Archive for the ‘Personal’ Category

Neda and the Other Alison Krauss

Wednesday, July 1st, 2009

I’d been thinking about it the last couple days or so, since seeing the horrific video of Neda getting gunned down in Tehran, than seeing the stills of the heartbreakingly beautiful girl, Neda Agha-Soltan, 26, who “enjoyed music and was looking forward to learning how to play the piano,” according to one caption.

The pictures sear the mind as did The Picture from Kent State, as its called on one web site. The picture taken by one John Filo, “a young undergraduate working in the Kent State photo lab,” was taken when he took a break on May 4, 1970—right in the middle of the latest round of nationwide campus anti-war protests, this time following President Nixon’s April 30 announcement that the US military had invaded Cambodia and 150,000 more troops would soon be drafted.

After rioting in downtown Kent, Ohio, on the evening of May 1, the Ohio National Guard had been called in to maintain order. A protest rally was scheduled for noon at the University on Monday, May 4, and Filo took his camera to see if he could come up with an interesting shot. What he came up with—a picture of a young girl kneeling in augnuish over the body of one of the four students slain in a fusillade of National Guard rifle fire—won a Pulitzer Prize and is forever embedded in much of my generation’s collective memory.

Lest they be forgotten, the girl was Mary Vecchio. The dead student was Jeffrey Miller. The others who were killed were Sandra Scheuer, William Knox and Allison Krause (being a close friend of the great bluegrass artist Alison Krauss, who would be born just over a year later, I sometimes refer to Allison Krause as “the other Alison Krauss”).

I was a senior in high school in May, 1970, at James Madison Memorial in Madison, Wisconsin. I used to march in all the big demonstrations downtown at the University of Wisconsin campus, often coming home at night with my clothes reeking of tear gas. I’d jump in the shower and the gas would seep out of my long hair and into my eyes.

One night I ran right into an exploding can of pepper gas and I had to be treated at a nearby First Aid facility. Another time I hid in the bushes along the campus banks of Lake Mendota, a National Guard chopper hovering above and shining floodlights on protesters for on-ground Guardsmen to kick the shit out of.

The day after the Kent State shootings—or massacre, as it was also called, linking it with the Boston Massacre of Revolutionary War times—I and 100 others were suspended from school for protesting. The Memorial 101, they called us—the one group I’ll always be proud of being a part of.

And now that another young student is slain by her state’s agents of repression as she protested its repressive policies, I hear the righteous outcry by our politicans against that state—and against our president for trying to exercise caution and restraint in his remarks so as not to further incite those forces of repression. And I wonder, Where were they in 1970?

Among the most vocal is John McCain, who was a POW in North Vietnam after being shot down while bombing Hanoi—the type of action that engendered the anti-war protest movement to begin with. I don’t know what his thoughts are on Kent State or if he senses the same connection between Neda and Allison as I do. But I happened to attend Fox News Channel’s “Huckabee” show taping Saturday afternoon, and heard its host (and McCain’s vanquished Republican presidential rival) Mike Huckabee’s disturbing link of Neda’s murder and “the massacre of Tehran” with the Boston Massacre.

The Boston Massacre had occurred in 1770–200 years before Kent State–when five people died after British troops fired into a large crowd of civilians, some of whom were hurling snowballs at them. Huckabee termed these and the Tehran fatalities as “pathetic victims,” and surmised that they might not have been so victimized had they enjoyed the right to bear arms—as Americans do today.

By extension, of course, had the Kent State students been as well-armed as the Ohio Guardsmen, they might not have been so pathetically victimized—though I very much doubt that this is what Huck, a very nice guy, had in mind.

Like the Iranian demonstrators, some of the Kent State students threw rocks at their opposing heavily armed and willing enforcers of the state (the Bostonians threw small objects at the Brits, too, in addition to snowballs). And like the Iranians (and the Bostonians before them), they were no match for firemans.

