Don't Cry for Me (or My Wife), Argentina

Governor Sanford gave a press conference today where he called his Argentinian mistress his "soul mate", but said he'd try to fall back in love with his wife. What a guy!

RIP Billy Mays

America's incredible pop culture, our greatest commodity, took another blow to the gut with the death of pitchman extraordinaire Billy Mays, 50. Maybe Farrah Fawcett needed to clean something that Michael Jackson spilled while Ed McMahan regaled him with an amusing Tonight Show reminiscence, triggered by Fred Travalena's quirky Carson impersonation.

Who really knows what goes on in that great TV set in the sky?

Michael Jackson's Second Line

Photo by Jennifer Zdon, © Times- Picayune

Even though I live in Washington DC, the newspaper I read is The Times- Picayune out of New Orleans, America's Greatest City. I think it's important to know what's going on in AGC, to know who played where, what artist is having a show, who killed whom, what the mayor has done right (apparently nothing) and what the mayor has done wrong (apparently everything), and the T-P covers it all.

There's a link to the right of this column, in case you too want to know what's going on in AGC.

This morning there was video and still coverage of a semi- spontaneous second- line in honor of Gary, Indiana native Michael Jackson. Second- line parades are given as a form of highest respect, usually to prominent New Orleanians, mostly of the musician variety. In fact, I don't know of any ever given to a non- resident of AGC.

Amazingly, no one was hurt, and the entire event was very uplifting. The video carries a soundtrack that is pure New Orleans' second- line: brass bands, percussion, great dancing and general parading, a tradition not to be scoffed at, especially in AGC. In fact, it's one of the main reasons it is America's Greatest City.

Many of the participants held signs and wore articles of clothing pertaining to Michael Jackson: T-shirts, sequined gloves, album covers. There was lots of dancing, on houses even, and in the streets. It was a huge, great celebration markedly devoid of all the things I complained about in my last post. No artificial music, no posturing, no celebrity pretentiousness.

Once again, AGC has forced me to re-consider my thinking (slightly) because it has not been influenced in the slightest by the tawdrier aspects of Michael Jackson's life.

It's just Michael Jackson's second line. And if the good people of New Orleans, La, decree that he earned it, who am I to argue?

Michael Jackson- So Many Thoughts, Some Not Good

No pictures this time. No need- everyone has seen them all. The plastic- surgery ravaged face, the pasty skin, like a modern day Dick Tracy villain come to life- MaskFace.

And let's get this out of the way: I think he was touched by genius. I think he made huge contributions, to civil rights, music, late 20th century pop culture. He broke a color barrier on MTV, which shouldn't have had a color barrier in the first place, but did, and he went in and owned them all.

And he certainly changed popular music forever. Unfortunately. His over- produced (sorry, Quincy, but I guess after producing Lesley Gore you had to have some outlet for your embarassing proclivity toward saccharine), sonically dense recordings opened the door to everything that is horribly bad in music right now. And incredibly popular.

Music today seems very appropriate for a new depression era- it's all- singing, all- dancing and all crap, like Busby Berkeley on some really bad coke. You can blame Michael for that. They say he idolized James Brown when the Jackson Five began, but he never got the truly visceral aspect of King James' approach- the repititious guitar figures, the crackerjack band with two drummers locked in a precise funk contest (winner takes all in the fried chicken dinner after the show) that propelled Maceo's solos into the stratosphere; the crotch grinding, stand-up- fuck- dancing- one chord- beat- driven groove in a hot sweaty room filled with men and women boogie-ing their butts off.

No, Michael picked up on one or two dance moves he could do by himself. Not a team player, I guess. The crotch you grab may be your own. When others danced with him, as in his videos, they stood slightly behind him and replicated his moves. There was no Ginger to Michael's Fred.

This is the template for everything now, from Britney Spears and Justin Timberlake to Beyonce and Miley Cyrus. Who cares who plays in Hannah Montana's band?

Yeah, I'm a musician, so of course I'm going to like a band more than a single with back-up, but hey- I like Tony Bennett, I like Sinatra, Astaire and Billie Holiday. I like Stevie Wonder and Aretha Frankilin. I have no idea who's in their bands these days. I don't mind personality- driven acts- they're fine. I think stars are fine.

But I hate pop music right now. I just hate it, and I blame Michael Jackson and I blame all 61 million people who bought a copy of Thriller (and I was one- on cassette even, for my kids!) for buying into this shitty, shitty excuse for music.

Please don't misunderstand- I'm very sorry about Michael. He probably never had a chance. Or at least never recognised that he had a chance. At this point he's to be pitied, not reviled. That will probably come later, from the tabloid press he courted and stroked with his sequined glove. They'll take good care of Michael.

One last thought: what happened to Bubbles the chimp? Did he die? Did Michael and his chauffeur bury the chimp in an arcane ceremony like Gloria Swanson and Eric Von Stroheim in Sunset Boulevard? The parrallel is almost too good to be true. Which it probably isn't.

