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!