Yes, this is finally my answer to the fall of Examiner.com back in July. I’ve started a new site for the sort of stuff I did for Examiner, though without the silly. limiting categories and titles. So now I can really write about everything else that didn’t fit in the what, five Examiner titles I had?
No, Centerline doesn’t look as slick as Examiner. Heck, it doesn’t even look as slick as Jimbessman.com! That’s because Examiner’s energy was devoted in making a slick-looking site, presumably in order to attract advertising and page clicks. As for written content, like I always said, a two-year-old could write for Examiner, indeed, your pet dog and cat probably could, though maybe not your goldfish. It did have some standards.
But I don’t mean to slag Examiner. Huffington Post is hardly different, at least not anymore. The quality of writing there, except maybe for a few of the “name” political writers, is no better than the worst of Examiner, as the writers seem to be mostly twentysomethings—at least that’s where their interests lie. Journalism in the new millennium has wholly gone the way of People magazine and USA Today.
Not that Centerline.news is out to change anything. No, Centerline will continue my career trajectory in covering things that others generally shy away from, if not run away at full speed. It won’t be as personal as Jimbessman.com, probably, but maybe more professionally written—that is, so far as I’m able to approximate a professional writer.
Then again, I am a professional writer! I do hope subscribers and visitors here will now subscribe to Centerline.news as well. And thanks, always, for your continued support here!
I’ve noticed an increase in subscribers to this site over the past few weeks–for which I’m greatly thrilled and deeply grateful…and enormously befuddled!
Maybe it’s because examiner.com folded and all my loyal subscribers there wondered if I folded with it. If so, I should state the obvious: Most of the writing here is personal in nature, longer (sometimes way longer!) than the examiner stuff–most of which was probably longer than most people want to read online or off. I’m currently researching setting up another site–with a generic name–in which to write the examiner-type stuff. Until then, I’m doing a bit of it here under the new “News” category heading.
In other words, if you’re a fan of my examiner stuff and not so much a fan of the jimbessman.com stuff, bear with me! I’ll get the new site going soon enough and announce it here, of course. Mainly, I need to come up with a name that hasn’t been taken already, as I have top designers working around the clock–or at least, somewhere within the vicinity of a clock–to get it up.
Also, if you don’t know, I tweet links to everything I write, and will also announce the new site via Twitter. And again, I’m happy anyone comes here, period, for whatever reason!
One other thing: Since the entire examiner.com site is no more, I’ve started reposting a few of the 1,907 pieces I wrote there in six years here, in the new “Bessman Archives” category. If there’s anything you remember that you want to see again by all means let me know.
I was at the Delta Terminal at LaGuardia early morning July 14 waiting for my nonstop to Milwaukee when I saw that fellow music writer Joe Bosso Facebooked how he loved Grand Funk Railroad growing up, and how he couldn’t understand how the critics hated them.
I laughed out loud.
I had hated them, too, at the beginning, when me and the guys sat around smoking pot, guzzling beers and sniffing glue nonstop to “I’m Your Captain (Closer to Home).” But everything changed when they started having hit singles like “Bad Time,” “The Loco-Motion” and “Rock ‘n’ Roll Soul.” A million years later I was privileged to write the booklet notes to the box set Thirty Years of Funk: 1969–1999 and become big friends with frontman Mark Farner. Joe, who rightly called GFR “a total kickass band,” had just interviewed Mark, and drew an ambiguous response from the esteemed Ira Robbins-co-founder of the late, great Brit-rock/new wave-oriented mag Trouser Press-who observed that 150 music writers had been invited to meet the band at the beginning at New York’s Gotham Hotel.
“Exactly six journalists showed up,” Ira tallied, then cited the famous block-long billboard in Times Square promoting the Closer to Home album, at a cost of $100,000. He seemed to be suggesting that Grand Funk’s success was due much to marketing; for sure it wasn’t press adulation. Not wishing to cause my usual Facebook firestorm, I merely stated, “I wrote the notes for the box set. Mark is a sweetheart and great as ever,” prompting Ira to kindly reply, “You’re a midwestern partisan, you are!”
“On my way back to Wisco as we speak!” I wrote back, and it was now time to board.
It was my third annual July trip to Wisco, as I call it, to visit my ninetysomething mother in Madison. I didn’t plan anything when I went back two years ago, but I got lucky: My high school buddy Andy Linderman, now the renowned blues harmonica player Westside Andy, had a gig on July 4 at Waupun–a tiny town 50 miles northeast of Madison mostly known for being the site of the state prison–and I tagged along. The annual Celebrate Waupun festival had two stages–the blues stage, that Andy was part of, and of all things, a Cajun music stage, the big name being Feufollet, a Lafayette band I’d first seen there in the late 1990s when they were all kids. They’re young adults now, after personnel changes including the addition of Kelli Jones-Savoy, the hugely talented wife of my dear friend and huge Cajun music talent Joel Savoy from nearby Eunice, The Cajun Prairie Capital.
