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Pranksters in Wonderland

May 10th, 2015 · Real-life Adventure Tales, Weird Things About Me



Somewhere in America . . .

Pranksters are gathering . . .

and in this case it was Wonderland.

A dozen acres of wilderness hills and valleys, with a sunken natural amphitheater on the highest point of land in sight.


150 or so Pranksters came from across the land, traveling by every mode there is to play the play like only Pranksters play.  No passengers.  Everyone here’s a participant, a character — a bunch of characters.


And there were babies, under 10s, tweens, teenagers, 20-somethings and every-somethings through their 70s … everyone interacting on an equal level … no cliques … no divisions … no separation … and everyone in a beaming mood all weekend … nuthin’ but fun on so many levels in SO many locations — the house, the front porch, the covered shed, the clothes painting area, the RVs, the Bertha Bus scene, the sign painting scene, the yurt, the first party tent, the second party tent, the Mad Hatter hat, the 300 section looking down on the amphitheater, the natural balcony level, the stage pit, the bonfire pit, the camping scene, the chess table and other installations in the field — that’s about 17 different scenes I can think of right off the top … 



And then there’s the part where right afterwards people were saying things like . . .

“One week ago, I left New York to see people I’ve never met and to experience something like I have never experienced before.  It was by far the most memorable weekend of my entire life, and I cannot express my love enough for each person I met.  You all radiated an energy that I can’t even put into words.  And you brought the spirits that couldn’t be there right to the party.  Sometimes you invite spirits and they don’t show, but with this amount of positive energy and love in the air, the spirits couldn’t help but be there with us!”

Or . . .

“One day at your party was better than my entire vacation in Hawaii last week.  It’s one thing to be in paradise, but quite another to be around incredible people.

I just lost two of my mentors in the space of a few days and I was feeling pretty down about it all … and suddenly there I am standing in front of the stage … talking to some magical people … and seeing this amazing performance art … then in the mist of the music and the night … the message came from the singer on the stage … “anything is possible.”

Or . . . 

“I met my best friends that I never met before … I feel so rich.

I can’t even begin to to describe how much fun being a Merry Prankster has been!  I’ve met some of the Greatest People that I would have never known if it wasn’t for taking that chance last summer.  I have over 100 New Friends (and some I’m still meeting) from all over the country.

Or then . . . Original Bus Prankster Anonymous saying . . . “You have no idea … I’m already rebelling and having thoughts of cross-country driving … the wonderful thing is you awoke this sleeper … and nothing is the same anymore ….. ”


It was three days … but really it was five … or two weeks for some … or six months for a few … and lifetime for all.  Leading to this place.

Like … up on the hill, a giant 15 foot high top hat … and if you cracked the hidden slit in the side — there was a full Mad Hatter’s tea party going on inside with teapots and teacups and teaspoons and a full compliment of Mad Hatters sitting around speaking Jabberwocky.  

Or there’s Grandma Tigger baking cookies by day and blowing fire by night.


Or there’s the kids painting their faces and putting on a play on the main stage.  Or there’s Anonymous who jumped on The Bus in Calgary in ’64 holding court with tales of The Road.  Or there’s me on stage reading On The Road with the Adam’s Ale soul-swingers behind me, or my own Road Tales with JoJo Stella gettin’ stellar with the groove.  Or there’s Aretha’s trombone player blowin’ his rhythmic squonks across the land – and who said of my humble performance, “You made lightning strike.”

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Pranksters.  Nuthin but Pranksters.  And they’re nuts!  You know the type.  A little too crazy to fit in naturally with regular folk … they’re always on Adventures … and playing … and goofing … and smiling … and hugging.  And man! … a first-thought best-thought was to add up how many miles each person travelled to be here.  Could you imagine?!  East Coast, West Coast, Gulf Coast, Canada … but then … you know the way sports are covered? — with every hit & shot & everything counted? — what if you counted all the hugs n kisses over this weekend?!  We’d be burying Babe Ruth numbers.


Maybe a lot of groups feel this … and I’ve been in some pretty huggy close families … from Landmark Forum to MTV Networks to Deadheads United … but there was an inhibition-free love here I haven’t experienced before.  Cool as the best work family collectives may be, you’re prolly not the You you are on a secret weekend getaway.  Or in those self-help groups, you have to buy your way into their advanced programs before you’re in a really special place.  But being a Prankster costs nothing.  You don’t even have to like the Dead — although most people do. :-)

It’s a mindset.  It’s about being playful and participatory.  Maybe you’d find this in a cool theater company’s get-together.  Or an invitation-only musicians party.  And oh my gawd — the music!



Part of Wiz’s whole idea, which he worked up with Yoda, was that all the musicians would play together.  He hired four killer bands of the kinda players you could listen to all night … and that’s just what the hell happened.  Saturday there was no break in the music from about 8PM till 5 in the morning.  A non-stop improvised amalgam of jazz-level cats merging in and out of the flow for nine hours.  It was musical medicine alright … just as Yoda prophesied.  And meanwhile on the hillside next to the stage there’s a dancing psychedelic light show playing out among the trees as people dance in it and dogs run through chasing the lights causing wolfian sculptures of shadows dancing to the Fire On The Mountain.  And then an octopus appears . . .


And then there’s this part where everybody paints or performs or pranks or cooks or makes installations or photographs or cleans up … or lots of the above … and it’s this communal gathering with not just people being nice to each other, but everybody letting their freak flag fly and creating whatever it is they do.  Maybe that’s playing with somebody and tweakin’ their Twanger.  Maybe that’s bringing 50,000 beers and giving them away like Gubba, Uncle Mike and Hootie did — after flying in from Vancouver and Albuquerque.  Or maybe it’s tracking down one of the original Bus travellers and flying her in like Moray, the laugh-after-every-line Babbs of the Next Generation, did.  Or maybe it’s arriving with a half dozen costumes for a three day party.  Or maybe it’s becoming a Butterfly and dance-flying all around the garden.



Whatever it is — everyone brings it.

And the whole gall-darn point is — it can be done anywhere, by anyone.  It’s just upping your Prankster game, and beaming in on those who shine.  Weir everywhere.

But of course this one was silly special.  The first Family Reunion after the 50th Bus Tour last year that brought all the Pranksters out of the woodwork.  And now with The Summer of The Dead … and everything going on in Chicago in July … this is obviously a springtime to feel free to freak freely — “Let your freak flag fly,” as Crosby put it — letting out whatever’s inside that wants to emerge.  That’s the Prankster ethos.



As I talked to people all weekend, from kids to old folks, there was a leprechaun glisten in their eyes, an electric wildtude, a Prankster twinkle.  Nobody here was normal.  Everyone was touched and screwy in their own way.  Didn’t fit in.  Reminds me of a line in my own book about Jack’s friends being odd ducks.  I dunno, but it worked for him, and it’s working for me.  The weirdest and most twinklingly playful people around you are prolly the ones you wanna get closest to.





For more Pranksterness — here’s when I first met Ken Kesey.

Or here’s The Pranksters at Woodstock.

Or there’s always The Pranksters on a Mission.

Or the Prankster / Beat spirit alive at a show in the Village.

Or here’s a Prankster Adventure with the Cassadys.


Photos by Jeremy Hogan, Wizard, Gubba, Joanne Humphrey & Brian Hassett

Story by Brian Hassett

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Ken Kesey at The Jack Kerouac Conference

April 19th, 2015 · Kerouac and The Beats, Real-life Adventure Tales

Then Along Comes Kesey


. full_cover12 copy

Excerpted from “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to Jack Kerouac

available now.


I was well into Jack — and this whole conference kicked that up a few dozen notches — like it did everybody else — but The Chief and The Boys (the Grateful Dead) — those were the magic beans I wanted to come home with handfuls of.  So I immediately parlayed myself into being Kesey’s handler — the guy who was supposed to make sure he was where he was supposed to be.  Good luck with that!

His first event was a big press conference with Allen and Burroughs.  And of course he’s late.  Way late.  I’d called him at the house where he was staying, and he promised they were just leaving.  Like, an hour ago.

After much pacing and looking back and forth from my watch to the furthest cars driving anywhere near — Kesey finally just “appeared,” all alone, blissfully walking up the sidewalk … and I was quickly learning what was known as “Buddhist time” in Boulder:  Things were supposed to happen at a certain time.  Unless they didn’t.

You’re immediately struck by his size and stature, and I don’t just mean literary reputation.  This was a big man — a wrestler with a tree-trunk neck, a barrel chest, and Popeye forearms; a mountainman with ruddy cheeks and glowing skin; but more impactful than anything was his ever-present smile, his big, easy and infectious laugh, and the Prankster twinkle perpetually flashing in his leprechaun eyes.

“How was the trip here?” I asked.

“Great.  We drove 40 hours non-stop,” and he turned and smiled a wide one in pride at their Cassady-like achievement.  In fact, I’d hear him tell people this for the next week.  “All the way from Eu-gene,” he’d say, emphasizing the first syllable and not the second, like he always did.

This all sounded well and good and very On The Road and In The Spirit and all that, so I never broke it to him that I got here from Portland, which is furthur, in 42 hours — and I didn’t even have a car!  Smoke that in your pipe and hold it.

As we speed-walked the sidewalk to the gig, he also shared, “It was a return trip.”  I looked at him. “My pa packed up the family and moved us from right near here to where we live now.  I was born not far from here.  Smack in the middle of the war he up and moved us all to Oregon, been there ever since. But this was my first home.”

