Category Archives: Music

Fireflies, Cicadas, Crickets and Bops

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Late July is that rare moment here when the fireflies haven’t quite gone away, and the cicadas and the crickets have both started their noisemaking. The crickets are just beginning and not so loud, but the cicadas are reaching for peak loudness, which tends to be in August.

Got a lot to do. Time for a high summer break. Back to posting around August 7.

I was really glad to find this again the other day. It hasn’t been on YouTube in a long time, but it’s on Vimeo.

The Three Little Pigs – Three Little Bops from Rudolf Second Channel on Vimeo.

A cartoon of great charm that I don’t remember ever seeing as a kid. Maybe afternoon TV program directors thought the jazz off-putting for kids, or maybe there was some copyright issue. Anyway, enjoy it while it’s available.

Cement Mixer

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Over 95 F. degrees here yesterday, on the occasion of the summer solstice — a near-record in metro Chicago for this day, the weather record-keepers say. That didn’t keep men hired by the village from further work on the street, including the appearance of a cement mixer. I didn’t take a picture, but I did think of the song of that name. Who wouldn’t?

I didn’t realize there were quite so many recordings until I looked into it. The always wonderful Slim Gaillard, of course, was first.

Then there’s the big band stylings — and perhaps more mainstream version — of Alvino Rey.

I’d heard those. But there’s also one by Liberace, of all people, who naturally had fun with it, and a hip early ’60s version by the Orlons. And more. (Mel Tormé? Well, I might listen to that sometime.)

Uncle Walt’s Band, 1982

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Nearly two years ago, media distribution company Orchard Enterprises provided 21 songs to YouTube, cuts on a collection called Uncle Walt’s Band Anthology. Subtitled — and it really captures the essence of that band — “Those Boys From Carolina, They Sure Enough Could Sing…”

Sure enough. The three-man band, Walter Hyatt, Champ Hood and David Ball, all originally from Spartanburg, SC, existed for a few years in the early 1970s and again in the late ’70s and early ’80s. They produced four original albums, did solo work, and played with a good number of other musicians in Austin and Nashville over the years. Those few reviews one can find about Uncle Walt’s Band tend to characterize them as Americana, and I supposed they were — a mix of American styles by South Carolina musicians who honed their skills in Nashville and Austin both.

Though fondly remembered by a few, especially other musicians, wider fame eluded Uncle Walt’s Band. I already knew that, but the point is hammered home by looking at the view count for some of their wonderful songs on Anthology — such as the fun “Seat of Logic” (only 533 views after two years, not 533,000 as by rights it ought to be); the winsome “Ruby” (only 569 views); and the sweetly melancholic “High Hill” (only 344 views); and on and on.

Forty years ago this evening I had the exceptionally good fortune of seeing Uncle Walt’s Band live in Nashville. “Crystalline sound,” I wrote in the diary I kept at the time, along with other unhelpful scraps when it comes to remembering it now. Still, the show was some of the best live music I saw in college, or ever really. A less fanciful way to characterize the gentlemen who played for us that evening would be near-perfect three-voice close harmony, with guitar, fiddle and bass.

I had taken a month-long trip not long before that evening, returning to Nashville less than a week earlier, with plans to attend summer school, but not take it all that seriously. That is exactly what I did and I don’t regret a moment of it. While I was away, my friend Dan had obtained the records Uncle Walt’s Band (a renaming and reissue of the 1974 Blame It On The Bossanova) and An American in Texas (1980, the same year the band appeared on Austin City Limits).

To put it in music biz terms, those records were in heavy rotation around the house where Dan and Rich lived, and where Mike, Steve and I were constant visitors that summer. As soon as I returned to Nashville, I heard it too. Then we got wind of the fact that Uncle Walt’s Band was playing live on Saturday the 12th at a place called The Sutler. We couldn’t believe our luck, and we weren’t about to miss that.

