Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Mark Dinning performing his teen tear-jerker, Teen Angel to set an "appropriate" mood for this post.
The Last Waltz, Indeed
Peter Paul Markin, North Adamsville Class Of 1964, comment:
Note: The term “last waltz” of the title of this piece is used as a simple expression of the truth. The life, or better, half-life of this sketch came about originally through reviewing, a few years ago, a long-running series of “Oldies But Goodies” CDs from the 1950s and early 1960s, the time of my coming of age time. After reviewing ten of these things I found out that the series was even longer, fifteen in all. Rather than turning myself into some local hospital for a cure and the good effects of some oldies twelve-step program to restore my soul health I plugged on. Plugged on, plugged on intrepidly, with the full knowledge that such things had their saturation point.
After all how much could one rekindle, endlessly rekindle, memories from a relatively short, if important, part of our lives, even for those of us who lived and died by the songs (or some of the songs) in those treasured compilations. How many times, moreover, can one read about wallflowers (their invisibleness and, dread of dreads, not winding up like them even if it meant casting off friendships with every known nerdish future, doctor, engineer and lawyer in town), sighs (ahs, and otherwise), certain shes (or hes for shes) the real point of reviewing any such compilations, the crepe paper-etched moonlight glow on high school dance night (if there was any, moon that is) and hanging around to the bitter end for that last dance of the night to prove... what. Bastante! Enough!
Or so I thought until my old friend, my old mad monk, merry prankster, stone freak, summer of love (1967 version) compadre from Olde Saco up in Maine, Josh Breslin. Yes, that Josh Breslin, or rather Joshua Lawrence Breslin for those who have read his by-line over the years in half the unread radical chic or alterative vision publications in this country, called me up in a frenzy just after I had finally completed the last damn review. And as usual when he calls up in the dead of night it was “girl” trouble, if that is the appropriate way to describe such an illness for sixty-somethings.
His frenzied three in the morning problem? Josh’s Old Saco High School Class of 1967 was going to have its fortieth reunion, and through the now weathered Mainiac grapevine he found out that some middle school (then junior high) sweetheart, Lucy Dubois (Olde Saco was, and is a central gathering spot for French-Canadians and French Canadian Americans, including Josh’s old mother, Delores, nee LeBlanc), was going to show and he needed a refresher on the old time tunes. More importantly, he continued on to explain why he, madcap love ‘em and leave Josh in that summer of love 1967, and beyond, including a not forgotten “theft” of my girlfriend at the time, Butterfly Swirl (ya it was that kind of time), still had a “crush” on Ms. Dubois and what was he going to do about it come reunion night. So the following is just a little mood music from Josh’s backward trek in the old reprobate own words, or close to them as that degenerate will ever get.
********
No question that those of us who came of age in the late 1950s and early 1960s were truly children of rock and roll. We were there, whether we appreciated it or not at the time, when the first, sputtering, musical moves away from ballady Broadway show tunes and rhymey Tin Pan Alley pieces hit the radio airwaves. (If you do not know what a radio is then ask your parents or, ouch, grandparents please. Or look it up on Wikipedia if you are too embarrassed to not know such ancient history things. Join the bus.) And, most importantly, we were there when the music moved away from any and all music that one’s parents might have approved of, or maybe, even liked, or, hopefully, at least they left you alone to play in peace up in your room when rock and roll hit post- World War II America teenagers like, well, like an atomic bomb.
Not all of the material put forth was good, nor was all of it destined to be playable forty or fifty years later on some “greatest hits” compilation like the ones Peter Paul has been satanically reviewing but some of songs had enough chordal energy, lyrical sense, and sheer danceability to make any Jack or Jill jump then, or now. And, here is the good part, especially for painfully shy guys like me (and Peter Paul when we talked about such august matters one Big Sur 1968 night, one stoned night but that is just redundant after I already said Big Sur 1968), or those who, like me as well, had two left feet on the dance floor. Just don’t remind Lucy of that, okay. You didn’t need to dance toe to toe, close to close, with that certain she (or he for shes). Just be alive…uh, hip, to the music. Otherwise you might become the dreaded wallflower. I had to drop more guys from the old neighborhood over on Albemarle, the Olde Saco projects, who later made good just because I didn’t want the guilt by association wallflower nerd label hanging around my neck. But that fear, the fear of fears that haunted many a teenage dream then, maybe now too, is a story for another day. Let’s just leave it at this for now. Ah, to be very, very young then was very heaven.
