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young," by Senior Editor, Ben Fong-Torres. It begins, "As Elliot Roberts, their manager, so daintily put it, they were pissing in the wind, these boy wonders of his who could make a million at the snap of four fingers. And yet, year after year, this all-time favorite group from out of the Woodstock era, these symbols of harmony in music, would try to get back together and would fail. 'We really did try, every year,' Nash would say. 'It just didn't f____ing happen, because it wasn't real'."
     The Rolling Stone article reports that, "From the beginning, in the spring of 1969, Crosby, Stills and Nash had been preparing the public for their breakup. I first met them back while they were cutting their first album, and they were all saying, and this was the bottom line of my story, that they were not a group." Writer, Fong-Torres, reminds readers, that "From the Byrds, the Buffalo Springfield and the Hollies, the three men had had enough, they said of outsized egos. Now they said they would band and disband as they pleased, go solo or form various duos, for tours and albums, as they pleased. They have been true to their founding principle. And it makes no sense. After you've become the biggest in the biggest of all entertainment businesses, you're supposed to look the other way and slip right by those old principles, on the way to four-way easy street. And if the public wants a reunion, a manager's supposed to make sure it damned well gets one. Even if his wonders have to stay in different hotels, travel in separate curtain-drawn limousines, and sing from isolation booths."
     Writer Loraine Alterman wrote the article, beneath the heading, "Foghat: Their Business is Rock & Roll," that begins, "So you want to be a rock & roll star. Well listen now to what I say. Just get an electric guitar and take some time to learn how to play'. NEW YORK - The song goes on to mention the agent man who sells plastic wares, selling your soul to the company and the general insanity of performing - touching the heart of the matter. During the past two years, Foghat, a four piece English band, has criss-crossed the U.S. five times, playing rock & roll pure and simple. Their first two albums each have sold in the neighborhood of 300,000. Their sixth U.S. tour opened July 23rd in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, and their fourth album is due in October. Their label, Bearsville, has high expectations of turning Foghat into big-time rock & roll stars. Album sales of 475,000 earn $1 million - a gold record, - and Foghat is reaching for it, but the transformation from middling success to certified stardom, hasn't been accomplished by magic. The group and its retinue of managers, agents and record company reps, have tinkered, invested and calculated - mostly calculated - every step of the way toward the top rung."
     An advertisement, toward the end of the magazine, reports that "More than a movie! An explosive cinema concert! Pink Floyd is making motion picture history with record-breaking engagements in Cincinnati, Indianapolis, Detroit and Milwaukee. Now watch for it at a theatre near you." Below this is a promotion for the new book by biographer David Dalton, entitled "James Dean - The Mutant King," price, $9.95."
     As it turned out, 1974-75 became a good school year, and I passed all my courses (by a hair's breadth), even the Humanities classes, that I couldn't bear to sit through. My relationship with my Bracebridge gal pal, would last for another four years, right into the heart of the disco craze, and arrival on the scene, of the Village People and the Bee Gees, her favorites. I would even, at one point, visit a disco, and dance beneath the glittering mirror ball, while feeling quite a lively, well-dressed dork. Music was as effervescent as it has always been, for me, and I loved it! I loved many genres of music, as I still enjoy today, for what they inspire in me; and how music has made the passage of time so much more pleasurable. "Music", the emotionally built bridge over troubled waters, some have said! Whether it was static-interrupted, from the tiny transistor radio that provided me with the weak signal of CHUM radio, during the day, and WLS of Chicago, at night, or a car radio blaring AC / DC, the home stereo skipping along with the Momas and Papas, or even the tiny one in my room, at Winter's College, belting out some Grand Funk, and of course, what the live band might have been playing at one of our favorite local and college pubs. I might like to say, if dreams really did come true, that I have lived the life of a musician, although I can't play anything more than the car CD player and radio. Yet, I have lived vicariously through so many thousands of talented musicians, that I feel like an invasive species. A tick who enjoys the excitement of music in all its forms, and from all its performers. Could anyone knowing my circumstance, blame me from burrowing inside the music scene.
     Strange thing, you know; it's how I feel, sitting here in this 1960's circa armchair, in son Robert's studio, listening to music production, every day of the week. I suppose, for all intents and purposes, my dream has come true, finally. I can die a happy and contented man. Join me for more vintage stories, from these back issues of Rolling Stone, resuming again in tomorrow's blog. Don't miss checking today's "Currie's Antiques" Facebook Page, for another glimpse back at nostalgic and historic Bracebridge.