This blog has been established to provide space for stories, comments, and reflections on old North Quincy, your thoughts or mine. And for all those who have bled Raider red.
Showing posts with label the tune weavers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the tune weavers. Show all posts
At one time I spilled much ink memory covering, extensively covering, many CD compilations from a Rock ‘N’ Rock Era series (that would be, ouch, a classic rock and roll series now, damn). A highlight of that series, and the one thing that clearly peaked my interest beyond the songs, or some of the songs, the ones that were able to defy age, and are lyric remembrance etched in my brain, had been the cover artwork that had evoked, and evoked strongly, the themes that dominated our lives, our hubristic teenage lives, in the classic age of rock, say from about the mid-1950s to about the mid-1960s (after that things went all over the place, the music and the times both) as we watched it unfold. Things like last dance school dances (and dreams of she and dreads of not she for that last one, god it better be a slow one to make my pitch), lovers’ lanes (down by the seaside sifting sand, against the cold ocean night, against the Seal Rock night, in the back seat of Jimmy’s car, and, well let’s leave it at and, okay), dancing the night away to the latest rock music, drive-in movies (alternative spot for that “and” mentioned above), drive-in restaurants (a night cap of burgers and fries after that “and,” hopefully) , summer beach life (watching, intensely watching,those long-legged college girls home for the summer and restless, but just watching high school odd-ball watching between the two yacht clubs where they were preening themselves) and on and on. One part of the series, the one I am thinking of here, driven by year dates, at least as observed through the cover work, seemed to be less concerned with strong old time evocations by flashy artwork but rather used old time photos (Kodak, of ancient memory, of course). Nevertheless sometimes just a simple photograph as appears on the 1957 cover evokes those memories in a more subtle way.
And what does that photograph picture. Well, Johnny (we’ll just call him that for our purposes here, okay), hair slicked back as was the Elvis-want-to-be style, no facial hair, jesus, no facial hair , we are not dealing with those low-life reefer mad beat beasts here in the Amityville night, no way, that is music for the future, suited up in sports coat, white shirt, and tie (pants not observed although they had to be black chinos, uncool cuffed or cool uncuffed, and shoes, well, loafers for sure, no silly pennies inserted that was strictly for nerds, thank you, serious nerds) and Susie (ditto Johnny on the name thing), pulled back pony-tail to keep that long hair out of her eyes while fast-dancing with Eddy, Billy and Teddy before lemming on Johnny , dressed up in her best frilly party dress, long, and not black, not black as night anything for the same reason, the same non-beat in Amityville reason Johnny has not facial hair, (no bobby socks or nylons showing so I cannot discuss that issue here nor will I venture into the girl shoe night any more than I would today into the woman’s shoe night) are comparing notes on the latest 45s. Nice wholesome kids, white kids just so you know who the record companies were appealing too although most of the best music was black, black and beautiful as the darkest night (like the songs from YouTube that accompanies this sketch). No mad dog hopheads, or dipsos and no nerds either. Let them go use the library or something.
For those not long in the tooth who may have wandered into this space and are not sure why that 45RPM was the size record we played on our old time record players (no not wind-up Victrolas, wise guys) when we wanted to drown out ma, pa, and sibling noises about homework, chores, or just the stuff of everyday life. Each record had a one song A side (the hit) and a one song B side, each side a little over two minutes long. That idea didn’t last too long before responding to the crush of the market they started making LPs, records with several songs on each side. Oh, I forgot, for those who don’t know what a record is, long or short, look it up on Wikipedia. I have given enough time to the subject.
And in the year 1957 what musical chooses might the pair be comparing on this night, this house party night (or on other school dance nights) shown here. As usual another round in the “battle of the sexes” will be played out just like from teen time immemorial. At least records and record player time immemorial. While Buddy Holly, Patsy Kline, Rickey Nelson, and the Everly Brothers have some spin in the early going the real fight, the real important fight, school dance or house party, is what song will be played for the last dance. Yes, the key last dance to see whether the evening continues when they hold each other tight after a night of apart self-expression fast rock and roll dancing. So the battle really boils down to Could This Be Magic? by The Dubs or Happy Happy Birthday Baby by the Tune Weavers and if Johnny does not want to be lonely tonight he better make the right choice. Good luck, brother Johnny.
********** Damn he never should have sent that note, that short, silly, puffed-up cry
baby note trying to worm his way back into Lucy’s arms with memory thoughts
about this kiss, or that embrace. And bringing up old seawall sugar shack beach
nights holding hands against the splashed tides, against full moons, against
tomorrow coming too soon; double date drive-in movies, speakers on low, deep-breathing
car fog-ups on cold October nights, embarrassed, way embarrassed, when they
surfaced for intermission's stale popcorn or reheated hot dogs; and, that last
dance school dance holding tight, tight as hell, to each other as the DJ,
pretending to be radio jockey Arnie "Woo Woo" Ginsberg, played Could
This Be Magic? on that creaky record player used at North Adamsville high
school dances since his mother’s time, ancient Frank Sinatra, Billie Holiday
times.
Damn, a scratchy, scribbly note, a note written on serious stationary and
with a real fountain pen to show his sincerity, and not the usual half- lined
sheet, pulled out a three-ring subject notebook, and passed to Lucy during
their common study class. Notes the passing of which sometimes got them severe
looks from the study monitor, Miss Green, and giggles and taunts, usually some
lewd or luscious remarks fraught with sexual innuendo from their fellow
students, boys and girls alike, about fogged-up cars and trash talk like that
who also tried to intercept those precious notes without success. Yah, “the
note heard round the world” that would expose him to all kinds of ridicule,
endless be-bop jive patter, and snide questions about his manhood from guys,
and probably girls too, around the school, hell, all around North Adamsville
and maybe already had if Lucy decided to cut his heart out and tell one and all
what a square he, Luke Jackson, was when all was said and done.