At time I called The Sutler “a tavern next to a bowling alley, a bakery and a restaurant,” which it was, though I didn’t record its address on 8th Ave. South in the Melrose neighborhood. That was further than we usually went, though (I know now), not that far from campus. Dive might not quite have been the word for the place, but it certainly wasn’t posh, and while I’m pretty sure I went there a few times in later years, I only remember seeing UWB there, and the joint’s last iteration closed only this year. It was standing room only for a while, but eventually we got a table. We stayed for the whole show. My mind’s eye can visualize it even now, and my mind’s ear can hear a crystalline echo of their sound.

UWB broke up for the last time the year after we saw them, but their musical presence that summer made an impression on me. Enough that in the late ’80s, when I was visiting Austin, I noticed a small poster somewhere advertising a show by Walter Hyatt at the famed Waterloo Ice House on on Congress Ave. We have to go to that, I told Tom Jones, whom I was visiting, and so we did.

During one of the breaks in that show, I asked Hyatt where I could buy copies of the two records that I remembered so fondly from the summer of ’82 — I think I even mentioned the show at The Sutler — since finding obscure music was more of a chore in those days. He gave me an address to send a check to, and soon after I did, I received an audio cassette of Uncle Walt’s Band and An American in Texas, which I listened to periodically over the years and own to this day.

Forty years is a long time, and time has taken its toll. Walter Hyatt died in the ValuJet Flight 592 crash in 1996 and Champ Hood died of cancer in 2001. David Ball has had a successful career as a country musician and is now pushing 70.

One more thing: I didn’t realize until the other day that the subtitle, “Those Boys From Carolina…” was no random pick. Lyle Lovett, Texan of distinct hair and winning ways with song, mentioned UWB in a song he recorded long after the band was gone, but before Walter Hyatt died, the amusing “That’s Right, You’re Not From Texas.”

Those boys from Carolina,
They sure enough could sing.
But when they came on down to Texas,
We all showed them how to swing.

Obscure Texas Memorials

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In April 2014, I visited Texas, and among other things drove south from Dallas with my brother Jay, not by way of the congested I-35, a road I’ve driven too many times to count, but by I-45 in the direction of Houston. We diverted from that highway to College Station, home of Texas A&M, and spent a little while at Washington-on-the-Brazos State Historic Site, before heading to San Antonio.

Among other memorials at Washington-on-the-Brazos was a fairly new one. At the time, only five years old.Ron Stone memorial Texas

Ron Stone (1936-2008) was a highly regarded local news anchorman in Houston who also wrote books about Texas history.

A tribute to Ron Stone

Ron loved Texas history and delighted in teaching others about our great Lone Star legacy. An award-winning TV anchorman, “Eyes of Texas” reporter and Sons of the Republic honoree, Ron served as master of ceremonies of Texas Independence Day for over two decades.

Fittingly, the stone says it was dedicated on Texas Independence Day in 2009.

What fascinates me about obscure memorials? Most people don’t share that interest. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be obscure. The feeling goes back a long way, too. I might have taken this picture with our Instamatic 104 in the early ’70s, during a short family trip through the Hill Country; but even if my brother Jay took it, I found the image intriguing.oscar j fox memorial texas

It’s a memorial to one Oscar J. Fox (1879-1961), just off the road on U.S. 281 near Marble Falls, Texas, with a view of the Colorado River. In pre-Internet days, finding out its story would have taken more research expertise that I could have mustered as a child or even an adolescent, so it remained an enigma for years, there with the more recognizable subjects in our family photo album.

“The Hills of Home”
Memorial to Oscar J. Fox
Composer of this song
1879-1961
This is the view which gave
inspiration for this beautiful song.

These days, it’s no trick to find out more about Oscar J. Fox (here and here), who was known as a composer of cowboy songs, or at least an arranger of traditional cowboy songs. It’s also not hard to find recordings of “The Hills of Home,” though I have to say Nelson Eddy’s recording doesn’t do anything for me. Must have been a sentimental favorite for some people long ago, though.