“When dissent turns to violence, it invited tragedy,” rationalized Nixon’s press secretary Ron Ziegler after the Kent State killings, which led to the closing of some 450 colleges in the U.S. due to the campus protests they engendered. For Ziegler and Nixon and those who sided with them, the kids brought it on themselves. And now Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad is calling Neda’s killing “suspicious,” with the country’s ambassador to Mexico Mohammad Hassan Ghadiri suggesting  that it was carried out by U.S. intelligence.

Back in my day, the political establishment blamed it on “outside agitators,” generally meaning communists and/or Jews from out-of-state. But back in my day, too, there was Johnny Cash.

I was at “Huckabee” as a guest of Larry Gatlin, who performed his new hit “Johnny Cash is Dead and His House Burned Down”—an ironically-titled but terrific tribute to his friend and mentor Cash and his immortal music.

Cash had gone to Vietnam at the height of the war to entertain the troops and came back with “Singin’ in Vietnam Talkin’ Blues,” his horrific take on “that little trip into livin’ hell.” Then in 1970 he had a Top 20 pop hit with “What is Truth,” in which a father explains to his three-year-old son that war is simply a place “where people fight and die,” before Cash himself asks, “Can you blame the voice of youth for asking ‘What is truth?’”

It was the same year as Kent State. I very much doubt that country music fan Huck, or anyone else of his ilk, confronted the Man in Black then on moral grounds–or any other. Whether or not they recognize the lonely voice of Tehran youth as descendents of Kent State is another thing.

Farrah Fawcett

Thursday, June 25th, 2009

I did get to meet Farrah Fawcett once, but as with many of my celebrity encounters, it was somewhat embarrassing.

It was at a so-called “Bessman Bash” a few years ago at my pal Bob Merlis’s in L.A. He throws one of these annually at the end of summer, a great opportunity for me to see a lot of people I know out there at once.

Our buddy Billy Gibbons was invited of course, but if I remember right (always questionable), ZZ Top’s legendary vocalist/guitarist  called during the party to say he couldn’t make it, that he was home in Texas (though he also lives in L.A.). Ten minutes later who should walk in but Billy Gibbons! He had called from his car just to set me up for what truly was a wonderful surprise. He was with an attractive middle-aged blond and was carrying a huge container of one of his famous guacamole varieties.

Maybe an hour or so later I was in the kitchen, no doubt pretty soused. I think I was talking to my friend Dave Schulps when the blond that was with Billy wandered in looking for the bathroom. I pointed the way and that would have been that, except that when I walked into the dining room to get more food, a record company publicist friend stopped me.

“You know, this party could make a Rolling Stone ‘Random Note,’” she said. “Whaa?” I slobbered. “Yes! Billy Gibbons, Farrah Fawcett….” “Farrah Fawcett?” I barked. “She’s here? Where?”

“She’s the woman you just told where the bathroom was!”

I sensed a certain disbelief, if not disdain, in her tone, and when Farrah returned to the kitchen I apologized profusely for not recognizing her and told her how much I enjoyed her work in Robert Duval’s “The Apostle” and Robert Altman’s otherwise awful “Dr T and the Women.”

At least I can say that Farrah was just great. She hung with us in the kitchen for quite a while and it was a real treat talking with her—about what I can’t remember.

In Search of Al Goldstein

Thursday, June 4th, 2009

I’d call reading Page Six a guilty pleasure, except it’s no pleasure. But I am guilty of it, though, and feel a whole lot guiltier because of an item I saw last week about Al Goldstein.

The “portly porn potentate,” it said, has been living in the psych ward of the Veterans Administration hospital on East 23rd Street since last October. I’m guilty for not knowing, and for not having seen him in a couple years at the very least.

I’ve been in touch with him off and on since his weekly Screw magazine and “Midnight Blue” cable TV show went down in 2003, having become big friends with him at the tail end of his glory years. I used to sit in at Screw staff meetings (he’d always order pizza for the staff), take him to shows, bring him CDs. I even had Phil Spector—one of his heroes—autograph a “Back to Mono—1958-1969” box set for him.

It made sense he loved Phil so much. They were both geniuses, misunderstood geniuses. Al, of course, was also outrageous, obese and disgusting–yet lovable, too, and outgoing. And while he could be hateful to the extreme, turning on everyone at one time or other, he was also extremely generous (like Phil, Al picked up the check at large dinner parties all the time, most often at his beloved Katz’s or 2nd Avenue Deli).

