From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin- When Roy “The Boy” Ranged Over The 1960s Teenage Night- A CD Review (Of Sorts)

Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Roy Orbison performing his classic Sweet Dreams, Baby with an all-star backup.

CD Review

In Dreams: The Greatest Hits: Roy Orbison, Roy Orbison, Virgin Records, 1987

Strictly speaking I am only doing this review, In Dreams: The Greatest Hits: Roy Orbison, as a favor to my old-time friend Peter Paul Markin. When he found out that I was crazy for Roy “The Boy” as a kid, and had some stories to tell, some teenage stories, he begged me (so he could beg off on whoever asked HIM to do the damn thing) to do a guest commentary. Of course being Pee-Pee (his old time North Adamsville junior high school moniker bestowed on his by his corner- boy friend, Frankie Larkin) he had to bring up the nine hundred and ninety-nine things (in exact chronological order) that he had done for me in the past. So, if only to avoid having to hear about the one thousand and one things he didn’t do for me, I consented.

My first refusal of Pee-Pee’s request was based on the simple fact that everybody, at least everybody who loves, uh, classic rock and roll already knows, already has genetically embedded in their brains, a half dozen of Roy’s songs. And already knows that he was the king hell king of a certain teen angst kind of rock and roll song in the early 1960s that spoke to our romantic longings, our fears of rejection, our fear of acceptance, our desire to keep away from wrong gees (male or female) and our fervent desire not to be “has beens” before we even got to first base on being a “has.” Those factors, plus the fact that Roy is safely ensconced in the Rock and Roll Hall Of Fame, and what more can a mere mortal add to the conversation.

Except, except like Pee-Pee coaxed (nice word, huh) out of me there are stories, youth stories, related to various Roy’s songs. So let me sketch out one of them concerning his classic Sweet Dreams, Baby. Naturally it centers on the eternal boy-girl thing (what else is teen-hood, early teen-hood here, for anyway). The early stages of the boy-girl thing when Roy’s lyrics and style meant something, some swoon anyway. (Later, in the super-heated Stones/Doors/Byrds/Hendrix drug-induced late 1960s night, he would draw no play in these quarters).

For those who don’t know, or who want to know, I grew up in Olde Saco, Maine the old- time big time mill town, a town filled to the brim with solid working- class families trying to eke out an existence in those dying mills. These were, mainly, French-Canadian working families, my people (despite my surname I am F-C on my mother’s side). These were (and still are) hard working, hard loving, hard drinking people who nevertheless brought a deeply religious feeling (Gallic Roman Catholic) with them as they migrated in successive waves down from old no place for them Canada. For teen purposes, for boy early teen purposes, for boy early teen F-C Olde Saco purposes this meant keeping a very tight rein on their daughters, very tight indeed.

And the tightest rein the old Atlantic section of Olde Saco neighborhood where I grew up was held by Meme LaCroix over her daughter. Lorraine. Now at this time, this early 1960s time, Lorraine was really nothing but a stick (a stick being a girl, a junior high school girl, who had, well, no womanly shape. Funny, one time when Pee-Pee and I were comparing notes he told me that “stick” term was what they used to use in his old Irish North Adamsville neighborhood. I thought we F-Cs were only ones to use the term. Go figure.). But stick or no stick, Lorraine LaCroix had about three tons of personality, a great smile, great naturally ruby lips, and for those who had the right antennae the look of a stick who would make a few heads turn before she was through. But all that came later.

What really made Mlle LaCroix stand out, and had a few boys, including this writer, lined up at the door, was her collection of rock and roll records, including everything that Roy Orbison had recorded at that time. And her willingness to invite said boys, including this writer, into her living room after school to listen to this stuff. In case you don’t get the import, the economic import, of that last statement, I, for one, did not have a record player, or records, at that time. I used a transistor radio, or went to Jimmy Jake’s Diner and played the jukebox there. In case you don’t get the social import of it, recall that Madame LaCroix held a very tight rein on Lorraine. For example Lorraine could not go on dates, go to dances, or any night activity. Somehow she thought that daytime at the LaCroix resident was alright. Oh, I didn’t tell you, Madame LaCroix worked (worked at the Olde Saco Valley Textile Mill in the same department as my father at the time) so that Lorraine was home alone. So you can see that the good Madame was a little off on her protecting teen daughter wisdom.

One afternoon (actually more than one afternoon but this one time will stand in for the rest which were very similar) she invited me over. I rang the doorbell, she answered, looking very attractive even for a stick (those natural ruby red lips had half the guys in school wondering, dream wondering), and we went into the living room. She started playing some Elvis, maybe Jailhouse Rock, and a little Jerry Lee (I was crazy for his High School Confidential, and could hardly wait to get to be old enough to go to Olde Saco High based just on that record).

After a while, and after a couple of Cokes, she changed the record to Roy’s Sweet Dreams, Baby, and started swaying to the tune. She then closed her eyes and called me over. And right then and there in the middle of the room gave me one of the most passionate kisses that I have ever received. Fifty years later (keep this to yourself) I can still feel the warmth of that kiss, and the bath soap fragrance I could smell coming from her body when we came up for air. Yes, Lorraine LaCroix had lips made for kissing. For the rest of the afternoons we hung around together that song was the signal that I was to kiss her (actually she kissed me but let’s not quibble).

And that little sketch is exactly my point. No great master thesis, simply this. Roy “The Boy” Orbison’s music was what got us through that early teen angst rough spot looking to find out what the boy-girl world was all about. Innocent, innocent as hell, as we were then. Enough said.

***Out In The Be-Bop Night- Saturday Night With “Roy The Boy”- Roy Orbison

Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Roy Orbison performing Running Scared.