Proto-Spring Break

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Time for a spring break, even though it isn’t quite spring yet here. Proto-spring is more like it. That winter-spring tug o’ war has started, with winter still having the upper hand, and the most visible result being mud puddles. Anyway, back to posting around March 13.

Mostly I remember metal showman Dee Snider for sparring with what-about-the-children Tipper Gore in the mid-80s over naughty words in popular songs, and for testifying before the U.S. Senate (along with interesting bedfellow John Denver) in favor of free expression. By all accounts, the Twisted Sister frontman acquitted himself well in those spats.

Also, I like that he goes by “Dee.” Still, metal has never really been my cup of meat. Even so, I took the occasion this week to listen to “We Aren’t Going to Take It,” Twisted Sister’s best-known song (released 1984) and something I haven’t heard in years. Apparently a number of groups have taken inspiration from it over the decades, and I can see why. Though the Twisted Sister video frames the song in terms of teenaged rebellion, most of the lyrics are broad enough to apply to most any resistance to authority or oppression.

We’re right
We’re free
We’ll fight
You’ll see

They’re also simple enough to be easily understood, even if English isn’t your first language. No wonder some Ukrainians have taken up the song. Snider reportedly has approved. But he doesn’t approve of every group who wants to use the song.

“People are asking me why I endorsed the use of ‘We’re Not Gonna Take It’ for the Ukrainian people and did not for the anti-maskers,” Snider said recently in a tweet. “Well, one use is for a righteous battle against oppression; the other is a[n] infantile feet stomping against an inconvenience.”

Snider continues to acquit himself well.

Snowy Thursday

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As expected, snow followed rain today. But at least yesterday’s rain didn’t leave an ice glaze everywhere. Especially underfoot. I salted a few patches of driveway this morning, but on the whole the surfaces were dry till the snow started around 1 p.m.

Views of the snowy scene this afternoon from the front door.

Wish I could say I wrote this, but no. By a random soul online: It’s only a comorbidity if it comes from the Comorbois region of France. Otherwise it’s just a sparkling pre-existing condition.

I heard a song by a band called Modest Mouse the other day on the radio in the car. Apparently they’ve been around for 30 years, but I miss a lot my not paying attention to much.

Interesting song, though I don’t remember what it was. Maybe that’s because I was busy imagining that Modest Mouse is Mighty Mouse’s lesser-known brother. He didn’t care for the spotlight, and never went into the Mouse family business of saving the day.

Text message from Ann not long ago (edited for caps and punctuation): Seeing Princess Bride at the Normal Theatre.

With this pic attached:
Normal Theatre 2022

Message continued: The sword fight was really great on the big screen.

My answer: Oh yes.

Spouting Off Thursday

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Compare and contrast, as my English teachers used to say.

Dusk on February 1.

Dusk on February 2.

For comparison, about the same framing — the view from my back door — but a whole lot of contrast. We caught the edge of the aforementioned winter storm on Wednesday morning. Not a huge amount of snow, just enough to be the usual pain in the ass.

Speaking of which, wankers are on the loose. They always are. Taken at a NW suburban gas station recently. No doubt posted by a true believer, unwittingly on behalf of the listed grifters.

One objection to the Covid-19 vaccine I find particularly irksome — one quasi-rational objection, that is, as opposed to the microchip ‘n’ such crackpot ones — is that it was developed too quickly.

True enough, it was developed much more quickly than any vaccine in history. Know what I’d call that? Progress. You’d be mistaken in believing Progress can cure all of mankind’s many ills, but it does a pretty good job in treating a lot of literal ills.

The other day I read about a woman who favored certain famous quack treatments for a relative dying of Covid-19, and who pestered his no doubt overburdened health care workers about it. One commentator on the situation said that the woman had attended the Dunning-Kruger School of Advanced Medicine.