But what about the now seeming mandatory question that Peter Paul made a point of asking in those dimwitted reviews he is so proud of, the inevitable end of the night high school dance (or maybe even middle school) song that I really want to talk about. Or rather about Lucy Dubois’ (I won’t use her married name because she still lives up around Olde Saco and has, many, many family connections around, including a couple of giant economy-sized brothers). The song that you, maybe, waited around all night for just to prove that you were not a wallflower, and more importantly, had the moxie to, mumble-voiced, parched-throated, sweaty-handed, asked a girl to dance (women can relate their own experiences, probably similar).
Here the 1960 Mark Dinning tune Teen Angel fills the bill, or filled Lucy’s bill. Hey, I did really like this one too, especially the soulful, sorrowful timing and voice intonation. Yes, I know, I know the lyrics are, well, not life-enhancing and apparently the Laura or Lorraine who, ill-advisedly, ran back to that car stuck on the railroad track was none too bright. Not if she went overt he edge for some cheapjack high school ring that would not survive more than few hand-washings before turning green and that, moreover, Lance or Larry had already previously given (and taken back) from half the girls in the school. Jesus, did we really think we were that immortal. Yes, before you even start, I also know, this is one of the slow ones that you had to dance close on. And just hope, hope to high heaven, that you didn’t destroy your partner’s shoes and feet. Well, one learns a few social skills in this world if for no other reason than to “impress” that certain she (or he for shes, or nowadays, just mix and match your preferences). I did, didn’t you?
Well Lucy showed up that class reunion night as expected since my intelligence source on the matter was very reliable. Moreover the “as expected” aspect had an additional factor also relayed by that same source. Lucy was coming back only because she had heard that I was coming back for the reunion. Damn, she still held me in thrall when I saw here coming in the entrance of the hotel ballroom where the reunion was being held on the outskirts of Portland, as I flashed back to the old days, the days when Lucy and I shared many a laugh, many an awkward boy and girl junior high school laugh, and later many a stolen kiss down at Squaw Rock, the “parking” end of Olde Saco Beach.
See, there was some kind of cosmic karma bond between us from early on even though we had more than our share of battles, break-ups, alternative romances, and the like. And from early on she was always the sensible one the one that teethered my flights of fancy and kept me from going off more than one deep-end. Or almost. Lucy, as was the serious tradition in Podunk Olde Saco French-Canadian culture, the working class part which when you got right down to it was on the only real part back then, was “slated” to be married (and out of the house) right after high school. And I was the guy, the glad guy for most of high school to join her in that act. Much to the joy of her parents and my own French-Canadian mother (nee LeBlanc).
But then the 1960s hit backwater Olde Saco in late 1966 and early 1967 and I got the wanderlust a little, although I was “slated” to go to State U in the fall of ’67. Peter Paul already mentioned my summer of love exploits, or if he didn’t he will although take any such talk strictly with the grain of salt. So instead of marrying Lucy that summer I told her to wait until I got back. Well, I got a little delayed, made seventeen detours here and there, and by the time I was ready to settle down a little Lucy had already found somebody else to marry and that was that. Except that never-ending slight gnawing in my stomach every time I heard the name Lucy, Olde Saco, Maine, the ocean, somebody parking a car, or took more than more than one stolen kiss.
Upon seeing her once again across the ballroom I almost could smell that faint-edged scent, some lilac and dreams, bed sheet dream, scent, that always travelled around with her and drove me (and other guys too, no question) to distraction. That slender girl with the do good in the world dreams and cozy cottage ambitions. But mainly it was that sensibleness, that what you see is what you get, and that ingrained gentliness no book or essay could convey that would see her, and you, through many stormy nights. And what song did we, Josh Breslin and Lucy Dubois, trot out on that scary dance floor to on that wintry November reunion night? Come on now, guess.
*************
....and a trip down memory lane.
MARK DINNING lyrics - Teen Angel
(Jean Surrey & Red Surrey)
Teen angel, teen angel, teen angel, ooh, ooh
That fateful night the car was stalled
upon the railroad track
I pulled you out and we were safe
but you went running back
Teen angel, can you hear me
Teen angel, can you see me
Are you somewhere up above
And I am still your own true love
What was it you were looking for
that took your life that night
They said they found my high school ring
clutched in your fingers tight
Teen angel, can you hear me
Teen angel, can you see me
Are you somewhere up above
And I am still your own true love
Just sweet sixteen, and now you're gone
They've taken you away.