I was actually on “Midnight Blue” once, when I brought Tammy Faye Starlite—the atrociously hysterical born-again, pornographic, anti-Semitic country star shtick act–in for a two-part interview, and Al decided to use me as a straight man/object of derision between the two of them. And after I told him how much I enjoyed a limited Broadway revue of Burt Bacharach-Hal David songs and he went and hated it, he did one of his infamous “Midnight Blue” “Fuck You!”’s to me, ranting and raving in the most filthy manner for two minutes off the top of his head at what a despicable person I was.

Indeed, even after I visited him in the hospital—maybe it was when he had his stomach stapled (he dropped 150 pounds), or at the psyche ward at St. Vincent’s–he couldn’t let go his anger and in the middle of another “Fuck You!” to someone or something else (usually a person, company or product that didn’t live up to his expectations or downright offended him), he somehow returned to me and the Bacharach-David revue and concluded, “Jim Bessman. You came to visit me in the hospital. This is the thanks you get. FUCK YOU!”

Of course, there can be no greater honor in life than to be the subject of an Al Goldstein “Fuck You”—and I was one, two weeks in a row! “There were few sights more inspiring on Manhattan Cable than Al’s crazed monologues aimed at any number of persons or companies that slighted him in some way,” noted a 2004 blog post, “Screwed: Al Goldstein’s Sad Fate,” on the Can’t Stop the Bleeding web site.

The bottom fell through for Al shortly thereafter. The portly porn potentate, who had launched Screw in 1968 but had seen it lose circulation and relevance as porn became commonplace while his ever volatile personal life spun out of control, went bankrupt and had to close the magazine and cable show, and sell his mansion in Pompano Beach (home of the notorious 11-foot statue of a raised middle finger). Convicted of harassing an ex-wife in the pages of Screw (where he also waged a dreadfully obscene campaign against his son), he claimed to have spent a month sleeping in a borrowed car behind a Boston Market and at a homeless shelter in Fort Lauderdale. His probation officer wouldn’t let him leave New York to find work, and as he told the New York Times in 2004, “”They want me to get out of the men’s field, the only field I have expertise in. They want me to take a job at Burger King for $5.50 an hour. But who’s going to hire me with a criminal record? On probation?”

Then 68, he added: “Anyone who wishes ill on me should feel vindicated because my life has turned into a total horror.”

There were probably plenty of people who wished Al Goldstein ill, but there were plenty more who looked up to him for his brilliance—and fearlessness. He reveled in freedom of speech and took it to the limit, winning a major case in 1982 when he beat Pillsbury, which had sued him for pillorying its Doughboy character in typically tasteless Screw fashion. He wasn’t afraid to take on politicians, company presidents, divorce lawyers, anyone with the power to oppress the little guy.

He really was the true American Hero.

And now, according to Page Six. He’s in the psych ward of the VA hospital on East 23rd.

I’ve called Al periodically over the last few years. But his numbers, like his home addresses, are always changing. After I get the message that the number I have is no longer in service, I call his lawyer or his only other friend that I know of, and usually one or the other gets back eventually with a new number. Since Al usually doesn’t know how to access his voicemail it takes a while to catch him live on the phone, at which time we commiserate on our sad lots as has-been writers and promise to get together–and never do.

We did come close last time, about a year ago. I got his then new number from his only other friend that I knew of (but who had just fallen out with Al and moved to L.A.). When I got through to him, he was living somewhere in Queens and coming in every Monday for outpatient psychiatric care at the VA on East 23rd. So I went over there to meet him for a cup of coffee at McDonald’s, but we got our signals crossed and he wasn’t there—and I kept getting his voicemail when I called to find out where he was.

So putting down Page Six, I called the VA and asked for Al Goldstein.

“There’s no one here by that name,” said the switchboard lady. “Today’s paper says there is,” I replied. “It says he’s been there since October.” “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, though it was unclear if she was sorry to hear that he’d been there since October, or sorry because he hadn’t been there since October.