It turned out that Feufollet was playing one of my old Madcity haunts, the Crystal Corner bar, a few days later, so I got to see them twice while I was in town. But also playing the Cajun stage was of all people, Jim Schwall, guitarist for the Siegel-Schwall Band, one of the main reasons I got into writing about music in the mid’70s in the first place.
I’d first seen Jim at The People’s Fair rock festival in Iola Township some 140 miles north of Madison, which took place in late June of 1970, when Siegel-Schwall played sometime between 1 and 5 a.m. Saturday morning, the second day of the weekend festival. As I’ve written here elsewhere*, it was life-changing. I think Andy was at the fest, but I know he’d originally turned me on to them and I instantly became a devotee, turning everyone I knew onto the band and seeing them again scores of times throughout the next decade. I wrote about them extensively when I began writing about music, and continued after moving to New York in the early ’80s, eventually positioning myself to oversea the CD reissue of their entire Vanguard catalog.
Jim’s Siegel-Schwall partner Corky Siegel became one of my closest friends, but I never knew Jim that well. After moving to New York he moved to Madison, so I missed out on getting to know him better there. So I was thrilled to get to see him and hang out a bit during the day at Waupun, where he was playing bass in Madison’s Cajun Strangers.
“There’s a theory that there are 35 blues bands in Madison, and 28 blues musicians!” Jim told me, by way of explaining how and why he and so many other Madcity blues players end up playing regularly or sporadically in so many local blues bands. I can’t remember what band Andy was playing with, but I know it wasn’t his, and that like Jim, he played in a number of local blues bands as well.
I was smarter last year in planning my trip, but that’s because I knew well in advance Elvis Costello was playing in Madison with The Imposters–their own gig during a couple days off from their tour opening for Steely Dan. I wrote about the show—and it’s significance to me and my career—here last year*; another high point of last year’s trip was getting to hang out again with Jim, at the Atwood (Avenue) Fest.
This year I was hoping maybe Jimmy Liban was playing somewhere. Jim Liban, another great blues harmonica legend, from my hometown Milwaukee.
Of all the artists—and they probably number in the hundreds if not thousands—whom I saw and loved and supported in my writing career who deserved and didn’t get the widespread mainstream recongition they deserved, none ranks higher in my estimation than Jimmy Liban. Luckily, he put out a record a couple years ago, I Say What I Mean, and I made it my Album of the Year in examiner.com. He hadn’t had a record out in God knows how long, and wouldn’t have had not a young (relatively) guitar player named Joel Paterson, who had played with Jimmy when he was cutting his own musical teeth in Madison, decided, now that he was well established in Chicago and had started his own indie label, to put out an album of Liban originals.
I Say What I Mean did get Jimmy a gig in Europe, and also took him to Memphis for the Blues Music Awards. But remember: This is the blues, so there wasn’t much else. When I called him a few weeks before booking my trip, he told me that he was in the middle of a one-year hiatus from playing—though he had promised a friend that he’d play his wedding, and was honoring that commitment. When the year was up he’d decide if he’d want to play again, but for now, it just wasn’t any fun any more, essentially playing the same Milwaukee haunts for the same Milwaukee people. I shared his frustration, and added it to my own.
That left Corky. I went to his website and sure enough, he had a gig on July 16 in Fort Atkinson, a 45-minute or so drive from Madison, at Cafe Carpe. I booked the trip, flying to Milwaukee and taking the Badger Bus to Madison. That first night, it turned out, was the start of the four-day Le Fete de Marquette festival, in of all places, Madison’s Central Park. I didn’t even know we had a Central Park in Madison, and that it was a walk from where I used to live on South Hancock Street a few blocks back of the State Capitol. I went there with my old pal Jeff Laramie, owner of the booking agency SRO Artists, who used to be second in command at Mountain Railroad Records, home of artists including Jim Post, Steve Young, a pre-Timbuk3 Pat MacDonald and Spooner–which was fronted by Doug Erikson, later to become Duke Erikson of Garbage, and had on drums Butch Vig, also of future Garbage and Nirvana production fame.