And then, oh man!  That press conference was sumpthin!  I’ll just say straight out — there are very few people I’ve been around who change a room just by walking into it, but Kesey’s one of them.  This was just the first of many times I would experience it.  It has to do with energy, there’s no other way to explain it.  People radiate energy, and I saw the effects of Kesey’s many times.  He’d enter a room, and the whole space would change, even for people who didn’t know he was there or who he was.  It would get louder and more animated.  He was this huge splash in the energy pool and ripples would roll across the room, hit the far wall, and come rolling back again.  Mind you, he was also partnered with his Lieut. Babbs, the former Vietnam helicopter pilot and Senior Prankster who’s got a bellowing baritone to match his big Oregon frame.  So . . . things change when they walk in a room.  As they did to the nines in the Glenn Miller Lounge at this press conference.

Lined up next to each other were Babbs, Ginzy, Anne Waldman, Burroughs and Kesey in front of the microphones and cameras and tape decks and standing-room-only reporters.  The first question was to Kesey, and he was off, galloping with words and thoughts and obscure references, and leaning forward into the questions, not sitting back in his chair, and playing the room, merging the artists and audience like the best musician magicians can do.



The one and only time my trusty Kodak Instamatic X-15 screwed up and took multiple exposures was with Kesey and his convertible.


You can order a copy of the book from CreateSpace here . . . or Amazon here.


For more from the Boulder Beat Book — check out Meeting Your Heroes 101.

Or here’s . . . Who All Was There.

Or here’s another part about Jack’s wife Edie and best pal Henri.

Or here’s the part where we arrive at Red Rocks for the Grateful Dead’s show as part of the conference.

For a vivid account of being at the historic “On The Road” scroll auction — check out The Scroll Auction.

For a story about the London “On The Road” premiere at Somerset House — check out this sex & drugs & jazz.

For a great story of the world premiere of the new shorter final version of “On The Road” — check out this Meeting Walter Salles Adventure!

For a complete overview of all the Kerouac / Beat film dramatizations including clips and reviews — check out the Beat Movie Guide.

For an inspiring and colorful description of being at a Beat jazz-&-poetry reading in Greenwich Village — check out Be The Invincible Spirit You Are.

For a story about Henri Cru’s birthday — check out The Legend Turns 70.

For an account of the historic Beat show at the Whitney Museum in New York — check out Wailin’ at the Whitney.



by Brian Hassett


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The Grateful Dead at Red Rocks

March 7th, 2015 · Music, Real-life Adventure Tales



With all the energy peaking over The Grateful Dead’s 50th anniversary shows, here’s a little excerpt from my upcoming book — “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to Jack Kerouac” — that shows part of why we keep coming back.

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These shows at Red Rocks in ’82 were part of the largest gathering of Beats ever assembled, before or since — and The Grateful Dead played the half-time show.

Here’s what it was like as we arrived . . .


And man — what a scene!  A Grateful Dead party on the top of a gorgeous red rock mountain with a natural amphitheater carved right into it!  And the colors immediately start to kick in — 10,000 tie-dyes, maybe more, tripping through nature’s brilliant rock masterpiece to nature’s brilliant rock band under a brilliant multi-hued sky at a giant family reunion.  Everyone’s infectiously smiling, and hugs are free n flowing.

There’s girls in short shorts and bikini tops, and guys in short shorts and no tops.  There’s colorful clown costumes complete with jester bell caps, and straight looking doctors and lawyers and such with close-cropped hair, ironed alligator shirts and expensive watches … coming to their 100th show.  There’s people walking around with giant backpacks like they just came down from the Himalayas, and unencumbered wide-eyed Coloradans at their first show, meandering in mouth-opened silence.

Moveable feasts surround every car, van, customized truck and psychedelic school bus — every one with a different state’s license plate — and you can just walk right up and start talking to anyone who looks interesting.  “Strangers stropping strangers just to shake their hand …”

Veterans could talk to veterans, but someone at their first show was absolutely golden and had an All Access Pass to everything.  Deadheads really make a fuss over show virgins — anyone who has the interest and the courage to make the trip is immediately embraced.  It can appear to the uninitiated like a most intimidating world that’s functioning on a very evolved party level — and if you haven’t been through the arc of a night even once, well, help’s on the way.

Which reminds me of a beautiful moment from the Dead’s Rainforest Benefit a few years later at Madison Square Garden — the ninth of a nine show run when they broke the Garden record for most sell-outs at the world’s most famous arena by anything other than a sports team.  All sorts of special guests joined them that night — Mick Taylor, Baba Olatunji, Jack Casady, Bruce Hornsby (who later became a member of the band for about a year and a half!), Hall & Oates (?!), and … The Muppets via satellite!!  And at one point Suzanne Vega came out, this petite fragile sensitive singer who I was hanging with on the bar stools at Folk City in the early ’80s when we were all regulars there and before she became famous.  So this now well-known tiny delicate flower walks out onto this giant dark and Deadly stage in this roaring arena full of the only unbroken chain of raging concert goers since the sixties, thinking, “We aren’t in Folk City anymore!”  But the beautiful part was — with this petrified little bird at center stage and all the spotlights on her, Jerry walks from his normal spot in the shadows by his amps to the front and center line and stands right beside her and looks to her and plays to her and smiles to her … and carries the whole room with him.  He gave her his 100% attention, and by so doing, he brought this whole crazy rock ‘n’ roll audience with him — and graciously handed them to her.  It was the most touching generous beautiful thing.

And that’s the spirit we DeadHeads show to everyone, especially the most fragile among us.

And on a whole other level — there’s countless tour-heads strolling the scene holding up gorgeous hand dyed, hand lived t-shirts for sale, and quickly flipping them around so you can see the back as well.  Asking 15, but they’ll take 10.  Some are printed with classic all-purpose Dead lines — “The bus came by and I got on” — and others are customized just for these shows with “Dead Rocks” or “Mountain Dew” along with the dates.

In between unicyclists and bike riders and girls twirling hula hoops are people hawking bumper-stickers like “Grate things happen to Good people” and “Who are The Grateful Dead and why do they keep following me?” or buttons with the original family motto “The Good ol’ Grateful Dead” which was first winked between the knowing as early as 1966, or carrying bags of gooey-gum-balls (basically, round pot brownies), or there’s a long-haired girl in a long-flowing summer dress with tinkling ankle bracelets passively carrying a small rack of homemade jewelry as she silently and blissfully wanders the rows of cars in the spiritual belief someone will just walk up and buy one.  And someone does.





You can order a copy of the book from CreateSpace here 

. . . or Amazon here.


For more on the book you can check out Meeting Your Heroes 101.

Or here’s where you can check out Who All Was There.

Or here’s another part about Jack’s wife Edie and his best pal Henri.

For a vivid account of being at the historic “On The Road” scroll auction — check out The Scroll Auction.

For a story about the London “On The Road” premiere at Somerset House — check out this sex & drugs & jazz.

For a great story of the world premiere of the new shorter final version of “On The Road” — check out this Meeting Walter Salles Adventure.

For a complete overview of all the Kerouac / Beat film dramatizations including clips and reviews — check out the Beat Movie Guide.


by Brian Hassett


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The Wrecking Crew film review

February 8th, 2015 · Movies

Pet Monkees & Other Oddities




So … hold on — the guys who made Pet Sounds were the same people who made the The Monkees’ “music”?!  And the goofy band on those Sonny & Cher albums were the same cats who played The Byrds’ Mr. Tambourine Man?  What?!  Crazy!  But true.  And they have a great story — told by the players themselves in this new documentary The Wrecking Crew — which was the name they were dubbed by the old guard they replaced — because these whippersnappers and their new-fangled rock n roll was “wrecking” the music business.

What happened was — because L.A. was where television and movies were being made, they built a lot of different recording studios — and they were very busy.  Add to that the Beatlesization of the world, and by ’63 or so, the star-maker machinery for pop music was in full rage.  The old maestros of the musicals were suddenly getting invaded by smoking, bearded, dungaree-wearing beatniks.  Who could play.  A few years hence, groups of young people would form themselves into bands and this whole manufactured record-company-creation of pop stars would become obsolete, but while it happened, this same loose collective of 20 or so players made the music on everything from Sam Cooke to Paul Revere & The Raiders.

You’ll hear more Top 10 hit records in this documentary than in any film you’ve ever seen. And they’re all played by the same people! You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’, Strangers In The Night, Everybody Loves Somebody, Good Vibrations, California Girls, Help Me Rhonda, Surf City, California Dreamin’, Monday Monday, Aquarius/Let The Sun Shine In, Be My Baby, Da Doo Ron Ron, Up Up and Away (In My Beautiful Balloon), These Boots Are Made For Walkin’, Windy, Gypsies, Tramps & Thieves, Love Will Keep Us Together, Wichita Lineman, Galveston, Eve of Destruction, Mr. Tambourine Man by The Byrds, A Little Less Conversation by Elvis, and The Beat Goes On and on and on …

And besides all that, members of the Crew also played the famous sax melody on The Pink Panther Theme, the galloping electric guitar on the Bonanza theme, that ridiculous Green Acres song, the acoustic guitar behind the M*A*S*H theme, the Mission Impossible theme! … and Batman fer gawdsakes! Not to mention the music in Cool Hand Luke, The Deer Hunter, Cocoon, Field of Dreams, Caddyshack, Around The World In 80 Days and on and on.