Turns out she was right, however. I checked Booble.com, the “100% free adult search engine” that Al had been blogging for—sort of a written version of his old “Fuck You”s. The last one, “Rotting Corpse Mistaken for Al Goldstein,” was dated April 16 and addressed to “you lowlife scumbag pricks,” and declared himself to be “a fucking viable, living human (albeit demonstrably worn out)” who could not continue to write his blog (via his lawyer’s transcriptions of his notes) from “this gulag”—the 13th Floor of the VA Hospital in Brooklyn. He then requested all visitors to bring along Katz’ pastrami only, closing with the traditional “FUUUUUUUUUCKKKKKK YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOU!” signoff.

I called, but couldn’t get a human to answer at the VA Medical Center Brooklyn. So I called Al’s lawyer, who didn’t know about Page Six but didn’t have time to talk about Al being that it was a short week.

So I called the last number I had for Al. After several rings, someone answered, a man, maybe heavily sedated, maybe half asleep. Maybe a rotting corpse. But I had no idea what he was saying, though “you have the wrong number” seemed most likely.

I went back and found Al’s previous post on Booble, undated but post-inauguration and titled “Bronze Barack’s Cock.”

“I am a lowly, diseased Jew bastard, a white nigger,” Al blogged. “Barack Obama – you have fulfilled the dreams of millions of street niggers, the trampled underclass that has persisted in this country for over 300 years.”

He concluded: “If you need any help during your service to this country, feel free to reach me at the Brooklyn VA Hospital.  I usually don’t accept calls, but just have your Chief of Staff mention ‘Niggah-in-Charge.’ I will be waiting for your call! You are the fuckin’ man! I love you, Obama!”

A true American Hero. Citizen Goldstein.

I love you, Al!

[To be continued...hopefully.]

In Support of Phil Spector

Monday, April 20th, 2009

What you see is what you get, I guess, with Phil Spector.

If you find his physical appearance unappealing, if you find accounts of his past behavior abhorrent, you likely think he’s guilty. If you know him personally as a friend, you likely think he’s not guilty.

I know Phil Spector as a friend. A dear friend. A dear friend of unparalleled kindness, generosity, thoughtfulness and compassion.

I’ll share one special instance.

Phil happened to be in town when my dear friend Tim White, the editor of Billboard, died suddenly and unexpectedly. His empathy eased my pain considerably that night, and a few days later, after he returned to L.A., I received a handwritten note of condolence.

This is the Phil Spector I know. But he was always like that, writing notes, sending Internet jokes, staying in regular touch with his friends. I was privileged to be one of them.

And he had many friends—and many more who wanted to be. I can’t tell you how many times people asked me to introduce them to him, or wanted to know about him. If you weren’t lucky enough to know Phil, I can tell you that he was no celebrity in the sense of someone who seeks publicity or attention, but he was no recluse, either. He very much enjoyed being with and entertaining friends, and I attended countless dinner parties of as many as 20 people, many of whom he didn’t know, where he’d take us all out to a club to hear music, picking up the full tab of hundreds if not thousands of dollars while regaling us with his stories, observations and intelligence.

Indeed, he was ever the Rennaisance man at these gatherings, a rare man of the world always engaged in politics and other issues of the day, history (he loved talking about Abraham Lincoln and was an early and ardent backer of Obama) and the arts. His recollections of his music experiences, of course, kept his bedazzled guests enrapt and forever enriched.

But you didn’t have to be his friend to have been enriched by Phil Spector. In fact, I was given plenty from him many, many years before I met him.

The joy of music is hard to define, even for me who has made a career of trying to define it. But I can direct you to it easily: Go listen to “Be My Baby.” Or “You’ve Lost that Lovin’ Feelin’.” Or “He’s a Rebel.” Or “Then He Kissed Me.”

Or just go out and buy—if you don’t already have it–“Back to Mono (1958-1969),” the box set containing all his classic recordings. No greater joy in music can be found.

It is the joy of Phil Spector’s music that will keep giving to all of us who love music, those of us who support him and those of us who do not.