It being Madison, I smoked some pot, followed Jeff and wife Terri around and was blown away by the music (like the festival name suggests, it focused on French-related music), and the one artist I remember seeing is Cyril Neville. I only wish I remembered the conversations I had with Jeff and Terri because I know I had at least five ideas for great stories/commentaries, and I was too high to take down any notes, none of which likely would have made sense had I done so. I at least remember one thing that I think Jeff said, that echoed my thoughts on pre-Democratic Convention Bernie Sanders.
I of course supported Bernie’s positions, but I didn’t support Bernie. He lost me from the beginning on vocabulary ,three words in particular—the first being revolution. I don’t care what he meant, revolution connotes violence. If it doesn’t scare a lot of people to death outright, it puts them way the fuck off.
Bernie’s second bad word was obvious—socialism. Again, even though I doubt most people can correctly defin it, socialism scares people and puts them off, especially since it still widely and wrongly connotes communism. Maybe America is ready to elect a socialist, not to mention a Jewish socialist. I just didn’t want to bet the Constitution on it.
The third word was establishment. Bernie kept railing against the establishment, much as I did when I was a teen high school radical in the late ‘60s. Except this ain’t the late ‘60s, and now I’m the establishment—and I’m not ashamed of it. I always love President Obama’s line from the 2008 campaign, “We’re the ones we’ve been waiting for!” And I’m proud of who I was in the ‘60s in Madison, when there was an awful war going on and a Selective Service draft and a generation gap, and to suggest, like the Bernie or Bust people, that now Obama and Hillary Clinton and I are essentially the same as Nixon, well, I’ll have none of it.
And now I’ll add a fourth word, one that has to do with what Jeff or I did or didn’t say: rigged. Yeah, Bernie, like Trump, riled up his followers by claiming that the “system” is rigged, when he was losing a good fight fair and square. Here he only reinforced a main paranoid tenet of American culture since the JFK assassination, that everything that happens that’s bad is a conspiracy, then, with Trump, helped extend it by giving his followers free reign to believe that winners are corrupt and therefore win unfairly, hence their victories are illegitimate. This breeds cynicism, incivility, unwillingness to compromise, a belief that if you don’t get everything you want, nothing is preferable.
Now by no means an I saying that Hillary is spotless, or that I like her, though it turns out that I do, very much–having in fact hated her eight years ago when she ran against Obama, having been a Clinton hater long before then. But she earned my respect and eventual admiration for sucking it up after losing, campaigning for Obama, serving as his Secretary of State and now winning the nomination fairly and handily as the candidate far and away most supportive of the President–which Bernie was to a lesser extent, his chief supporters to a far lesser one. Again, I support Bernie’s positions, which are closer to mine than Hillary’s, and I recognize her weaknesses and shortcomings as a candidate–but in relation to Trump, they’re virtually nonexistent, and the differences between her and Bernie are likewise truly miniscule. All this said, I do hereby salute Bernie for doing the right thing at and since the convention, and am relieved that the bulk of his followers do appear to have similarly sucked it up.
I just wish I could remember the other stuff we talked about, but that old Madison Green—not to mention a new addition in the Madtown Mule—a beer infused with lime and ginger made by Capital Brewery, that I drank an entire mule team of—-made me forget everything except the sight of people as old as me who still lived in Madison and still went out to hear music, and that it was such a great setting in a park in the middle of the near East Side with the majestic State Capitol building visible in the sunset, the Capitol that you can see from miles away as you near Madison on the Badger Bus, that I used to walk through on my way to State Street and the University-area music clubs when I lived there and wrote for The Madcity Music Sheet and was a stringer for Variety before moving to New York.
I do remember one other thing, part of the Bernie discussion, that I myself came up with and gave to a girl that we were talking to, a friend of Jeff’s, that I know she never acted on, that I should have—a t-shirt slogan: “Vote conscientiously–not your conscience.” If anyone who reads this is so inclined to print up and sell some shirts, honor compels you to cut me in.
I returned to the festival the next night to meet up with Rockin’ John McDonald, my friend of over 40 years—as long as he’s had his beloved I Like It Like That oldies radio show every Saturday night on Madison’s listener-sponsored WORT-FM. I thought I was cool wearing my orange New York Public Library t-shirt, but RJ topped it with his vintage blue Dr. Bop and the Headliners entry. That day, by the way, I returned for the first time since leaving my third job with the State of Wisconsin in either 1978 or ‘79 to the old State Office Building on 1 West Wilson, overlooking Lake Monona, where I worked two blocks south of the Capitol.