And that’s a whole backstory on the film — it was made by Denny Tedesco, the TV producer son of the main guitarist in The Wrecking Crew — but in order to include the music that makes the story he actually had to do a Kickstarter campaign to raise the funds for the music rights!  He wisely started shooting interviews back in the ’90s when the Crew were all still alive, and it was finished as a film in 2008, but has taken until now to get the licensing fees paid!

The documentary itself is really fast-paced and snappy, with choice stories of how licks were written and what life was like for a working session player.  One of the producers had a great line — “If you want to be successful in this business — never say no until you’re too busy to say yes.”

The story’s told by not only a bunch of the core Crew themselves, but also Brian Wilson, Leon Russell, Frank Zappa, Cher, Nancy Sinatra, Glen Campbell, Jimmy Webb, Lou Adler and a host of others. Basically these musicians were The Beach Boys. The Mamas & The Papas. The Association. The 5th Dimension. Gary Lewis & The Playboys. Glen Campbell’s band. Phil Spector’s band. Herb Alpert’s band. They were taking on more different roles than the busiest Hollywood actors.  And as the wonderful bass player Carol Kaye put it: “I was making more money than the President of the United States.”

There is a stark contrast between the lives and the music in this documentary and that depicted in other recent excellent behind-the-scenes docs including the one about another studio scene, Muscle Shoals, and about another batch of unknown but widely heard musicians, Twenty Feet From Stardom, but put together they weave a rich tapestry of the stories behind the music you’ve been dancing to your whole life.


In select theaters starting Feb. 20th, 2015.  DVD release to follow.




For another great music doc — check out Festival Express.

For another one also coming out this year — check out Johnny Winter: Down & Dirty.

For another story on the behind-the-scenes of making a hit — check out Seinfeld, The Beatles and The Beats and such.

And speaking of The Beats you might wanna check out — The Beat Movie Guide.

Or the world premiere of the final cut of On The Road at the Toronto International Film Festival.

Or here’s sumpthin on that wild Dylan movie I’m Not There.

Or for another great ’60s music story check out My Dinner With Jimi by The Turtles’ Howard Kaylan.



by Brian Hassett


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Merry Pranksters on A Mission

January 8th, 2015 · Music, Real-life Adventure Tales

The Pranksters on A Mission to The Mission




It’s New Year’s Eve in the universe
………..and we’re on a mission.

The Wizard of Wonder called on Christmas Day.  Seems The Pranksters are needed for a little Merry Jerry conjuring on New Year’s Eve in O-Hi-o.  The official good-time resident Grateful Dead-vibed band of the state, Adam’s Ale, is having their big album release party, and they’re loopin in a few friends to bring it home.

A nice addition to the magic ‘n’ mystery is — it’s being held in a church-cum-theater called The Mission, just down the road from the Football Hall of Fame in Canton — disguised as best you could possibly be by a surrounding buffer of industrial warehouses — in a hidden forbidden green-space under old-growth trees, down by a creek at the end of a road where nobody er nuthin comes snoopin ‘cept those invited with an underground wink.

And thus we Merry Pranksters from Indiana, West Virginia, North Carolina, Canada and more roll in for this Woodstockian New Year’s in an old performance space with a half-dozen jazz ‘n’ Dead-friendly bands, and a whole night of magic, madness and mischief.

It was all put together by Adam’s Ale bandleader John Welton — the kinda guy who knows all the best players in the state.  The psychedelic power-trio Big Black Galactic, the funk bomb droppers Jive Bomb, and Ohio’s own homegrown Prankster, Smilin’ Joe, are just some of the musical caravans that carried the vans fulla people from all corners out to the dancefloor and up to the rafters of surreal euphoria.

At the far end of the main room from the stage, the playful character who rescued this Mission also believes in physical play like us Pranksters and has filled the space with foosball and ping-pong and bumper pool and pool tables … and air hockey!  which this traveling prairie Canuck grew up on and hadn’t seen in millennia!  Not to mention a huge fully functioning kitchen that’s churning out everything from sizzling fresh stir-fry and pizza to bacon & egg breakfasts the next morning.


We’ve got the whole playground to ourselves — and anything goes.  Trapeze artists are flippin around mid-air in the old theater wing, fluorescent hula-hoops are spinning easy hallucinations, homemade bars are being set up next to tents in the indoor camping sections, castaway couches surrounding the dance floor are filling with necking couples, easels are set up that people are painting on, gems and jewelry are being sold by craftspeople on tables, non-stop music’s makin’ the masses move, and crazy Pranksters are tootling the multitudes as everyone becomes instant family.

Patty Cake and Stage Left, who’ve also driven down from The Great White, are bouncing balloons they’ve rigged up with glow-sticks inside, and have a bunch of clothespins with funny or prophetic expressions written on them that they’re surreptitiously clipping onto people’s clothing when they’re not looking.  Grandma Tigger and Mountain Mama are dancing around with bags full of glitter and iridescent rainbow tinsel and streamers and such and are sprinkling it on people making everyone sparkle in the flashing psychedelic lights.  The Wizard of Wonder dons a different costume every 90 minutes, adopting different characters and keeping the masses guessing all night.  Brother Pooh Bear is in charge of liquor and brought a case of crazy indy brews and ciders and wines and is manning the bar and instigating toasts every chance he gets.  And Tater Bug brought a couple of her teenage musician sons who weave their way into some jams but stay off the toast.



Before the festivities roar into gear, Gets Things Done talks to promoter / bandleader / Bill Graham-of-the-night John Welton, whose CD release event this whole shindig is, and he’s got it all mapped out, including how his band’s going on at 11 which’ll lead into the balloon drop at midnight, and he conveys the whole blueprint to us Pranksters, and all the world’s a go.

‘Cept it was the craziest show-producing thing I ever seen — and I’ve been doin this since I was 16 and have worked with said Bill Graham and stage managed and produced shows all over the world.  The way staging of multi-act shows works is — there are always delays caused by personnel and/or equipment, and the stage manager / promoter are in a constant battle with the band on stage to get them off when they’re suppose to.  And on this night, even though we’d started nearly on time, as the first band Big Black Galactic funked on including really interesting interpretations of Pink Floyd’s Money and The Beatles’ Tomorrow Never Knows —> Within You, Without You in an otherwise all-original set, as they’re getting to the end of their allotted slot, they say something from the stage to that effect, and Big Bossman John is meanwhile happily engaged in a pingpong game at the back of the house, and calls out for them to go ahead and play a few more.  Never seen that happen before.  Throwing off your own show’s schedule, especially when you’ve got a hard deadline of midnight everything is built around.  But that’s just the kind of 21st century acid test we’re living.

So, this is all happening … then this Steve-Goodman-meets-Bob-Marley songwriter Smilin’ Joe comes on, and he’s playing these funny perfectly Prankster topical tunes like Help Me Find My Way Back To My Tent and I Believe In Circles If They’re Round about not believing in false prophets but only in things you know to be true.

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Then the funk-jam powerhouse Jive Bomb fly in . . . and they need to be off by 11 in order to get John’s own headlining band on for the midnight magic — but as they’re reaching the end of their set, again, they say something to this effect, and again John calls out from the back of the room, this time from the pool table where I hear him proclaim he’s now won 38 games in a row on this table!  to keep on playing … and he says out loud, though it seemed mostly to himself, “Maybe just keep rollin till midnight,” as he cracks another ball into the corner pocket.

Here’s the guy who’s put together this whole massive event to promote the release of his CD, which should obviously have his band on stage for the key pre and post midnight slots, but he’s just la-de-da … lettin it roll out however the vibe feels.  Never seen a looser approach to show production in my life.  Bill Graham would be hemorrhaging about now.

Eventually there’s a bonafide balloon drop from the cathedral ceiling, corks’a poppin, noisemakers screeching, glitter flying, genies unleashed, wishes granted . . . and finally the headliner takes the stage — a New Orleans quality quintet complete with Dr. John voodoo vocals and squawkin’ dirty trombone with comical lyrics to balance their serious groove.

There’s the bass player formerly of Ekoostik Hookah in his satin wine-colored Jimi Hendrix smoking jacket delivering a passionate knee-dropping Isis, while the psychedelic Solar Fire Light Show flashes dancing colors all over the room, and the reggae-meets-funk-meets-jazz starts melting faces and limbering limbs as the dancefloor begins to bubble like gumbo on the grill.

And all set long the original lyrics are baptizing the room in a harmonic hymn of music as medicine — “Heal your heart with musical medicine” — “I’m closer to God whenever I hear it” — “If you’re sinkin’ down deeper than you’ve ever been, and feelin’ like you’re never gonna smile again, let the music be your friend” — “I wear my music on me everywhere I go” — “Move your body with righteous vibrations” — “You’ve got to free yourself if you want to be yourself” — “I’m gonna make a difference in the world with my songs somehow” — “It’s not the singer, it’s the song; with the best of intentions, how could it go wrong?”


And this musical Elixir rolls on for a couple ever-expanding sets through the first several hours of 2015 until by 3 or 4 o’clock the final peak’s been climbed, the final silver mined, the church bells chimed, and the guitars lined, as the final spunions spun, and the post-show groove-down’s begun.