I'll never kiss your lips again
They buried you today
Teen angel, can you hear me
Teen angel, can you see me
Are you somewhere up above
And I am still your own true love
Teen angel, teen angel, answer me, please
The Last Waltz, Indeed
Peter Paul Markin, North Adamsville Class Of 1964, comment:
Note: The term “last waltz” of the title of this piece is used as a simple expression of the truth. The life, or better, half-life of this sketch came about originally through reviewing, a few years ago, a long-running series of “Oldies But Goodies” CDs from the 1950s and early 1960s, the time of my coming of age time. After reviewing ten of these things I found out that the series was even longer, fifteen in all. Rather than turning myself into some local hospital for a cure and the good effects of some oldies twelve-step program to restore my soul health I plugged on. Plugged on, plugged on intrepidly, with the full knowledge that such things had their saturation point.
After all how much could one rekindle, endlessly rekindle, memories from a relatively short, if important, part of our lives, even for those of us who lived and died by the songs (or some of the songs) in those treasured compilations. How many times, moreover, can one read about wallflowers (their invisibleness and, dread of dreads, not winding up like them even if it meant casting off friendships with every known nerdish future, doctor, engineer and lawyer in town), sighs (ahs, and otherwise), certain shes (or hes for shes) the real point of reviewing any such compilations, the crepe paper-etched moonlight glow on high school dance night (if there was any, moon that is) and hanging around to the bitter end for that last dance of the night to prove... what. Bastante! Enough!
Or so I thought until my old friend, my old mad monk, merry prankster, stone freak, summer of love (1967 version) compadre from Olde Saco up in Maine, Josh Breslin. Yes, that Josh Breslin, or rather Joshua Lawrence Breslin for those who have read his by-line over the years in half the unread radical chic or alterative vision publications in this country, called me up in a frenzy just after I had finally completed the last damn review. And as usual when he calls up in the dead of night it was “girl” trouble, if that is the appropriate way to describe such an illness for sixty-somethings.
His frenzied three in the morning problem? Josh’s Old Saco High School Class of 1967 was going to have its fortieth reunion, and through the now weathered Mainiac grapevine he found out that some middle school (then junior high) sweetheart, Lucy Dubois (Olde Saco was, and is a central gathering spot for French-Canadians and French Canadian Americans, including Josh’s old mother, Delores, nee LeBlanc), was going to show and he needed a refresher on the old time tunes. More importantly, he continued on to explain why he, madcap love ‘em and leave Josh in that summer of love 1967, and beyond, including a not forgotten “theft” of my girlfriend at the time, Butterfly Swirl (ya it was that kind of time), still had a “crush” on Ms. Dubois and what was he going to do about it come reunion night. So the following is just a little mood music from Josh’s backward trek in the old reprobate own words, or close to them as that degenerate will ever get.
********
No question that those of us who came of age in the late 1950s and early 1960s were truly children of rock and roll. We were there, whether we appreciated it or not at the time, when the first, sputtering, musical moves away from ballady Broadway show tunes and rhymey Tin Pan Alley pieces hit the radio airwaves. (If you do not know what a radio is then ask your parents or, ouch, grandparents please. Or look it up on Wikipedia if you are too embarrassed to not know such ancient history things. Join the bus.) And, most importantly, we were there when the music moved away from any and all music that one’s parents might have approved of, or maybe, even liked, or, hopefully, at least they left you alone to play in peace up in your room when rock and roll hit post- World War II America teenagers like, well, like an atomic bomb.
Not all of the material put forth was good, nor was all of it destined to be playable forty or fifty years later on some “greatest hits” compilation like the ones Peter Paul has been satanically reviewing but some of songs had enough chordal energy, lyrical sense, and sheer danceability to make any Jack or Jill jump then, or now. And, here is the good part, especially for painfully shy guys like me (and Peter Paul when we talked about such august matters one Big Sur 1968 night, one stoned night but that is just redundant after I already said Big Sur 1968), or those who, like me as well, had two left feet on the dance floor. Just don’t remind Lucy of that, okay. You didn’t need to dance toe to toe, close to close, with that certain she (or he for shes). Just be alive…uh, hip, to the music. Otherwise you might become the dreaded wallflower. I had to drop more guys from the old neighborhood over on Albemarle, the Olde Saco projects, who later made good just because I didn’t want the guilt by association wallflower nerd label hanging around my neck. But that fear, the fear of fears that haunted many a teenage dream then, maybe now too, is a story for another day. Let’s just leave it at this for now. Ah, to be very, very young then was very heaven.