I needed a birth certificate, as I was suddenly thinking of fleeing to India and didn’t have a passport. I walked into the building and thought I’d stepped into The Twilight Zone: Not everything was the same—there was a security station in the lobby that wasn’t there in the ‘70s. It all looked brighter outside, too. But the institutional flooring and hallways were the same, and it was a step back in time that I recently depicted here.
I can’t remember, but I think my office was on the second floor; I think my second job with the State, a file clerk at the Division of Corrections, was on seventh floor, and the first, where I was a reader/typist for a blind man at the Division of Vocational Rehabilitation, was also on an upper floor.
The clerk at the Bureau of Records, of course, was my age 40 years ago, modified in the passage of time and mores by arms full of tattoos. When I was done I walked out and got to the lobby and stopped, giving in to the stupid impulse to go back and tell her that I used to work in the building 40 years ago. She feigned interest.
Since I worked there, and long after I left Madison, they built a Frank Lloyd Wright-designed convention center, the Monona Terrace, behind the State Office Building, on the Monona shore. They put in a plaque on the terrace in memory of Otis Redding, who died when his plane crashed into Lake Monona on Dec. 10, 1967. I was with my friend Beth, whose husband Tim Onosko, the renowned futurist/author, was one of my dearest friends and supporters, an older brother/mentor. Tim died of cancer a few years ago. Pancreatic. I thought he’d beaten it and will never forgive myself for not knowing he hadn’t, though Beth assures me it was okay, he didn’t want anyone to know. Except I should have known and it wasn’t okay.
We went out on to the terrace, and I sat on one of the benches surrounding the Redding plaque and looked out onto the quiet, still waters of Lake Monona, silently wondering what might have been. What might have been had Otis lived, and Tim. Had I stayed in the Madcity.
Saturday mid-afternoon I took my mother’s car and drove to Fort Atkinson with my 21-year-old niece Ariela to see Corky and Howard at Cafe Carpe. We got there while they were doing soundcheck. I hadn’t seen Corky since he was in New York four years ago to play Lincoln Center Out of Doors with Dr. L. Subramaniam. I don’t remember the last time I saw Howard, but it was probably at one of his gigs at the Association of performing Arts Presenters (APAP) some 10 years ago, maybe.
Corky and Howard play together a lot, but this was the first time I’d see them—and I was bringing along my niece Ariela, 21, who’s a classical piano student at New York’s Mannes School of Music, who was also in Madison visiting her mom (my sister). After greeting Corky, his wife/manager Holly and Howard, Corky echoed my excitement over her getting to see Howard (as well as Corky), who does things on a 10-hole diatonic harmonica—i.e., play it chromatically by conceiving an “overblowing” technique–that no one else knows how to do, let alone articulate. You really don’t need to be a musician, let alone understand music, to know when you hear Howard play that he’s doing something that sounds great, but makes absolutely no sense technically speaking.
Howard tried to put it in piano terms for Ariela–but even that was ridiculous.
“I make my mouth do the stuff my fingers would do,” he said. I doubt she understood him. I certainly didn’t.
“I’m not really thinking about this,” he added, speaking, I supposed, of his harmonica. “I visualize the piano.”
He might just as well have been speaking in tongues.
It was at Café Carpe, a wonderful little café/bar/listening room—-maybe 50 seats–in a century-old brick building on the Rock River with a screened porch overlooking the water, owned and operated by regionally renowned folkie Bill Camplin and Kitty Welch. Holly raved about the pumpkin pie; the carrot cake was definitely the best I ever had.
On the wall of the music room was a bumper sticker that read, “I may be old but that’s okay…I got to see all the great bands.”
Bill introduced the show with a Hitchcock like “Good evening,” then asked how many in the SRO room were musicians. At least half raised their hands. I can’t imagine any of them understood what was going on with Howard, either, other than it was, using Bill’s words, “absolute magic.”
Comedic, too. Corky walked to the stage from the back while playing harp, Howard doing same a few paces back in a goofy processional. On stage they tried to out-footstomp each other while Corky played and sang Little Walter’s classic blues “Mellow Down Easy,” leading into a blues harmonica battle between the two.
They went on to trade solo pieces, both on piano and harmonica and sometimes both. At one point Corky laughed out loud at a Howard harmonica solo, which was entirely appropriate considering he was essentially defying all science, such that all one could do was laugh out loud. Howard said that the harmonica is the only instrument that you can pick up upside-down when you’re drunk and not know it. That sort of made sense, but really, it was like listening to Albert Einstein’s feeble attempt at relating with the village idiots.