And in the looseness of the gooseness, visionary John scheduled Sister Charmaine to step into the air on her keys and fill the mellow with her Tori Amos-like etherial voicings — a sort of choir in the church, a female voice all alone after an all-male high-energy funk-jazz powerhouse of a night — a contrast, a soprano, a Carole-King-meets-Fiona-Apple singer-songwriter at the piano to refreshingly cleanse the palette.

And as she’s winding down her solo choir, so is the audience, as people are gradually retiring to various indoor camping sites, while Gilligan’s homecookin restaurant in the back corner is quietly serving up late-night recovery dishes, and all the musicians are starting to really play together after they no longer have to play.

And up on stage after Charmaine’s gone, I notice some kids setting up — I guess in some exit filler slot — prolly sons of one of the many middle-aged masters we’ve already been groovin to.  With the room largely emptied out, and us having been raging since … well, day before yesterday … it was time for Gets Things Done to Get Some Lie-down on the giant air mattress the Wizard of Wonder set up in the Pranksters’ 10-person tent.  And … good ol’ Wiz — none of this would’ve happened without his twisting my arm from afar and settin up not only the tent but this whole Prankster summit — the Next Generation Kesey katalyst ringing the bell that our kat ears are trained for herding.

Lying down on the heavenly air in the theater’s acid echoes, my body thanks me for the horizontal while my mind dances in the sky of kaleidoscopic rainbows spinning to the music from the other room.

And this is when things get weird.

As I’m going on this wondrous visual and auditory ride floating on air … I’m thinking … there’s no way this music’s coming from those kids on stage … they must have put on a tape … drift off in the swirling spectrum … dreaming in the immensity of it … distant music scorching a soundtrack and conducting a light show … and wait … Zappa’s Muffin Man?!  … naw … must be a weird live recording … drift away … ou … nice colors … morphing fractals … drift back … is that … Peace Frog by The Doors?! … what is happening out there … must be a mix tape … ride the lovely lightning waves … but then … Crash! into the shore of … massive cheering … ???  … the room was empty … the night was over … there’s no one there … the headliner’s done … who the hell is screaming in joy?  … and who the hell is playing?!

After a couple more of these I-can’t-believe-what-I’m-hearings — that’s definitely Willie Dixon’s Spoonful ! — I realize this thing must not be over!  and roll myself off the air mattress onto solid ground where from I can rise again in the sleeping silence of this echoing church and weave back into the performance space — into one of those moments that so rarely happens …

All the other band members who were still here and a few still-standing Pranksters are gathered like for an all-star final bow — except weir not on the stage but at the foot of it applauding this … kid … who was obviously channeling something from way beyond.

I quickly learn it’s some quartet called Jojo Stella — with a 24-year-old old-timer driving the kit in a ball of sweat, a 20-year-old calmly thrumming Leshian lines on the 5-string bass, a 21-year-old goateed jazz beatnik on the keys who luckily loves the sound of the Hammond B3, and out front this hair-in-his-eyes 22-year-old singing like a young Keith Richards with gusto, or if Tom Waits was dosed and really going for it.  He’s got this bluesy, personality-rich timbre and story-telling style that’s emotive like Tina Turner, but growly and old and edgy like Howlin’ Wolf.  And then there’s … his guitar playing! … uncategorizable for sure … a Hendrix unconventional openness to playing every part of the instrument … with a thrashing Neil Young passion but with precise Jeff Beck or John Scofield jazz lines … but somehow tinged with heavy metal riffs … and all run through a filter of old-timey Robert Johnson blues.

And just as I had emerged from my psychedelic hibernation, people are steadily drifting up from downstairs, rising from sleeping couches, stirring from their nests, and the once empty New Year’s Eve-littered dance floor is filling again at what’s it gotta be? 5AM?

The eyes I was looking into before my air mattress ride were retiring eyes, satiated eyes, drifting off eyes … and now in front of the stage it was balloons popping as Frank would say — every face lit up, every jaw a little dropped, every eye beaming electrified brightness at What the Wow?! — including in the hair-covered eyes of our wailing bandleader who knows well he’s left this Earth and is flying with family in some uncharted galaxy without a net.


“Are you seeing this, too?” every face is gasping.

And Brother John who put the whole thing together for his band’s big CD release party is not only not bemoaning these kids miraculously stealing the show and having things run until 6 in the morning … but he’s on stage cheering them on!  Their hour set had grown to two, and he’s giving these little raps between songs, telling them to keep going and how they’re the new generation that’s gonna carry the torch for us geezers … just as we had advanced the story from those who came before.

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And although I was hearing Paul Simon singing, “It’s late in the evening and he blew that room away,” instead they broke into a Young Man Blues / Love Supreme medley!  And they’re not just playing them, they’re changing them, readapting with new lyrics and altered melodies into this hybrid of psychedelic jazz rock … by these … kids.

And they’re improvising like crazy … and feeding off each other and following different paths as the guitar pairs into a duet with just the bass, or just the drums, or just the keys … and this is all prestissimo — and suddenly we’re in a downstairs jazz club in Manhattan for the after-hours set when the front doors are locked and it’s just fellow magician musicians collectively powering the room and creating the elevation where any leap is possible — dancing on tightropes crisscrossing the stage — no separation between band and audience as fellow players are yelling “Go! Go! Go!” and “Yes! Yes! Yes!” just like Kerouac captured Cassady doing at the birth of Bop.

And suddenly I realize Mountain Mama is standing next to me, and we look at each other with speechless amazement.  Eventually I hear her lean in and say, “This is the kind of performance people are going to be talking about 20 years from now.  You know?  Like — Were you there?!”


= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =


Stage photos courtesy of Dancin’ Chuck Mayfield.


For more Adventures with The Merry Pranksters check out The Pranksters at Woodstock.

Or the Pranksters In Wonderland family reunion and Hitchhiker’s book release party.

Or here’s sumpthin from my book coming in 2015 about all this Prankster – Dead – Kerouac stuff.

Or for another Grateful Dead themed story here’s the time they played my 30th birthday party.

Or here’s a recent Adventure with Dr. John who was evoked a few times during the epic long night.

Or here’s the Adventure The Grateful Dead, The Band, Janis and a trainful of others took across Canada.

Or here’s where The Dead sans Jerry came back to the Garden in 2010 and blew the roof off.



by Brian Hassett

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Cat Stevens Yusuf concert review

December 2nd, 2014 · Music, Weird Things About Me

If you’re a Cat Stevens fan — and you know who you are! — stop reading this.

Close the link and go somewhere else. Anywhere.

Keep your music and memories intact. Beautiful gardens are too hard to find in this world.




Okay?  Nobody here who doesn’t want their bubble burst?

Just makin sure.




Holy historic frickin weirdness!

Apparently “Cat Stevens” died a long time ago of a self-inflicted something back in the 1970s, and he is not currently on tour.  As brother Barnaby caught me afterwards, “That was not Cat Stevens on stage. That was some guy named Yusuf playing Cat Stevens songs.”

I hate to say it … I love the guy’s music … but sadly there was just no authentic anything there.  Just . . . nothing.  “Soulless” was the word that kept coming up in my mind over and over all night in hopes of it being dispelled … but it never was.

This is a guy hitting the jukebox (which, hey! I love to hear ‘em too!), but this is not “a band” by any stretch … in fact, what WAS this?  It can’t be a money grab.  He’s loaded.  He’s not trying to reestablish himself in music or he’d have a top-notch band … and be doing more than 6 puckin shows!  Like, … what is this?  A toe in the water of a sea he swam away from a long time ago?

Sumpthin’s off here . . . and I’m a fan!  And in fact I’m a little “off” meself, and I actually think his new album rocks!  But … boy …

The Cat who wrote those songs — that beatific joyful soul bouncing on a stool, the cherubic smile … doesn’t exist … 

I flashed on Donovan — similarly cherubic guy — peace & love — same era, same dozen Top 10 Hits — you go see that guy today and it’s a very soulful experience — he makes you feel like you’re the only one in the room . . . that connection between an authentic artist communicating … with an audience he has no fear walking among … [See Security Warnings Ahead]

And who knows what it is with Yusuf’s religious stuff — but not only was there no Allah / Islam at all (and I didn’t spot a hijab all night), this was more of a Christian gospel show if anything — Morning Has Broken being a Christian hymn he turned into a hit single, and his Curtis Mayfield cover of “People Get Ready” is straight-up gospel —

but it’s more that this guy hasn’t been functioning as a band, as a performer, as a conveyor of songs — he’s superficially warm, but with these pat showbiz lines you can hear echoing from every place he’s said them for years.

And he’s definitely not a “band” guy . . . like, you know how at the end of a show the bandmates come together and hug after their amazing once-ever journey … and salute the audience for their role … yeah, well, there’s none of that here.  Bandmate connection nor audience acknowledgement.


Picture, if you will, any major singer-songwriter type person you’ve seen in the last year, or five, or ten . . . call up that band in your head . . . the one supporting Bob Dylan, Paul Simon, Van Morrison, Leonard Cohen, Paul McCartney, Phil Lesh, Roger Waters, Robert Plant … all similar hit-rich people from the same era … where you wouldn’t even need the front guy those bands are so good.  I mean, I saw Gordon Lightfoot last year — and his band was better than this!
And by that I mean — they were part of the equation, the conversation, the storytelling, participants, accents, taking a solo for a ride … some fuckin purpose other than musical wallpaper.