Lord Buckley, Eventually

Every morning I check out Mar De Cortes Baja, Lloyd Fonvielle's excellent blog. Lloyd writes about his interests in an intelligent and insightful way, covering subjects from Annie Oakley to L'Inconnue de la Seine (a subject about which I knew nothing.)

I have an unusual connection with Lloyd, whom I do not know. Lloyd, like me, attended St. Albans School in Washington DC, and he hung out with two equally gifted fellow students, who took time off in their summers to make movies way before the term "student film" ever existed. This was during their seventh and eighth grade years. After Lloyd left to attend another prestigious prep school, I essentially replaced him. If he hadn't left, I may never have become friends with these two. Thanks, Lloyd!

The two other students, one of whom, Mr. Freeland- Archer, is already familiar to followers of this blog, and Mr. John Zhon (not their real names), a thoughful man of the cloth, remain my friends to this day. And Mar de Cortes Baja is my inspiration for writing this blog.

Lately, Mar has commented extensively on the situation in Iran. Lloyd brings his sensitive eye and ear to bear on the turmoil, and I urge all the readers of this blog to check out Mar de Cortes Baja.


Mr. Freeland- Archer sent me a great picture of the immortal Lord Buckley, who, though only a Lord in his own court, is, in mine, the King of the White Hipsters.

The Dapper Lord

I really don't have to provide a biography here, as I'm sure there's plenty online. Oddly enough, Lord Buckley was a big pal of Ed Sullivan's, an otherwise prickly conservative personality. I've seen three different Sullivan Show kinescopes of Buckley performing a kind of literal "talking heads" routine from his vaudeville act, where he takes volunteers, lines them up, and has them move their mouths as he provides the dialog in a variety of voices. In all of the films I've seen, he uses Sullivan and three or four of his guests as the volunteers. It's a corny bit, racist even, but it does show his energy and timing.

Sullivan let his Lordship on the show, but he didn't let him do current material like his Shakespeare pastiche, "Hipsters, Flipsters and Finger-popping Daddies" or the "Nazz", his interpretation of the life of Jesus. How complicated he was!

My old college roommate John Hostetter worked up a one man show of Buckley that he would perform at conventions and odd Buckley- inspired events. I remember him memorizing "Hipsters/ Flipsters" (as he always called it) when we lived in Ithaca back in 1971. This last November I visited John and made this short film.

John is currently a musician, painter and all- around hipster in Florida. I'm currently a musician, father, photographer, writer and all- around hipster in Washington DC and Mr. Freeland- Archer (n.h.r.n.) is a video producer, art collector and all- around hipster in New Orleans. Coincidence? I think not!

Harmonica Camp

The Levittown Harmonica Orchestra

I wish there were a soundtrack with this picture. What are they playing? When I first began playing the harmonica, the kindly Hohner people packed a little sheet of paper with easy- to- play songs charted out. Was one "She'll Be Coming 'Round the Mountain"? I can't remember.

These kids look like they mean business. Dig the girl on our left, with her hand warble. Or the boy with the the chord harp in the second row. Not to mention how cool the hats look until about the second- to- last row. After that it's strictly mandatory harmonica 101.

I have a strange habit of looking at old group shots to see if I'm in them. Actually I think a lot of people do this. Remember Jack Nicholson toward the end of The Shining? So far, I've never found myself in any of them and, sadly, this pic is no exception.

What a band!

Mr. Winwood and Mr. Clapton of "Blind Faith"

Every time I see a rock band on TV these days, there's a front line of celebrity musicians (read personalities) and a backline of support musicians (read anonymous actual musicians.) Take those awful jams at the Rock and Roll Hall o' Fame broadcasts, or anything involving Paul Schaeffer when he's not playing on David Letterman's show. If you go to see the Beach Boys there's maybe one Beach Boy and twenty session guys onstage. The only time I saw Bruce Springsteen there were 240 people in his band. At least, I think there were that many. And most of them were guitar players.

I think that Paul McCartney has 50 people in his band now, and nobody has any idea who is even in a band like, say, Guns n' Roses. Or cares.

Ordinarily, I wouldn't even dwell on this, because rock music is not my thing. I'm a blues guy. I have a blues band, an extensive collection of blues recordings, and I'm a really obnoxious snob about the whole thing. But I'm also a man of many theories, and one is that the best of anything cuts across all categories and is, by virtue of being the best, worthy of anyone's, even the most snobbish person's, attention.

Last night I saw Blind Faith, the best rock band I've ever seen. It had Chris Stainton on keyboards, Willie Weeks on bass, Abe Laboriel, Jr. on drums, Steve Winwood, whom you may remember from the Spencer Davis Group, on guitar, keys and vocals and Eric Clapton from the Yardbirds on guitar and vocals. There was also some wonderful back-up singing from two lovely ladies, Michelle John and Sharon White.

Mr. Winwood, second from right, in The Spencer Davis Group

Mr. Clapton, second from left in The Yardbirds

That's it- just five musicians, rocking all night, two solid hours plus change, great hits, excellent sound, incredible vocals, no jive. What more could you ask for? Made me remember why I started listening to music on the radio in the first place.