Then Howard did a Beatles medley including “In My Life” and “Michelle,” his chording so complex that melodies were sometimes barely decipherable, as if he were somehow blowing into a kaleidoscope. “America the Beautiful,” with harp in right hand and left playing piano, segued into “This Land is Your Land,” then he shifted to both hands playing piano and Corky returning, playing harmonica before they sat together at the piano bench duetting—or more accurately, practically crawling over each other while changing hand position, Corky’s at first in between the taller, lankier Howard as he wrapped around him from behind, then the two with their hands alternating before Corky picked up a harmonica, then Howard did the same, each now playing harmonicas with one hand, piano with the other, in left-right-right-left hand mirror image. They also handed off solos on harp and piano and back and forth to where it became dizzying to follow the dazzle.
But that wasn’t all: Howard also played a bass harmonica, penny whistle and on an encore, an angklung set of tuned shakers. But when he doubled the melody on harp and piano simultaneously, well, mouths were agape, and at least in my case, still is. He and Corky walked off together to Siegel-Schwall’s “Hey, Billie Jean,” each finishing the other’s phrases.
The first half of the trip now done, the rest would focus on the few friends in Madison I have left who are still alive, our conversations invariably concerning our respective cancer treatments, except that in Robin’s case he added a new wrinkle to the medical history in having dropped dead at the Minneapolis airport a few months ago—luckily within short distance from a defibrillator. Of course I asked the expected question, i.e., Did you see anything on the other side? Rob’s answer, of course, was no.
Tom, whom I worked with at the State Office Building (same with Rob), seemed to be coming along great after intensive treatment for throat cancer. He was skeletal two years ago, and now he’s playing soccer and drumming in a band.
I had lunch with Chuck Toler, who was partners with Ken Adamany back when I first started writing. The money they made managing Dr. Bop & the Headliners went into developing Cheap Trick. We called Ken, who sounded great. Ken owned The Factory, the nightclub Otis was going to play the day his plane went down in Lake Monona.
Next day was my last—Tuesday, July 19–and I’d end it with some old-time club hopping starting at Otto’s Restaurant & Bar, near my mom’s, where Westside Andy and the Glenn Davis Duo are playing every Tuesday evening during the summer outside on the deck/patio at 5:30 p.m. I’d checked Andy’s schedule before flying out and saw that he was playing every night I was there, all out of town gigs except for this one. He recognized me immediately in his side view mirror when I snuck up on his car after he parked.
It was the second week in a row that an old friend had surprised him, the first being a gal we knew from high school whom he hadn’t seen forever—whom I haven’t seen since—who looked great, who had married the brother of another high school friend, but the husband had died—death being more and more the operative word in these kinds of conversations. Back from a recent Stockholm swing if I heard right–alwasy a 50-50 proposition at best–Andy was still playing with any number of local blues groupings, this one being with Davis, who plays guitar and kick drum and sings. Like Corky and Howard, they turned to Little Walter with “Just Your Fool” while I was there, which was about an hour or so before heading downtown, Andy’s latest album Blues Just Happen in hand, to the Cardinal Bar. I used to hang out there a lot 40 years ago, when it was my corner bar and a straight-friendly gay disco with the best dance music in town.
Tuesday summer early evenings at the Cardinal now are turned over to Ben Sidran’s “Salons for Secular Humanists, Arch Democrats and Free Thinkers,” in which my old friend Ben, Madison’s renowned jazz pianist/author/composer who cut his teeth in The Ardells, a Madison band made up of UW students in 1961 that also included Steve Miller and Boz Scaggs—and Jos Davidson, who would go on to play bass in an early Siegel-Schwall configuration. Ben also played in the Steve Miller Band in the late ‘60s.
He was on break when I got there and ran into Stu Levitan, president of WORT-FM’s board of directors and head of the Madison Landmarks Commission, whom I’d hung out with at the Marquette fest when I met up with Rockin’ John. He told me that Ben was at the front of the bar. Sure enough, Ben was sitting by the window, engrossed in a conversation. So I stood nearby waiting for him to look at me, though I wasn’t sure he’d recognize me, it had been so long since I’d seen him in New York. I know the last time I saw him in Madison was at a Dr. Bop gig, since we both would be called up to sit–and drink–at the ultimate oldies show band’s famous onstage Celebrity Bar.
So I stood there waiting, then noticed a familiar looking woman looking at me like she’d seen a ghost—which would have made sense had she recognized me. Except who’s going to recognize me here now? I thought, and usually people who think they recognize me are soon disappointed when they find out I’m not who they hope I am.