But then — when the players are set back 25 feet away from the leader in the far corners of the stage, in the dark, with the rhythm section separated from the keys & guitar by a 50 foot train station such that they can’t even see each other — it’s pretty hard to lock into a groove.

And then there was the part where — you know how you hit the men’s room right after a show — I can only speak for the pants side of the divide — but people are whoopin’ and singing the songs and “Hey, wasn’t that great?!!”  And, “How ’bout THAT!”  And everybody’s yippin and yappin and jazzed from the magic they just experienced . . . but the basement of Massey Hall (the only men’s room in the joint) was a fuckin morgue.  Not one person was saying a thing — it was creepy ominous weird — and this is a huge bathroom with like 50 guys in it — and … dead.  Nuthin.  Like when you’re at a sporting event and the home team’s lost and no one’s talking about it and everyone just wants to get out of there.

Oh — and then before it started ! … don’t get me started!  . . . all I’m sayin is, there’s sumpthin screwy in the belfry.  You won’t believe it but . . . so, fer one, it was this whole ticketless ticket scheme to circumvent scalpers — which is admirable in theory — except … they have to check every single person’s credit card and print a ticket — and even every guest’s photo I.D. … for why?! — and there was a line around the block from 6:00 til 9:00 . . . for an 8:00 showtime …

and THEN half the time when people got to the door the credit card scanner didn’t work — and they had to go stand in a second line … and it’s like minus ten celsius — and they’ve been waiting for an hour on the first line!
Good times!

and THEN there’s the full blown walk-thru airport metal-detectors … with guards and wands … and you put your stuff in this grey bin while you walk thru and they search you … sick shit.  Over the night I talked to a bunch of longtime Massey staff and they’ve never had anything like this.  And even the will-call guests like Ron Sexsmith I spotted … had to empty their pockets and go thru full-on full-body metal detector.  Any of my showbiz friends ever remember seeing this?

and THEN … you can’t take photographs! . . . maybe with a flash, sure, I can understand that … but people paying 2 or 3 hundred bucks a seat should be able to take a lousy picture with their phone for their kids — especially since they couldn’t buy them tickets cuz a person could only buy two.  And so all night there’s these photo narcs running around poopin on these pleasant aging beatific hippies just wanting to have a good time one last night in their life.

and THEN you couldn’t even stop pre-show in front of the stage to check it out — seriously … I mean, like, a half hour before the show … just standing there checking out the stage gear … and “You can’t do that.”  What?

At one point I circumnavigated them, and got talking with the guitar tech, cuz I wanted to ask about that cool lookin National electric he’s playing.  And the guy says, “It’s a piece of shit. A $3,000 piece of shit.” :-)

And then the fuckin security narcs swoop in and that’s the end of that little chat.

So . . . all this shit’s goin’ on …

and then … “Cat Stevens” comes on stage … right? … except it isn’t Cat Stevens at all.  Whoever this guy is, he’s definitely not Cat Stevens.  And he should stop using his name.

And for sure I dig — despite the fatwa and all that shit … this cellularly walking Cat-Yusuf human was given the Nobel “Man of Peace” Award, and gives tons of money to charities and stuff, and I’m sure in his weird convoluted heart he’s trying to do good things … but … music’s sure low down on that totem pole.

remember “I hope I die before I get old?”  How that made so much sense when we were dumb.  I mean, young. … before we learned that artists can, y’know, grow.

This is really a case where a guy retired from the big leagues long ago, and never really kept up his chops … and now he’s comin back in the World Series … at least he’s chargin World Series prices for a nearly seven-game series of theater shows … and he’s comin in with these School of Rock kids backing him singing the old hits … passionlessly … I mean, beyond the showmanship way that he pretended he gave a shit, it was so fucking inauthentic … I got the feeling he didn’t even “get” his own songs.  Or at least didn’t give a shit.  Maybe I’ve been blessed and spoiled over the last many years seeing all the masters I mentioned above, but this was the least authentic musical show I’ve attended since I can’t remember.

Here’s this guy singing, “If you wanna sing out, sing out, … If ya wanna be free, be free …” who brought the first airport metal detectors into Massey Hall, and won’t let his fans take a picture of him on stage or stand in front of it.  It’s a pretty fuckin funny idea of freedom this guy’s got.

And, y’know, I keep trying to get to the music here to tell you about it … but there was just so much bullshit in the water … and it was so phoney … just … Not Real.  And I’m 10 rows back on the floor right in front of him.  This is not a real guy makin real music.  And the kicker — his new album is rockin.  If he’d only apply himself, this guy might get somewhere.

On the upside, they got a really purdy (Peace) Train Station set and bigsky backdrop … dressed ‘er up mighty fine, but, Musicians Alert: if you weren’t in on a song, you had to sit on a bench outside the faux Train Station acting like you’re hot and waiting for a train …

And musically . . . every fucking song was 2½ minutes or less, made to Casey Kasem / Jack-radio Jackshit order.  I mean, really?  The only time he broke out of the rote bullshit was when he was playing the new stuff.  Which is so weird!  I mean, maybe he can grow this groove . . . there’s an optimistic line to follow . . . and maybe someday he’ll get back to the promised land of soul in sound.

In the meantime, I’ll always have the memories of hearing Peace Train at Massey Hall — but boy was it weird!

If you wanna hear the hits of Cat Stevens sung in the original voice you can theoretically do that in one of 6 theaters in North America.  And if you’re there and close your eyes you can maybe hear it like you once heard it … but if you opened your eyes and looked at this guy, in so many ways … he’s not there.  So … keep that original image and sound alive … “preserve your memories” as Paul Simon put it.

Cuz like a lot of others, Cat Stevens died in the ’70s.





For some other musical Adventures . . .

Check out the time The Dead, The Band and Janis took a rock n roll train trip across Canada on the Festival Express.

Or there’s the time Paul Simon did Graceland in Hyde Park with Ladysmith Black Mambazo, Jimmy Cliff and loads of others.

Or here’s the great Johnny Clegg recently at a small venue Toronto show.

Or here was when Neil Young was at this same Massey Hall doing both acoustic and electric back in 2007.

Or here’s the Dr. John in Toronto adventure.

Or here’s the time Dylan showed up at a Springsteen Stadium at Shea Stadium.

Or here’s the time John Lennon left the public sphere not long after Cat Stevens did.

Or here’s the time The Grateful Dead played my 30th birthday.

Or in general here’s the RockPeaks greatest live performances ever captured on film.



by Brian Hassett

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Allen Ginsberg photo exhibit

November 4th, 2014 · Kerouac and The Beats, Poetry, Real-life Adventure Tales

Kaddish in Canada


We Are Continually Exposed To The Flashbulb Of Death

The Allen Ginsberg Photo Exhibit
University of Toronto Art Centre
Sept. 2nd – Dec. 6th, 2014

So, here’s a weird trip!

I’ve been going to Beat gatherings for 30 years — and even at the very first one — the Kerouac SuperSummit in Boulder in ’82 — I actually knew a couple of people — the beatific publishers Arthur & Kit Knight who I’d hung with at an NYU book fair the year before.  I’ve been to about 50 billion of these things since, both mega-huge conferences and tiny club readings — but never once where I didn’t know a single person!  It’s always an “old home week” of hugs n howdies at these things … but here I was for the first time walking into this nearly naked gallery all alone … no schmooze, no booze, no wailing music from a bandstand in the corner, no cluster of smokers out front.  No one.

But tons of Allen!

The show’s on the University of Toronto campus, which is a trippy other-world to begin with — one of those massive, sprawling, tree-filled labyrinthian fantasylands of old stone castles and planetariums and co-ed touch football games in the rustling leafs with Marshall McLuhan’s ghost breezing around.  I finally found the show in the very back of a dark cluster of galleries in some wing of one of the hundred buildings, and the whole hour + I was there, there was all of one couple and two other lone women who wandered around for a few minutes … once again reminding me, “I’m not in Manhattan anymore.”



The wall inside the front door.


A funny thing — they’re playing, fairly loudly over some crystalline speakers mounted in the ceiling corners of each of the five big rooms, Allen reading Howl and Kaddish from 1959, and Father Death and some other meditations with the harmonium.  Somehow in clean and proper Canada, his shocking candid candor sounds as jarring here as it probably sounded in middle America in the 1950s. Ya just don’t get a lot of “fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists” round these parts.

About 200 photos are on display of the nearly 8,000 that came with the massive archival bequeath.  For old beatniks, there’s not a lot new here, but … there were a lot of shots that included ol’ Allen’s peepee.  Those pics you’ve seen of him nekked but covering up also had other shots on the same roll … and for just a moment it did feel like I was back in New York again.