He could hear it now, and could hear the words ringing in his ears. What a
soft guy Luke Jackson really was, a guy known to be a love ‘em and leave ‘em
guy before Lucy. A guy, a used to be sharp guy who shrugged off more things
that you could shake a stick at and came back swinging but who was getting all
misty-eyed and cry baby just because some dame, a good looking dame in all the
right places, yes, a dame all the guys were ready to pursue once he was out of
the picture, but still a dame, a young high school dame, when all was said and
done, got under his skin, like they were married or something. Hell, he
thought, thought now too late, to himself, that he would have been better off,
much better off, leaving it at calling Lucy on the telephone every few hours
and either hanging up before she answered or when she did answer freezing up.
But that was costing money, serious add up money, since he had to use a public
pay telephone up the street from his house because the telephone service had
been turned off for non-payment as his family could not afford to pay the bill
the past few months.
Besides it was getting kind of creepy going in and out of the house at all
hours, midnight by the telephone waiting like some lonely, awkward girl,
walking up the street like a zombie, half mope, half dope, then hesitating
before deciding to make the call, making it, or not, and then scurrying like a
rat from the public glare of the booth. Christ, one time the cops looked at him
funny, real funny, when he was calling at about midnight. And he had to admit
that he might have called the police station a few times too after he looked at
himself in the mirror upon returning home.
That note, sent the day before and probably in Lucy’s plotting hands right
now, was a minute, a quick minute, brain-storm that he had thought up when he
was just plain miserable, just plain midnight telephone tired too, and anyone
could make such a rash decision under love’s duress, teenage love’s duress.
Right then though all he could think of was all the notes, the cutesy,
lined-sheet paper school-boyish notes, that he had sent her when love was in
full blossom, full blossom before Jamie Lee Johnson came on the scene, came on
the scene with his big old ’59 Chevy Impala, his money in his pocket, and his
line of patter and stole his “sweet pea” Lucy away from her “sugar plum” Luke.
And that picture sent him back to thoughts of when he and Lucy first met, when
their eyes first met.
“Let’s see,” Luke said to himself it was probably at Chrissie McNamara’s
sweet sixteen birthday party that he first laid eyes on her. Hell, who was he
kidding, he knew that it was exactly at 8:32PM on the night of April 25, 1962
that he first laid eyes on her, big almost star-struck staring eyes. Or maybe
it was a few seconds before because, to break the ice, he had gone up to her
and asked her for the time, asked in his then bolder manner if she had time for
him, asked her to dance, she said yes, and that was that. Oh, yah, there was
more to it than that but both of them knew at that moment, knew somewhere deep
down in their teenage hearts, they were going to be an “item,” for a while. And
they were indeed sweet pea and sugar plum, for a while. Although Luke would get
mad sometimes, fighting mad, fighting break-up mad, when Lucy teased, no, more
than teased, him about his not having a car so that they could go “parking” by
themselves and not always be on some clowny double-date down at the seashore on
Saturday night (or any night in the summer). And Luke would reply that he was
saving money for college, and besides sitting on the seawall (and sometimes in
love’s heat down beneath its height), their usual habit, was okay, wasn’t it.
That simmer, that somehow inarticulated simmer, went on for a while, a long
while. But Luke had noticed a few months back, or rather Lucy had made her
sugar plum notice, that now that they were high school seniors sitting on the
seawall was nothing but nowhere kids’ stuff and why did he want to go to
college anyway, and wasn’t going to work down at the shipyard where he could
earn some real dough and get a car a better idea. The real clincher though, the
one that telegraphed to him that the heavens were frowning on him, was the
night she, no bones, stated that she had no plans for college and was going
right to work after graduation, and maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t be able to
wait for him. And that’s where things started to really break down between
them.
Enter one Jamie Lee Johnson, a friend of Lucy’s older brother Kenny, already
graduated from North Adamsville two years before and working, working steady
with advancement possibilities according to the talk, as a junior welder down
at the shipyard making good dough. Making drive-in movies and even drive-n
restaurant good time dough, and driving that souped-up, retro-fitted,
dual-carbed, ’59 Chevy, jet black and hung to the gills with chrome to make a
girl breathless. And before Luke knew it Lucy’s mother was answering the phone
calls for Lucy from Luke saying that she wasn’t in, wasn’t expected in, and
that she, Lucy’s mother, would tell Lucy that he had called. The runaround, the
classic runaround since boy meets girl time began, except not always done over
the telephone. And while Lucy never said word one about breaking it off between
them, not even a “so long we had fun,” Luke, although not smart enough to not
write that sappy note, knew she was gone, and gone for good. But see she had
gotten under his skin, way under, and well, and that was that.
Just as Luke was thinking about that last thought, that heart-tearing
thought, he decided, wait a minute, maybe she didn’t get the note, maybe he had
forgotten to put a stamp on it and as a result of those maybes he fished around
his pocket to see if he had some coins, some telephone coins, and started out
of the house prison to make that late night pilgrimage creep, that midnight
waiting by the telephone creep. Walking up the street, walking up the now
familiar night street-lighted against the deathless shadows Hancock Street he
noticed a jet black ’59 Impala coming his way, coming his way with Jamie Lee
and Lucy sitting so close together that they could not be pried apart with a
crowbar. Luke thought about that scene for a minute, steeled himself with
new-found resolve against the love hurts like in the old love 'em and leave ‘em
days, threw the coins on the ground without anger but rather with relief,
turned back to his house wondering, seriously wondering like the fate of the
world depended on it, what pet names they Jimmy and Lucy had for each other.