Except that now this woman was smiling broadly and seemed certain it was me, and suddenly it dawned on me that she was right! It was Lynette Margulies, frontwoman pianist/vocalist of jazz-pop group Four Chairs No Waiting back in the day, whom I hadn’t seen since back in the day. I have no idea how she recognized me, but really, I should have recognized her right off.
Lynette immediately interrupted Ben and told him who I was, and he practically fell on the floor. “It’s old home week!” he said when he regained his blance and composure, and sure enough, he’d been locked in conversation with another old Madison journo friend who also lived in New York and was in town visiting. As for Lynette, she remembered when I reviewed Four Chairs when I was stringing with Variety just before splitting for New York—and will never let me off now for not recognizing her right away.
(Photo: Lynette Margulies)
As for Ben’s second set, it really was fabulous—almost all new music by him and and his guitarist Louka Patenaude, bassist Nick Moran and drummer Todd Hammes. Loved the song “College,” especially the line “that’s the place…where I went wrong”–that is, if I read my notes correctly—always a 50-50 proposition at best.
“Who didn’t go wrong in college?” Ben asked when it was over. “And if you didn’t go wrong in college, you missed a huge opportunity!”
“Too Much, Too Late,” he said, was “in the spirit” of his “guru” Mose Allison, which made me think of how I always look at Corky as my guru, though I should add that Simon Burgess is my actual guro, or teacher, in Filipino martial arts.
“It’s the ‘singles’ show!” Ben joked, “just the hits tonight!”
Again struggling to decipher my notes, I can’t tell if someone asked about Steve Miller, or if Ben brought it up on his own. He did say how everybody asks him about Miller, and observed how Miller’s been playing “the same 12 songs for 40 years,” no doubt because of the big bucks he gets paid to do them.
Here Stu, who later explained that he was just quoting Ben from one of Ben’s books, called out something on the order of how those big bucks also paid for Ben’s graduate education so he should shut his mouth, and for sure, Ben’s stint with Miller included his lyrics to “Space Cowboy.”
“At least write a song!” Ben continued, speaking directly to the absent Miller. “It seems like such a waste.”
At least Ben sure made it seem that way from his end, considering the quality of his new songs. I’d been sitting with Patenaude’s proud mom, and he sat with us for a few minutes after the show.
It’s like learning,” said Patenaude, a youngish cat who’s played with Ben since the mid-2000s. “It’s really loose and fun. He tries something out and sees if we feel it and if it works.”
Ben then told me that he rarely makes it out to Manhattan any more.
“There’s no reason to come to the city any more,” he said, though he does get to Brooklyn, where his son Leo, also an esteemed musician/composer who co-produced the Oscar-winning song “Al Otro Lado Del Rio” for the soundtrack to the movie The Motorcycle Diaries, lives. And while he’s working on a new album—and Stu said that the whole first set was new songs that were also great—Ben said that he realized there was no point to it, at least in terms of today’s record companies, airplay and traditional music business marketing.
But what are you going to do? I asked. You’re a musician, and a musician makes music. I’m a writer, and a writer writes—even though I just lost examiner.com, my main outlet, that barely paid. I still have this site, that I have to pay for. But what am I going to do?
Stu, meanwhile, is working a on a book about Madison in the ‘60s, and I again ask you, Stu, to mention that I was one of the Memorial 101 who were suspended from James Madison Memorial High School for protesting Kent State. Before closing out the night—and trip—down the street at the Essen Haus to catch a little of jazz concertina player Brian Erickson, I walked over to where the cigarette machine used to be next to the front door, where I picked up a copy of The Madcity Music Sheet the night I got back from a week’s vacation in Nashville on Memorial Day in 1977-—my first time there—when I dropoped by the Cardinal to hear folk legends Malvina Reynolds and Rosalie Sorrels. There was a stack of giveaway papers on the cigarette machine and I picked one up and paged through it—then just a single sheet of newsprint folded over twice–saw an ad for Southside Johnny & The Asbury Jukes (with guest Ronnie Spector) appearing in town at the Stone Hearth, and went because I was a huge Ronettes fan and understood where Southside was coming from musically.
I met Gary Sohmers, the Sheet’s publisher at the Southside gig, and not knowing anything about me other than that I’d come to the show after seeing it highlighted in his paper, he asked me to write for it. I told him I flunked out of high school. “It doesn’t matter!” he said. And that’s how my career began—and now, some 40 years later, it still doesn’t matter. The only difference is that there was no cigarette machine now at the Cardinal.
I told Stu and his girlfriend how great this night had been, indeed, the entire trip–in terms of seeing so much fantastic music. She said maybe I should move back to Madison–the perfect setup for one of my favorite Sandra Bernhard lines, Sandy, of course, being from Flint, Michigan.