Next, something a little lighter. Some time ago I was watching a video of “Puff the Magic Dragon,” sung in by Peter, Paul and Mary in 1986. At 2:53, the camera points toward a fellow in the audience, the one with dark curly hair — and instantly I recognized him.

That’s Dave, an old friend of mine I met in in the mid-80s Nashville, where he was from. Later we hung out in Chicago, since he went to graduate school there. These days he lives in Minnesota and teaches art. According to his Facebook page, he’s also a fellow at the Center for Residual Knowledge, Division of Other Things.

Bet I could get a fellowship there.

I didn’t realize the Winter Olympics were starting today until I saw it mentioned online. Upcoming events, according to the site, include figure skating, freestyle skiing, ice hockey, snowboarding, curling, bobsled and Uyghur internment, which is special to these Games.

Genocide aside, and that’s a big aside, I can’t muster much interest in the Games, except maybe for luge and skeleton, the events most likely to inspire spectacular accidents.

Things in the Mail

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Got a circular in the mail recently — another bit of paper, in this supposed digital age — advertising live shows at a metro Chicago theater I’ve been to exactly once, maybe five or six years ago. The theater has never forgotten that, on the off chance that I’d be willing to put in the miles (and it’s quite a few) to see another show there.

Topmost act on the ad? Grand Funk Railroad. It’s a nostalgia-oriented theater, and that name does take me back to adolescent days, or rather nights, of listening to my cheap bedside radio.

The band itself doesn’t have a lot of nostalgia value for me, though. They were fine. Had a few hits. Such as a decent version of “The Loco-Motion,” of all things. They were part of the astonishing variety that was commercial radio in the 1970s, which wasn’t that astonishing until the radio business decided to silo itself in unimaginative ways in later decades.

I was curious enough to look at the band web site, learning the following (all caps sic):

“Grand Funk Railroad is extremely excited to be touring in 2022 marking a 53 year milestone. After playing to millions of fans on the band’s tours from 1996 to 2021, Grand Funk’s 2022 SOME KIND OF WONDERFUL TOUR will continue to reach both new and long-time fans.”

I didn’t know they were originally from Flint, Michigan. Learn something every day. Forget just as much every day as well, probably.

I checked the ticket prices at the theater web site. For seats far away from the stage, $60. Most seats are north of $100, and if you want a seat in the loge right or left, that will run you at least $248. This doesn’t encourage me to see Grand Funk Railroad.

Also in the mail lately.

My name, unusual as it is, is gender ambiguous. I’ve been getting things addressed to Miss and Ms (and maybe Mrs, not sure) for as long as I’ve been getting circulars and other solicitations. That and, of course, a variety of misspellings, including of my last name, which is perfectly phonetic.

Our gas bills, which come all too regularly in the mail, offer up data on the price of natural gas. This isn’t good.

December 2020: 29 cents/therm. December 2021: 68 cents/therm. Good thing the most recent December was warmer than a year earlier, but I’m afraid January isn’t turning out that way.

I had to refresh my memory that a therm = 100,000 Btu. I’ve always liked that name, the British thermal unit. A Btu is the quantity of heat required to raise the temperature of one pound of liquid water by 1 degree Fahrenheit at the temperature that water has its greatest density (at about 39 degrees Fahrenheit). If that’s not a legacy of Victorian scientists, I don’t know what is. Sure enough, it is.

I’d read that natural prices were on the rise, and sure enough, there it is in my bill. “What’s Up with Natural Gas Prices?” this American Petroleum Institute article asks, as if Andy Rooney were asking. The short answer: the market fluctuates, and be glad you aren’t in Europe, where prices are astronomical, rather than merely steep.

First Thursday of the Year Musings

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Little wind today, which made the outdoors marginally better to experience. But not much. Tonight will be really cold, an illustration of the superiority of the Fahrenheit scale for everyday use, with 0 degrees being really cold and 100 degrees really hot.