 (Taking photographs was strictly prohibited, you understand. ;-) )

It’s a collection of all Allen’s greatest hit snapshots — Jack on the fire escape with his brakeman’s manual in pocket; on the beach in Tangiers; Burroughs & Jack play-fighting on the couch — and most of them printed on large 18″ x 12″ paper with Allen’s chickenscratch captions nearly big enough to be readable! . :-)




My favorite might have been the bearded Lucien Carr portrait sitting at a dining room table in 1986.  Besides the touching capture of a quiet touch of grey moment between two brothers, photos of him post-1950s are so rare period.  And a crazy thing — in discussions about Lucien on one of the Beat message boards a few months ago, something hit me — I bet in some weird ironic way, Lucien may have been the most widely read Beat of them all, with all his years writing wire copy for the U.P. that went into countless newspapers all over the world.  I thought this was some pretty new thinking — I’d certainly never seen anyone suggest it before — because we all want Allen, Jack or Bill to be The Beat Supreme …  Well, imagine my surprise when I squint at Allen’s chickenscratch under the Lucien portrait and he’s written, “More eyes read his anonymous wire-service prose than Jack K’s & mine all these years, I’ll bet.” !! . :-o 




There was one flat glasstop display table in the middle of each room with various smaller snapshot prints and other ephemera, and the whole museumy nature of the space brought flashbacks of that historic Whitney show in ’95.

It’s great that Allen’s photos have been preserved, and that exhibitions are rightfully devoted to him, but even with his peepee hangin out, Beat shows just don’t feel right in these pristine, fancy, sanitized, sterilized showrooms.  As much as everyone in the Beat world strove for that imprimatur of respectability — me and Allen included — once there, it just doesn’t feel like home — and only made me long to be sitting on some wobbly chair in a small crowded club listening to barely published poets howling out their lives.






For the first-meeting-Allen story at that Jack summit in ’82 check out Meeting Your Heroes 101.

Or for another tale from that crazy Boulder adventure soon to be a major motion picture check out this Allen, Edie & Henri Cru riff.

Or for, say, a Carolyn & John Cassady adventure there’s always that classic Northport Report.

Or here’s a tribute to my late great friend Carolyn Cassady.

Or here’s the account of being at the auction when the On The Road scroll sold for a world record amount.

Or here’s a piece on that historic Whitney Museum Beat show referenced above.

Or here’s a poetic riff on the Beat poetry-&-music shows in the Village that I pined for in this sterile art gallery.

Or here’s the On The Road movie premiere in London adventure story that began at Carolyn’s cabin in the woods.

Or here’s me tellin some tales of all this stuff on YouTube.



Brian Hassett

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Johnny Winter: Down and Dirty movie review

October 19th, 2014 · Movies, Music

Up and Clean –

How “Down & Dirty” Captured Johnny Winter’s New Spring




Johnny Johnny Johnny … where for art thou, Johnny?

In the long strange lineage of tragic rock n roll irony — see: Keith Moon sitting in the “Not To Be Taken Away” chair on his last album cover — Johnny Winter made his “comeback” documentary just in time to leave the building.

Johnny was messed up for decades — mostly methadone, booze & bad management — and all in his already compromised albino’s body.  The hero of the story turns out to be one Paul Nelson, who joined Johnny’s band as his complementary guitarist, and finally “risked everything” by telling Johnny his manager was killing him.  He knew he could be terminated on the spot, but instead turned out to be The Hundredth Monkey — the final person in a long line who told Johnny to get away from the man who was keeping him too “medicated” to think — yet another tale of a music business slimeball taking advantage of the very artist he was being paid to protect.


Paul Nelson & Brian Hassett at RIFF opening night.

With his new guide’s guidance, Johnny was weaned off anti-depressants, booze, methadone, cigarettes, and pot, in that order, and came out of the darkness and into the light.  Once this happened and he was lucid and presentable for the first time in decades, Paul told the record label it might be a good time to do a documentary.  As the fates would have it, shortly after this, a Texas-born, New York-based indi film & video maker named Greg Olliver heard Johnny spryly soloing on an NPR interview and approached the label about making a film on the still living legend.  And as the fates would furthur have it, the guy turned out to be a true auteur with a storyteller’s vision and musician’s timing who basically ended up shooting and creating the whole optical opus himself.

This could never have been made back in the day when you needed a crew with lights and sound and production.  It was shot entirely on a small Sony digi in such close backstage / bus quarters even one more person would have been too much.

This may be the most open, honest “warts n all” rock doc you’ve ever seen.  The Beatles and Metallica may have faught on camera, but this is a senior citizen surrounded by “family” who long ago stopped giving a damn what anybody thought.

This has the raw confessional intimacy of the Maysles’ “Salesman” — except it’s about a famous public figure.  Almost universally, entertainers (and their handlers) overly manage every image, every soundbite, every split second of exposure.  Johnny, being from another century and another planet — Bluesmania — just doesn’t give a shit about bullshit.  All he ever cared about was the sound his fingers could make, and the stories his smoker’s cords could sing.  Once filmmaker Olliver passed the entrance exam, he essentially became part of the band, and was there when Johnny woke up, went to bed, and everything in between.

And the bonus is — he’s a helluva filmmaker.  You’ll love when the movie opens and closes with “Highway 61,” fast-cut to the lightning beat of Johnny’s playing.  Then there’s the long-exposure time-lapse road shots that bring the poetry of the highway to life worthy of Kerouac.  And there’s a beautiful sequence where Johnny has (what turns out to be) the last drinks of his life on his 70th birthday in New Orleans that is the most realistic cinematic portrayal of a drunken revelry ever captured on screen — the distortion, the pacing, the volume, the confusion, the surreality, the dreaminess, the mayhem, the unhinged laughter . . . all echoing that classic Rick Danko–Janis–Jerry scene in Festival Express — with Johnny in the role of Rick.  We can love their playing, but it’s also a joy to see them playing with their friends.

As Paul confided after the opening night RIFF screening in Toronto, he saw to it that the four tall Stoli-on-the-rocks Johnny ordered only had about a half ounce of booze each.  But with his frail tiny body off the sauces, combined with Paul’s placebo psych-out, Johnny got himself quite smashed — or thought he did — and had one helluva final birthday.

This is what it’s like to be in the krewe of a blues / rock legend on the upswing.

There’s the autograph-hound scene — comedically edited, creating a funny Buster Keaton routine of the put-upon nice guy being trampled by the outside world.

We see the tricks brother Paul came up with to get his boss to eat food and drink water, the physiotherapy to build back his muscles, and the little boy’s joy shining through an old man’s body.

We see historic footage of Howlin’ Wolf, Muddy Waters, Son House, Willie Dixon, Lightnin’ Hopkins, Freddie King and all the rest who created the music Johnny built upon.


Blues Brothers — John, Muddy, Johnny & Dan.

We hear contemporary masters like Warren Haynes, Derek Trucks, Billy Gibbons, Joe Perry and others explain how Johnny inspired their approach.

We meet Edgar Winter, Johnny’s beloved younger brother, who had been kept apart from his hero elder sibling by the evil former manager, and we see them hugging again, and their vastly different lifestyles of the limo-riding rock star with hit singles that’ve been licensed up the wazoo in ads and movies and who didn’t spend his money on dope, versus the dyed-in-the-Blues junkie.  As Paul summed it up after the screening — “That’s the difference between success in rock n roll and the blues.”

We see Johnny playing records at home, recording in the studio, on the road, playing gigs, and classic TV appearances over the decades.  We see the arc of his musical life from his first guitar teacher, to playing the closing night of Woodstock with The Band as his opening act;  From B.B. King letting this 17 year old kid sit in for a song, to Johnny producing Muddy’s late career comeback album;  From his early Johnny “Cool Daddy” Winter persona as a young regional hit-maker in Texas, to getting the biggest record company advance in history at that point.

We hear him tell stories about the first Rolling Stone article mentioning him that changed the trajectory of his life, and his recent Christmas when he was given the gift of being methadone free.

We see him playing with B.B. King and Muddy Waters, and singing a passionate, monumental “Georgia On My Mind” via Ray Charles at a karaoke bar in Japan.

We hear the stories about getting beat up as a kid and the prejudice in the South — “It’s just nuts. Just cuz you’re a different color, they don’t like you.  They don’t like black people because they’re black, and they didn’t like me cuz I was too white.  It’s just stupid.”

We hear a deejay explaining how seven years ago when Johnny came in for an interview he was so out of it he gave one word answers and didn’t seem to even understand the questions.  It was so embarrassing, they couldn’t air it.  As St. Paul first began his Mission, Johnny came back and was answering in complete sentences.  And now we see him at the same radio station telling long colorful tales in full paragraphs.

This was supposed to be an upbeat story of redemption, the old “overcoming obstacles comeback” routine, until one night in Switzerland in July Johnny ran out of breath in his sleep, and this suddenly became an invaluable eulogy, a priceless profile that couldn’t be made now, any way any how.  And yes, Johnny was still alive and well when he attended the film’s world premiere at SXSW in his home state of Texas.

In the last scene in Johnny’s movie — both this one and writ large — he said, “Most of the stories about musicians with drug problems don’t end well.  But mine has,” as he laughed in his transcendent ageless twinkling send-off sparkle.


Giant hearts all around.







Some Bonus Extra Weird / Cool Things learned from “Down and Dirty“:

“What made you first pick up a guitar?” Johnny: “Chuck Berry.” !!  (and the movie has a scorching version of him doing “Johnny B. Goode” circa 1983)

He’s still playing the same Gibson Firebird guitar he bought in 1970 for $225.  (!)  And like a happily long married spouse, he still calls her, “The coolest lookin’ guitar I’ve ever seen.”

Edgar Winter played with Johnny at Woodstock.  In fact Edgar says, “Woodstock changed my life.”  And Johnny called it, “Still one of the coolest things I’ve ever done.”