But what about the now seeming mandatory question that Peter Paul made a point of asking in those dimwitted reviews he is so proud of, the inevitable end of the night high school dance (or maybe even middle school) song that I really want to talk about. Or rather about Lucy Dubois’ (I won’t use her married name because she still lives up around Olde Saco and has, many, many family connections around, including a couple of giant economy-sized brothers). The song that you, maybe, waited around all night for just to prove that you were not a wallflower, and more importantly, had the moxie to, mumble-voiced, parched-throated, sweaty-handed, asked a girl to dance (women can relate their own experiences, probably similar).
Here the 1960 Mark Dinning tune Teen Angel fills the bill, or filled Lucy’s bill. Hey, I did really like this one too, especially the soulful, sorrowful timing and voice intonation. Yes, I know, I know the lyrics are, well, not life-enhancing and apparently the Laura or Lorraine who, ill-advisedly, ran back to that car stuck on the railroad track was none too bright. Not if she went overt he edge for some cheapjack high school ring that would not survive more than few hand-washings before turning green and that, moreover, Lance or Larry had already previously given (and taken back) from half the girls in the school. Jesus, did we really think we were that immortal. Yes, before you even start, I also know, this is one of the slow ones that you had to dance close on. And just hope, hope to high heaven, that you didn’t destroy your partner’s shoes and feet. Well, one learns a few social skills in this world if for no other reason than to “impress” that certain she (or he for shes, or nowadays, just mix and match your preferences). I did, didn’t you?
Well Lucy showed up that class reunion night as expected since my intelligence source on the matter was very reliable. Moreover the “as expected” aspect had an additional factor also relayed by that same source. Lucy was coming back only because she had heard that I was coming back for the reunion. Damn, she still held me in thrall when I saw here coming in the entrance of the hotel ballroom where the reunion was being held on the outskirts of Portland, as I flashed back to the old days, the days when Lucy and I shared many a laugh, many an awkward boy and girl junior high school laugh, and later many a stolen kiss down at Squaw Rock, the “parking” end of Olde Saco Beach.
See, there was some kind of cosmic karma bond between us from early on even though we had more than our share of battles, break-ups, alternative romances, and the like. And from early on she was always the sensible one the one that teethered my flights of fancy and kept me from going off more than one deep-end. Or almost. Lucy, as was the serious tradition in Podunk Olde Saco French-Canadian culture, the working class part which when you got right down to it was on the only real part back then, was “slated” to be married (and out of the house) right after high school. And I was the guy, the glad guy for most of high school to join her in that act. Much to the joy of her parents and my own French-Canadian mother (nee LeBlanc).
But then the 1960s hit backwater Olde Saco in late 1966 and early 1967 and I got the wanderlust a little, although I was “slated” to go to State U in the fall of ’67. Peter Paul already mentioned my summer of love exploits, or if he didn’t he will although take any such talk strictly with the grain of salt. So instead of marrying Lucy that summer I told her to wait until I got back. Well, I got a little delayed, made seventeen detours here and there, and by the time I was ready to settle down a little Lucy had already found somebody else to marry and that was that. Except that never-ending slight gnawing in my stomach every time I heard the name Lucy, Olde Saco, Maine, the ocean, somebody parking a car, or took more than more than one stolen kiss.
Upon seeing her once again across the ballroom I almost could smell that faint-edged scent, some lilac and dreams, bed sheet dream, scent, that always travelled around with her and drove me (and other guys too, no question) to distraction. That slender girl with the do good in the world dreams and cozy cottage ambitions. But mainly it was that sensibleness, that what you see is what you get, and that ingrained gentliness no book or essay could convey that would see her, and you, through many stormy nights. And what song did we, Josh Breslin and Lucy Dubois, trot out on that scary dance floor to on that wintry November reunion night? Come on now, guess.
*************
....and a trip down memory lane.
MARK DINNING lyrics - Teen Angel
(Jean Surrey & Red Surrey)
Teen angel, teen angel, teen angel, ooh, ooh
That fateful night the car was stalled
upon the railroad track
I pulled you out and we were safe
but you went running back
Teen angel, can you hear me
Teen angel, can you see me
Are you somewhere up above
And I am still your own true love
What was it you were looking for
that took your life that night
They said they found my high school ring
clutched in your fingers tight
Teen angel, can you hear me
Teen angel, can you see me
Are you somewhere up above
And I am still your own true love
Just sweet sixteen, and now you're gone
They've taken you away.
I'll never kiss your lips again
They buried you today
Teen angel, can you hear me
Teen angel, can you see me
Are you somewhere up above
And I am still your own true love
Teen angel, teen angel, answer me, please
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