I can’t remember exactly when I read it, but years ago there was an item in Mad magazine lampooning the midcentury notion — the quaint notion, as it turned out — that Americans were going to have a surfeit of leisure time in the future, including a vast expansion of the number of holidays. Millard Fillmore’s birthday was a suggested holiday.

Well, that’s tomorrow, and I have to work. That idea about leisure time didn’t pan out anyway. But I will acknowledge the 13th president’s birthday, because why not. Besides, I paid my respects to President Fillmore in person recently.

Today’s also a good day to acknowledge the expansion, ever so slow, of the public domain, eking out growth despite the rapacious efforts of certain media oligopolists whose mascot is a rodent. Works published in 1926 are now in the public domain.

I’m happy to report that The Sun Also Rises is one of those works, to cite one of the better-known novels of 1926. I could have quoted it previously, and in fact I have, relying on notions of fair use. Now all the words are freely available, no questions asked.

“Here’s a taxidermist’s,” Bill said. “Want to buy anything? Nice stuffed dog?”

“Come on,” I said. “You’re pie-eyed.”

“Pretty nice stuffed dogs,” Bill said. “Certainly brighten up your flat.”

“Come on.”

“Just one stuffed dog. I can take ’em or leave ’em alone. But listen, Jake. Just one stuffed dog.”

“Come on.”

“Mean everything in the world to you after you bought it. Simple exchange of values. You give them money. They give you a stuffed dog.”

“We’ll get one on the way back.”

“All right. Have it your own way. Road to hell paved with unbought stuffed dogs. Not my fault.”

Speaking of life between the wars…

If that song doesn’t make you smile, what will?

Carpe Diem Songs

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The first serious cold wave of the season came with yesterday’s wind, putting temps as low as 13 degrees F. by the wee hours this morning. Of course, those kinds of lows will be a regular thing by January, with plenty of days even colder, but the first one of the season always seems particularly bitter.

One remarkable thing about YouTube is that it allows me to have a slightly informed opinion about different versions of mostly forgotten songs. Also, I can discover whole subgenres — or maybe sub-subgenres — such as songs whose theme is carpe diem.

Not long ago, the bots suggested the recording of “Enjoy Yourself (It’s Later Than You Think)” by Guy Lombardo (1949). If I’d heard it before, and I probably had, I’d forgotten about it. Charming little song, definitely with a carpe diem message. Music by Carl Sigman, lyrics by Herb Magidson, though as other versions were recorded, all sorts of new lyrics appeared.

That got me looking around and I spent a while listening to other recordings, of which there are a fair number. Pretty soon I had a favorite. None other than Louis Prima’s.

Hard to go wrong with Louis Prima, who brings that Louis Prima je ne sais quoi to just about anything.

Interesting that the alternative to having an enjoyable life, in the song, is the constant effort to make money. So you might call it a postwar boom song. Ten or 15 years earlier, that sentiment might not have flown quite as well. After all, 1933 was the year that gave us “We’re in the Money.”

Anyway, I like Prima’s version a little better than Lombardo’s, and a lot better than Tommy Dorsey’s, which I didn’t much like, or the borderline novelty by Bing and Bob Crosby, which is worth a listen only about once.

Among more recent versions, ska-man Prince Buster did a version with a somewhat different message, as did The Specials, and I especially like Jools Holland’s New Year’s version as captured in the mid-2010s (with Pauline Black and Tom Jones too!).

There are, of course, other carpe diem songs. More, probably, than I’d want to look up, but when I meditated on the subject, I thought of a couple immediately. Including Howard Tate’s “Get It While You Can,” by Janis Joplin, who brought a remarkable energy to this 1970 television performance, a few months before her death.

Finally, an old favorite of mine with similar title, “You Better Get It While You Can,” by Steve Goodman (d. 1984).

Glad I got to see Goodman. It was entirely by chance. I went to see Steve Martin on stage in 1979, and Goodman — whom I’d never heard of — was the opening act. I was lucky to see him, since all too soon, he was gone. Sometimes serendipity and carpe diem go hand-in-hand.