Although the film is still being screened at festivals around the world, it was shot more for the small screen than the big, so I’m sure it’ll be on some movie network / Netflix / DVD store near you soon.



For another great movie on debauchery gone bad then gone good again check out Festival Express.

Or here’s a night with Johnny’s gris-gris brother Dr. John in Toronto.

Or here’s Howard Kaylan’s crazy cinematic real-life adventure in chaos My Dinner With Jimi.

Or here’s a few hundred people like Johnny & Edgar who didn’t had kids.

Or here’s some adventure stories in the Birthplace of Music at the New Orleans Jazz Fest.

Or here’s some of the greatest Peaks in the history of live music at RockPeaks.

Or here’s going to the U.K. premiere of On The Road at the palace in London.

Or here’s a night with The Dead at Madison Square Garden.

Or here’s the great Bob Dylan cinematic trip — I’m Not There.

Or here’s the night Bob showed up with Springsteen at Shea Stadium.

Or here’s The Rolling Stones via Martin Scorsese in Shine A Light.

Or here’s a night with the great Johnny Clegg in concert.

Or here’s Paul Simon doing Graceland in Hyde Park in London



by Brian Hassett      


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Don’t be Denied — “Young Neil” book review

October 5th, 2014 · Music



I’ve been waiting for this book for a long time! As a teenager in Winnipeg in the ’70s, Neil was a god to us. We drove the 500 miles to Minneapolis during grade 12 at Kelvin to see him for the first time — and to our great dumb-luck fortune, it was the Rust Never Sleeps tour!

I went and found his picture in the old yearbooks in the Kelvin library, but beyond that it was really hard to find out anything about his life in the Peg. Just like Lowell Mass ignored Kerouac for decades, Winnipeg never really embraced any person from there who did anything with their lives. It’s so sad. And so stupid.

Well — everything’s changed now! Woo-hoo! FINALLY I got to read about every gig, every band line-up, every guitar he ever played, every girl he ever flirted with, every teacher he had, every house party he went to . . . FINALLY the detailed scoop!

It feels like the author interviewed every living person Neil ever came in contact with. I happened to go to the same high school and community clubs where he played, but I gotta think this book would bring that world to life for anybody from anywhere. It was high school, it was dating, it was insecurity, it was being broke, it was a search for adventure.

But the biggest take-away for me was how Neil didn’t give up. How he kept re-approaching from different angles all the obstacles of having a band and making his way in music. Things were hopelessly bleak — no amp to play through, bandmates for whom music was far from their first priority, very limited gig options, pressures from teachers at school, a broken marriage by his parents, being a weird kid in a new town who was shy and awkward and couldn’t play sports and didn’t cotton to authority — I mean, EVERYthing was against him. This is the template storyline of somebody who went on to become some famous badguy … or one of the millions of petty criminals we never hear about.

And it wasn’t like he was some sort of genius prodigy. When you read biographies of those people, they’re so above-&-beyond and different from most of us that you can’t really imagine yourself in their shoes. But this isn’t some Stevie Wonder or Stevie Winwood playing with the masters before they’re old enough for a driver’s license. This guy was next to helpless, I mean hopeless — no babe magnet, no supernatural gifts, no money, no father figure … and stuck in Winterpeg a thousand miles from anywhere. There’s no WAY this guy should ever have amounted to anything.

And that’s the beauty of the story. And why anybody can relate to it and be inspired by it. All he did was keep at it. All he did was not give up. When Winnipeg didn’t work, he went to Toronto. When Toronto didn’t work he went to New York. When nothing else worked, he went to L.A. When bands fell apart he formed new ones. When he didn’t have an amp he played through a stereo. When his car dropped dead on the side of the road he jumped on the back of a motorcycle and kept going. He always found some way to keep moving forward, around all obstacles, against all odds. And that’s what makes this so inspiring. Don’t give up. Don’t give in. Don’t be denied. Cuz you might end up in the supergroup of your dreams.



Here’s a review of Neil’s historic return to Massey Hall in 2007.

Here’s a list Neil makes of “Great Americans” not born in America.

Here’s some of the greatest live performances in the history of music.

Here’s a couple of his peers jammin’ together — when Dylan showed up with Springsteen at Shea Stadium.

Or here’s where Bob busted the bubble at Copps Coliseum.

Or here’s the Bob movie I’m Not There.

Or here’s a trip Neil sure shoulda been on — Festival Express!



Brian Hassett

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Makin’ Movies — Carolyn Cassady, On The Road, and the Pranksters at Woodstock

September 21st, 2014 · Brian on YouTube etc., Kerouac and The Beats, Movies, Real-life Adventure Tales, Weird Things About Me



Here’s some early songs in sound and light . . .

My tribute to the late great Carolyn Cassady on the one year anniversary of her passing …



Or “The Pranksters Invade the Woodstock Museum” . . .


Or here’s a riff for French filmmaker Noemie Sornet’s documentary on Kerouac and “On The Road” . . . including the Adventure Story of the movie premiere in a palace courtyard in London . . . 


and part two including “On The Road’s” final cut world premiere at the Toronto International Film Festival and meeting Walter Salles and that whole Adventure . . .




Here’s the written tribute to Carolyn when she first passed.

Here’s the full Pranksters at Woodstock story.

Here’s the On The Road” in London premiere story.

Here’s the full On The Road” final-cut world premiere Adventure Story.




Brian Hassett

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Woodstock with The Pranksters

August 26th, 2014 · Kerouac and The Beats, Music, Real-life Adventure Tales, Weird Things About Me

The Prankster Woodstock


“I’ve got to get back to the land and set my soul free … “

Two of the coolest events of the ’60s just came together in the 21st century — and I lived it from start to finish.

The Merry Pranksters’ Bus, which pulled out of Ken Kesey’s house in La Honda on my June 14th birthday in 1964, came to Max Yasgur’s farm where Woodstock was born in 1969.  Since then each of these events — painted buses traveling around full of fun-loving friends, and gatherings in fields for weekend concert communes — have become part of world-wide culture.

But this is where it all began — with a Bang!



And this time it all began with an unplanned dash — when the Kesey krewe got cancelled last minute out of some other festival and suddenly was heading for … Woodstock! … of course! … where it was supposed to be goin’ in the first damn place!

Mmmm … home again … Gotta be there — on Max’s farm, where Woodstock as we know it began … and where the Oregon creamery boys first joined up with the New York dairy farmer.

If you don’t know the backstory on Max, he was a respected, if iconoclastic, ‘elder statesman’ farmer and thousand-acre landowner in this area of Sullivan County, NY, even though he was only 49 years old at the time of the festival.  (And what a 50th he must have had that December!)  Max was known to speak his mind and go his own way in a conservative old-world rural culture that was very much go-along-get-along.

The festival organizers were kicked off of their months-of-development site just 30 days before the festival was to begin.  Max had been reading in the local papers about the trouble “these kids” were having, and told them when they first met, “I want to help you boys. You got the raw end of the deal.”  He had a very evolved philosophy of equality and justice — a living 20th century Thoreau, he was a pro-active ethicist for whom a handshake was a binding contract — and injustice did not sit well with him.  Plus, he was also a pretty sharp businessman.

Picture Woody Allen meets Jack Benny – as Max is noodling around his farm all weekend licking the end of his pencil and jotting down every bucket of milk a cow didn’t deliver to make sure he was covered for it.  But beyond his pencilings, because it was Max, and the respectful relationship they evolved, the promoters spent months and tens of thousands of extra dollars restoring his land to what it was when they arrived.

One story, to give you the idea, and something only his wife Miriam could relate: When word spread that Max was talking to these ‘hippies’ about having this banned festival on his farm, somebody put up a sign along the Route 17B road in front of his house — “Stop Max’s hippy music festival — Buy no milk.”  When Max & Miriam saw it for the first time, as she recalled — “I thought, ‘You don’t know Max.  Now it’s going to happen.’  That did it.  He just turned to me and said, ‘Is it alright with you?’ … I knew he was not going to get past this sign, so I said, ‘I guess we’re gonna have a festival.’  And he said, ‘Yup, we’re gonna have a festival.’  And that was it.”


Max would have been a great political leader or writer or millionaire businessman if just a couple cells had been different.  But ol’ Jack Fate cast this activist philosopher as a farmer — who happened to have a perfect natural amphitheater in the same neck of the world as that little artists’ colony that Dylan happened to stumble into a few summers earlier.

And thus, in one of the festival’s innumerable karmic twists, the organizers were thrown out of the town of Wallkill and onto Max Yasgur’s farm along Happy Avenue in Bethel(hem).  There was a whole lotta Shinin’ goin’ on with this man and this moment. .

And up to his homestead we did roll — bought in 1985 by Roy Howard and now run by his widow, Jeryl Abramson, in The Spirit, letting Woodstockians the whirled over gather on Max’s land every anniversary since 1998.  And this was only the second year it’s been legal!


Jeryl Abramson taking The Oath at The Bus.


As soon as you come up the small rise onto the land — there’s Max’s house — where the deal for the festival was consummated — and where it’s honored with an official historical marker befitting an official historic figure.


And there’s … The Bus!  The Magic Bus.  The Kesey Bus.  Furthur.  The psychedelic painted school bus that spawned it all.



