THE BAND
I had just gotten out of the Army, Sept. ‘68. Free at last. And alive and with all my limbs and no PTSD because by good fortune I was one of the very few sent to Germany at the last moment instead of Nam, where people with my job description (radio teletype operator), if thrown into an infantry unit -- likely -- had a life expectancy of seven seconds. I was stationed outside Stuttgart for my last seven months, in a very small unit with its own forest right across the street. It’s enough to make you believe in God.
My parents instilled a love of travel in me from an early age, so although GIs had to beg for weekend passes back then, I took every advantage of my situation. Vienna one weekend, Munich, beautiful Strasbourg. I wangled a religious retreat in the mountains (Mass in the morning was a small sacrifice for the payoff of the beer gardens at night), at Berchtesgaden, so gorgeous that’s where Hitler had his vacation home.
I broke stern orders NOT to open my personnel file we all carried with us on the flight over, found my paperwork on leave time -- all used up! I knew that. But a little creative overwriting and I wound up with an extra two weeks and caught a military hop to swinging London. Free concert in Hyde Park with Pink Floyd-T Rex-Jethro Tull, basement discos with magical girls from Iceland, Carnaby Street, fab record stores. I almost splurged on a vest that belonged to Ringo, at the Apple store -- yes, Apple used to have a far different meaning. I was now completely hooked on the joys of travel, and especially world travel.
AS A KID
The moment my pop had his two or three week vacation time start, we were out of Albuquerque and onto a plane, or train, or more likely the big family car. As the only kid, I got the entire back seat, long wide bench seat, no seat belts then, in our newish Buick or Oldsmobile, and how much fun was that. Watch the scenery go by, stretch out, put a comic on the floor or a deck of cards for solitaire, listen to the music change on the AM radio as we cruised across America. By the time I was 16 I had been to 40 of the then-48 states.
The destinations were always memorable. Yellowstone, Carlsbad Caverns, Chicago and a Cubs game, Detroit and a Tigers game and scads of cousins, Yosemite, upstate New York, White Sands, Long Beach and the famous dual track Cyclone Racer roller coaster on the Pike, the Seattle World’s Fair back when world’s fairs were really cool, Disneyland just after it opened, the Grand Canyon, Juarez, Mexico, Niagara Falls, Santa Monica (!), the redwood forests, British Columbia, the Great Salt Lake.
BUT -- THE BAND?
I was getting there. When I returned to civilian life I reconnected with my good friend Mike McPherson, who lived across the street. Mike was six months older but light years ahead of everyone in some ways (they skipped him from 6th grade right into junior high -- unheard of), and he was a beacon of hipness for music. I discovered some pretty great bands while stationed in Germany because several of my fellow grunts were from SoCal and they had the best new albums sent from home (usually packed with a little something to enhance the experience), but Mike had something completely different waiting.
On a visit over to his sanctuary bedroom, he gave me an odd look and put an album into my hands. What’s it like? I asked. “Never mind,” he said with a slight, sly smile. “Just tell me what you think.” It had a garish cover that looked like a child painted it, and the band mysteriously, presumptuously called themselves -- The Band.
I was sucked in from the leaden opening, off-kilter notes and hesitant drum beats, moments later amazed at that voice, so different, so knowing and weary, plodding slowly, in pain. As I made my way from song to song I discovered Richard Manuel wasn’t their only gifted vocalist, and their rhythms and sonic mixture was like nothing I had ever heard.
So my love for The Band (I caught their watershed ‘74 tour with Dylan, in Denver and it was life changing) is long and deep and moves me to recommend a virtual performance piece coming up, where I have been reluctant so far to go there. (Still am. I am ingrained with live performance. Nothing like being in the same room. But…)
LIBRARY GIRL: TEARS OF RAGE
(Inspired by The Band). 10 a.m. 11/24 to 7 p.m. 12/4, online at Library Girl.
Susan Hayden (with husband Steve Hochman, noted music critic) carries on through pandemic to present her invaluable Library Girl literary series -- can’t wait until it can return to the Ruskin Group Theatre at the airport.
Here’s how it works. Hayden chooses a theme, always music-oriented, and then a group of selected poets and writers go from that prompt to wherever their imagination takes them. The unique performance is inspiring, thought provoking, often surprising, and not to be missed.
NICOLE RECOMMENDS:
GET LOST IN FOLKSTREAMS -- I recently watched Harrod Blank's (son of Les Blank) 1992 documentary “Wild Wheels,” all about art cars and their owners' obsessions that drive them to modify and decorate their automobiles to the point of unrecognizability. It's not music-related (although it has a great soundtrack), but it led me to do an Internet search for more documentaries on American culture, and that's how I found Folkstreams: a non-profit online archive dedicated to finding, preserving, contextualizing, and showcasing documentary films on American traditional cultures. Jackpot!! You can browse by filmmaker, region or category, and while I haven't yet had a chance to really dive in, just perusing the 119 films with a "Music" tag has got me nearly delirious with excitement and gratitude.
Every video is available for free, however if you find that you've watched some films and enjoyed them, you might consider making a donation (which you can also direct to a specific film or filmmaker). To start streaming, visit: Folkstreams.net
Charles Andrews has listened to a lot of music of all kinds, including more than 2,500 live shows. He has lived in Santa Monica for 34 years and wouldn’t live anywhere else in the world. Really. Send love and/or rebuke to him at therealmrmusic@gmail.com