If you can make it in New York, says Sandy, you’ll be a failure everywhere else.
I’ve written about Film Biz Recycling and its founder Eva Radke before. To summarize, Eva established FBR in 2008 to take in and turn out wardrobe, set dressing, props and raw materials from wrapped film, TV and commercial productions that were otherwise dumpstered and land-filled. Since then, well over 500 tons of said materials have been diverted and re-distributed to local charities or sold or rented to the public and the trade out of FBR’s 11,000 square-feet warehouse in Gowanus, Brooklyn.
It doesn’t get much better, as a nonprofit organization devoted to sustainability and social responsibility in the entertainment industry–or the visionary person heading it. So I’m truly honored, proud and humbled to be named to the Film Biz Recyling Advisory Board.
Of course, now I have to figure out how I can help!
One way is to talk it up, which I’m doing here and will do more of elsewhere. Another is to help in securing what Eva calls “cool experiences” that FBR can auction via Charity Buzz, the online site that brings together “acclaimed celebrities, inspiring luminaries and beloved brands” in auctioning “extraordinary experiences and luxuries to benefit remarkable charities making an impact.”
These might include, say, signed merchandise, meet-and-greets, VIP tickets, music lessons, industry consultations, just about anything that people might be willing to bid on to help a remarkable charity.
So if anyone has any pertinent ideas or wants to get involved personally, please contact me here or via Facebook, Twitter, phone, email, etc.! FBR is a great orgaization, and I’m proud to be a part of it.
Here are a pieces I did on FBR and Eva at examiner.com:
I was so happy to see my old pal Larry Gatlin last week at the Third Annual Johnny Cash Music Festival that I knocked the plastic water bottle out of his hand.
Luckily it had a cap on it, and none of the orange liquid in it spilled out.
“Metamucil!” he said, somewhat excitedly, as he picked it up. I might have found his excitement odd, had I not been excited about it as well.
“Hey! I gotta drink that shit, too!” I sputtered. “Twice a day. A teaspoon in the morning and another at night. Doctor’s orders!”
The oncologist had prescribed it when I began the radiation treatments. I don’t know why, of course. I never asked any questions.
Well, I actually did ask one question, after finishing both treatments and 48-dose bottle of rather expensive clear, tasteless Metamucil, only to learn that he wanted me to continue with it for “the rest of my life.”
“Does it have to be Metamucil, or can I go with the generic?” I was going to go as cheap as I could now, no matter what the color and taste.
“As long as it says ‘Metamucil’ on the label, it’s fine,” he said–this from the guy who insisted I not somke pot, like it was bad for you or something.
How are you doing otherwise? I said to Larry, suddenly asking a second question. As is his wont, he turned rather philosophical.
“We get to eat breakfast every day,” he said, as it was still morning, “and I check every day to make sure I don’t have a tube stuck up my penis.”
To be honest, penis wasn’t the word he used, but when I asked him if it was okay to releate this story, he asked that I make the substitution. It really doesn’t change the meaning.
“Speak for yourself, “ I said, looking down in the direction of my own dick, which had in fact had a tube stuck up it a number of times in the last year.
It’s been almost three years since I wrote here that I was going to start up the Jim Bessman Rock and Roll Hall of Fame–and I only got around to it yesterday.
Actually, it’s now called The Rock ‘n’ Roll Pantheon (not to be confused with The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame), and like most of my writing over the last three years, you can find it here at examiner.com.
In the interim at least a few of the artists I had intended to induct have been inducted into the RockHall: The Hollies, Darlene Love, Laura Nyro. But I still have about 30 who should be in–that will be in The Rock ‘n’ Roll Pantheon (not to be confused with The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame).
And now, having honored KISS as the first inductee, the Jim Bessman Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is a reality–though under a different name and in a different place. The nominating committee and electorate (there’s only one person in both–and it’s the same person) assure me that forthcoming inductions will be at the very least occasional.
I’ve started writing regularly for examiner.com, covering music.
My first feature is about Barry Danielian, one of my martial arts teachers at Five Points Academy in Soho. Barry is also a top trumpet player, and the piece, “A Manhattan maestro’s mix of music and martial arts,” is about the similarities between teaching and playing jazz and martial arts.
Barry teaches the esoteric, weapons-oriented arts of Filipino kali and Indonesian silat. He took a great picture for the story, which can be found at http://bit.ly/T6k4Q.
I’ll be writing for Examiner two or three times a week.