DVD Review

Roy Orbison: Black and White Nights, Roy Orbison, various all-star musicians and backup singers including Bruce Springsteen and T-Bone Burnett, 1987

Elvis, Chuck Berry, Jerry Lee Lewis come easily to mind when thinking about classic rock ‘n’ roll. And about where you were, and who you were with, and what you were doing when you heard those voices on the radio, on the television, or when you were spinning platters (records, for the younger set, okay, nice expression, right?). The artist under review, Roy Orbison, although clearly a rock legend, and rightly so, does not evoke that same kind of memory for me. Oh sure, I listened to Blue Bayou, Pretty Woman, Running Scared, Sweet Dreams, Baby and many of the other songs that are performed on this great black and white concert footage. And backed up by the likes of T-Bone Burnett, who may be the top rhythm guitarist of the age (and who has also gotten well-deserved kudos for his work on Jeff Bridges’ Crazy Hearts), Elvis Costello, Tom Waits, and Bruce Springsteen. With vocal backups by k.d. lang and Bonnie Raitt. All who gave energized performances and all who were deeply influenced by Roy’s music. That alone makes this worth viewing.

Still, I had this gnawing feeling about Roy’s voice after viewing this documentary and why it never really “spoke” to me like the others. Then it came to me, the part I mentioned above about where I was, and who I was with, and what I was doing when I heard Roy. Enter one mad monk teenage friend, Frankie, Frankie from the old neighborhood. Frankie of a thousand stories, Frankie of a thousand treacheries, and, oh ya, Frankie, my bosom friend in high school.

See, when Roy was big, big in our beat down around the edges, some days it seemed beat six ways to Sunday, working class neighborhood in the early 1960s, we all used to hang around the town pizza parlor, or one of them anyway that was also conveniently near our high school too. Maybe this place was not the best one to sit down and have a family-sized pizza with salad and all the fixings in, complete with family, or if you were fussy about décor but the best tasting pizza, especially if you let it sit for a while and no eat it when it was piping hot right out of the oven. (People who know such things told me later that kind of cold is the way you are supposed to eat pizza anyway, and as an appetizer not a meal.)

Moreover, this was the one where the teen-friendly owner, a big old balding Italian guy, at least he said he was Italian and there were plenty of Italians in our town in those days so I believed him but he really looked Greek or Armenian to me, let us stay in the booths if it wasn’t busy, and we behaved like, well, like respectable teenagers. And this guy, this old Italian guy, could make us all laugh, even me, when he started to prepare a new pizza and he flour-powdered and rolled the dough out and flipped that sucker in the air about twelve times and about fifteen different ways to stretch it out. Some times people would just stand outside in front of the big picture window and watch his handiwork in utter fascination. Jesus, he could flip that thing. One time, and you know this is true because you probably have your own pizza on the ceiling stories, he flipped the sucker so high it stuck to the ceiling and it might still be there for all I know (the place still is, although not him). But this is how he was cool; he just started up another without making a fuss. Let me tell you about him, Tonio I think his name was, sometime but right now our business to get on with Frankie and the Roy question, alright.

So there nothing unusual, and I don’t pretend there, in just hanging out having a slice of pizza (no onions, please, in case I get might lucky tonight and that certain she comes in, the one that I have been eying in school until my eyes have become sore), some soft drink (which we called tonic in New England in those days but which you call, uh, soda), usually a locally bottled root beer, and, incessantly (and that incessantly allowed us to stay since we were “paying “ customers with all the rights and dignities that entailed, unless they needed our seats), dropping nickels, dimes and quarters in the jukebox.

Here is the part that might really explain things, though. Frankie has this girl friend (he always had a string of them, which what was cool about him, but this was his main squeeze, his main honey, his main twist, his main flame and about sixty-seven other names he had for them). The divine Joanne (his description, I could take or leave her, and I questioned the divine part, questioned it thoroughly, on more than one occasion). See though Frankie, old double standard, maybe triple standard Frankie, was crazy about her but was always worried, worried to perdition, that she was “seeing” someone else (she wasn’t). You know guys like that, guys that have all the angles, have some things going their way but need, desperately need, that always one more thing to “complete” them.


But sweet old clever “divine” Joanne used that Frankie fear as a wedge. She would always talk (and talk while I was there, just to kind of add to the trauma drama, Frankie’s drama) about all the guys that called up bothering her (personally I didn’t see it, she was cute, for sure, and with a nice figure but I wouldn’t jump off a bridge if she turned me down, others in those days yes, and gladly, but not her). This would get Frankie steaming, steaming so he couldn’t see straight. Once he actually couldn’t eat his pizza slice he was so upset and Frankie, Frankie from the old neighborhood, ALWAYS ate his pizza. Even fatherly Tonio took notice.

Worst, was when old doll, old sweetheart, Joanne would drop coins in the jukebox to play… Roy Orbison’s Running Scared over and over. And make Frankie give her good coin, his good coin to boot. It got so bad that old Frankie, when Joanne wasn’t around, would play it on his own. With his own money, no less. So, I guess, I just got so sick of hearing that song and that trembling rising crescendo voice to increase the lyrical that I couldn’t see straight. But, really, you can’t blame Roy for that, or shouldn’t. Watch this DVD. I did and just turned the old volume on the remote down when that song came on. And think of poor old lovesick Frankie and his divine Ms. Joanne. That’s the ticket.

**********
Running Scared- Roy Orbison, Joe Melson

Just running scared, each place we go
So afraid that he might show
Yeah, running scared, what would I do
If he came back and wanted you

Just running scared, feeling low
Running scared, you love him so
Yeah, running scared, afraid to lose
If he came back which one would you choose

Then all at once he was standing there
So sure of himself, his head in the air
And my heart was breaking, which one would it be
You turned around and walked away with me