For many years I was a member of the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame Nominating Committee. Then I and a number of others got a form letter in the mail informing us that we were no longer on the committee, that our terms had expired (I don’t remember ever hearing anything about terms) and that they were looking to bring in people who were knowledgeable about the 1970s.
It wasn’t the first committee I’d been kicked out of (nor, most likely, the last). Some years ago I was appointed to the “secret” NARAS (National Academy of Recording Arts and Sciences, now known simply as the Recording Academy–the people who bring you the Grammy Awards). This committee, made up of knowledgeable pop music industry types, had been delegated to come up with the nominees for the four general Grammy Awards–Record, Album and Song of the Year awards and Best New Artist–mainly in order to ensure that what had been considered award travesties by the media, like Tony Bennett’s 1994 Album of the Year win for his “MTV Unplugged,” would not be repeated.
NARAS, in effect, wanted to project a younger, hipper presence to the media than its older classical and traditional pop music foundation. Hence, the secret committee (secret so that it could not be influenced by outside pressure–and so that its questionable inner workings could not be questioned)–and in the years to come, a complete shift toward artistically dubious contemporary pop and hip-hop in its TV award show focus.
My problem, as always, was going against the grain, this one being the head of NARAS, who established the committee and led it according to which nominees would cover the broadest spectrum of commercial pop music while being acceptable, if not credible, with pop music critics. My guess is that the last straw was my fierce fight for John Fogerty’s “Blue Moon Swamp” for Album of the Year in 1997. I was convinced that it was a masterpiece, but it hadn’t been a huge seller, and Fogerty was hardly the TV household name that, say, Bob Dylan was–Dylan being the winner that year for “Time Out of Mind.” But I consider myself vindicated in that “Blue Moon Swamp” won for Best Rock Album: It was Fogerty’s first Grammy–and my final year on the committee.
I took this pretty much lying down, but was mightily miffed when I got the termination letter from the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Nominating Committee. Like I said, I didn’t know nothing about no term limits, and people knowledgeable about the ’70s? Hello! I wrote the first fucking book about The Ramones! So I angrily emailed the big guy in charge and he was decent enough to respond apologetically for the coldness of the form letter.
And that would have been that, except this year I didn’t even get a ballot! So I called the girl at the Hall of Fame, who assured me that I had been sent one, and then said she’d send me another. A couple weeks went by, and still no second ballot. I called her again, and she assured me again, this time that she’d sent me a second ballot. As the voting deadline was days away, she said I could just email back my picks. Did they get them? Did they count them? All I know for sure is that my top pick The Stooges, once again, were not elected.
Around the time of the induction dinner in March I received an email from my friend Camp, asking the kind of question I get all the time–that rock fans everywhere ask amongst themselves. “Explain this to me,” he wrote. “How are The Stooges and Alice Cooper not in the Hall of Fame, yet Billy Joel and John Mellancamp are? Just wondering.”
I responded thusly: “John definitely should be. Billy’s a judgement call. The Stooges definitely. Alice, too. What about Kiss? What about New York Dolls? But I got kicked off the committee because I always brought up Lesley Gore. The Hollies. The Turtles. Nancy Sinatra. Joan Jett.”
I noted the heavy influence of the late Hall of Fame founder Ahmet Ertegun, who founded Atlantic Records, and fellow Hall of Fame founder Jann Wenner, who founded Rolling Stone. “All you have to do is look at what Rolling Stone has always supported and take it from there, that and the makeup of the committee and the electorate which skews toward r&b and singer-songwriter.”
You could go on and on about the deserving artists who aren’t in the Hall and lesser ones who are–and maybe you have. But Kiss is a good case in point.
“The beauty of America is that you can basically start any kind of private club you want to,” Paul Stanley said in an interview on the Kiss web site. “This one happens to be called the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. It’s a very impressive name for a club, but it’s an illusion. It’s the creation of a group of industry people and critics who decide who they deem as qualified to be in their little admiration society. It’s their Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, but it’s not the people’s Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.”
The Jim Bessman Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, then, is but one person’s Rock and Roll Hall of Fame–mine. But like the rest of this site, it gives me the opportunity to play up those who have paid their dues, but haven’t gotten their due. I figure on 20 or so inductees, including, of course, Kiss. And it will go pretty much according to Stanley’s criteria: “A band or musician’s impact is measured by how they change and influence society and other musicians. That and how many albums and concert tickets they sell should be what gets them into the Hall of Fame.”
Stanley actually gave me the last word on the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame himself, when I expressed my regret personally that Kiss hadn’t been inducted.
“We have our own Rock and Roll Hall of Fame,” he said. “It’s in the record store bins!”