It wasn’t the same Beat-up 1939 International Harvester that Neal Cassady drove across the country in 1964 or Babbs drove to Woodstock in ’69, but as Father Ken maintained:  It was the same spirit — much like Max’s homestead wasn’t the actual field for the concert in 1969 — but was the same spirit being created by its current inhabitants.


The Bus at Woodstock ’69

In the Crazy Karma 2014 Dept.:  So, we hang out Thursday night in the anticipation glow, then I retired to the nearby cheap motor hotel I found for the night — flipped on the CNN — and there’s Kesey’s bus!!  . . .  wait — what?!?!  And there’s Kesey and Babbs talkin’ about La Honda and the birth of it all!  And they’re ravin’ on about Kerouac!!!  Rub my eyes and ding my bell!  It’s their series “The Sixties,” and the “Sex, Drugs, & Rock n Roll” episode!  Jack didn’t make Woodstock or ride on The Bus — but here he was being described on CNN as The Father of us all ! — the On The Road back-to-the-land mountain climbing searcher who put into poetic prose the rose we were all smelling so sweetly.  

And The Chief saw to it that they were reunited in the driver’s cockpit of the new starship to deep space.



On Friday morning, there was Zane bright and early manning the merch tent, selling everything from painted toy buses and fridge magnets (I got one of each), to prankster t-shirts and DVDs of “the world’s mightiest home movie” as the original Pranksters dubbed their footage from the first trip (I scored a shmancy original Acid Test poster t-shirt – already had the movies).

Floating around The Bus were the film crew — appropriately from British Columbia — and all sorts of Next Generation Pranksters like Chris Foster who appeared as The Wizard, Carmen Miranda, and a psychedelic cowboy over each of the three days, and actually lives in Bloomington, Indiana, where I’d just recently summited with Neal’s son John Cassady, director Walter Salles, and On The Road scroll preserver Jim Canary for the “On The Road” movie premiere.



And then there was Milton, the George Walker of this incarnation, responsibly covering the practical bases;  and Thumpah who came from the High Times Cannabis Cup tribe and had actually filmed my induction of Jack and Neal into the Counter-Culture Hall of Fame in Amsterdam in 1999.  And in the role of Babbs on this tour of duty is Lieutenant Derek Stevens making sure the operation ran with military precision.  Or at least Prankster precision.

But this was no dosed-kool-aid acid party.  It was a business, and they’re rightfully concerned The Bus is a blazing target in this crazy militarized America — so they have to play it clean.

The real action and spirit evocation was out in the woods where decades of the owners hosting events had resulted in dirt roads and footpaths and campsites and drum circle centers and full-on stages for non-stop performances all day and night.  There were deliciously elaborate kitchens making the best pizza I’ve had since New York, and a breakfast guy making vegi-rich omelets that put the best restaurants to shame — in price and quality.  Then there was the giant tent general store selling everything — camping supplies, toiletries, first-aid stuff, cigs, batteries and whatever a prankster or camper of eternity might need.

Then there were the art installations, like Christopher VanderEssen’s, who created a florescent blacklight dreamcatcher weaving through the woods —


and also custom painted clothes like the back of new Kesey Acid Test poster t-shirt — with Neal Cassady, Allen Ginsberg, The Grateful Dead and The Merry Pranksters listed as the entertainment!


Or Eddy Miller the bubble man using giant nets to create clouds of bubbles sparkling across the fields as little kids screamed in joy chasing them … 


and eyeful Canadians captured them …


It’s where you’d meet people named Dragon Fly or Band-Aide or Thumper or Normal or Sky or Lake, and every single person is saying “High” to every single other person in this church of camaraderie.  . . . “Everywhere was a song and a celebration …”

Meanwhile, back at The Bus, I ended up talking to this colorful couple, Rick and Sherry.  He went to the first Woodstock, arriving Thursday morning, parking his car on site, settin up their tent in the woods, then wandering over to the field where they found a spot 30 feet from the stage and never moved (or went back to their tent and car) until Monday!  He was wearing this cap of rainbow dreads, and she was under a colorful jester’s hat with dangling bells, and to be quite confessional, I was feeling a little under-dressed.

And they were like most of the people I met here — super smart.  This wasn’t a bunch of brain-dead loogans, but rather highly evolved explorers and sophisticated pranksters.  People who knew how to Adventure, and survive on a farm for a long weekend, and how to make fun happen.  In fact, it was over an in-depth discussion of Obamacare (not positive) that Rick & Sherry & I really bonded, and were joined by The Wizard, Chris Foster, talking through his costume, and the four of us thereafter became a fairly inseparable quartet — and by Sunday realized we would be for life.



The Spirit of Woodstock was alive — and being created by the people — not rock stars or anyone else dictating from on high.  It was an organic connection among souls who’d been driven to drive some distance to spend a formless whacky weekend in the woods.  Not only was no one aggressively drunk, but I never heard a harsh word spoken over four days.  When I first heard someone impatient and frustrated a few days later, it sounded so foreign and out of place and unnecessary and unhappy.

And that’s what these things do — the fabric of your soul becomes dipped in a rainbow dye and permanently transformed by the swirling colors of love and happiness and peacefulness and camaraderie all collectively blending together — all based on happenstance … with a purpose.  Who knows what’s going to happen or who you’re going to meet?  But tossing yourself into this tribal gathering of like-minded Adventurers, you’ll go lots of somewheres cool.  Like the endless jam sessions going on all over the fields — with the Grateful Dead dominating the airwaves — and sumpthin I never saw before — a tent with two drum kits!!


Then there was the woman running the booth for the non-profit Eden’s Rose Foundation that sells handmade alpaca clothes and hardwood carvings (including of the Ice Cream Kid and Cats Under The Stars and all sorts of Grateful Dead images) made by native tribes in the jungles of Peru and Brazil and Bolivia, and the money goes directly back to the local tribes to keep their ancient cultures self-sustaining.

And hanging here at this soulful booth I learned about “spunions” — the new term for people who are well spun and happily blazing in the middle of the night.  And in this scene — where no one is drunk and stumbling around and starting fights, but so many are so high — it really puts a lie to our drug & alcohol laws.  High people wander through the woods like a pack of wild comedians cracking each other up, their laughter heard long before you see them, or like gentle little children in a fairy tale amazed at everything they see.  Hanging at the booth and seeing all the traffic flow in and out, it would have been completely different if they were as drunk as they were high.

And in a perfect parallel corollary, the Woodstock Museum Director confirmed what friends and facility staff had already mentioned — that it was the drunks, particularly at the “country” shows that were the only times they had problems.

Anyway . . .  There was this HUGE arc of people — an anthropologists delight! — from 4 & 5 year old kids running around playing, to 70 & 80 year olds shuffling along who’d been at the first Woodstock — and both ends of the spectrum beaming beatific faces of joy.  Whatever your age, there was a gorgeous farmful of friendly people to play with.


And a funny-nice thing from Sunday afternoon — all weekend we’d been hearing excellent bands play their own stuff along with The Dead, The Band, Santana, CSNY, etc. … as you do at any of these Woodstock reunions or music festivals in the woods.  But all of a sudden I’m hearing some girl singing “Brand New Key” by Melanie!

“No way! This is so great!”  Melanie and I had a memorable flirty evening on the night of the Folk City Anniversary Concert and afterparty in New York in 1980-something, and I always thought she was the real deal — very spiritual and spirited.  So, I’m boppin’ away to this, and what does the girl singer on stage do next?  but the hit song Melanie wrote about her historic unplanned performance at Woodstock, “Candles In The Rain.



And dancing in front of the stage is Rachel, who’d been Stage Manager on the main double-stage all weekend.  You don’t meet many women stage managers period, let alone running the main stage of a major festival — with acts one after another using two stages side-by-side so each band has the other’s performance time to set up.  And they had a different act every 15, 30, 45 minutes from 9:30AM till 3AM.  Finally by Sunday afternoon here she was dancing with me and everybody else to “Candles In The Rain.”  And after it’s over we have a big hug, and I say, “How great is it to hear Melanie played at Woodstock?!”

And she goes, “And by her daughter no less!”


And sure enough … a little later I’m hangin’ at the Blue Bomber which was centrally located between The Bus and The Woods, and I look over next to me and there she is!  Jeordie, Melanie’s daughter, with her guitar player!  And the poor bastards are trying to open some nice indi beers without an opener. See … that’s the difference between our two countries — even cool Americans don’t know how to pop a cold one with a lighter.  And these micro-breweries have quite the pop with their lively brews — and I could send those puppies half-way across the field, impressing the hell out of ol’ Melanie Jr.  And suddenly we’re huggin’ n flirtin’ and I’m thinkin’ this whole Woodstock thing is alright.


Back at The Bus, there were any number of adventures.  At one point they said they wanted to go “out front” to take some pictures with The Bus on The Farm.  ‘Course I wanted to be in on that, but Prankster plans are like dreams — they might be real or they might go poof — they might be right now, or in ten days, or just a goof.

At some point I’m hanging in the woods at the dual main stages when a telepathic spark went off in me bean — “Wait a minute — maybe they’re takin’ the picture!”  And as I walked out into the clearing — sure enough — The Bus was missing!  I scooched as fast as my skinny legs could scooch me back to The Mighty Blue Bomber, jumped in to go find The Bus, and Boom! right around the corner there they were parked under Yasgur’s big barn sign!  Bolted over with my camera … just as they were coming down off the roof!  . . . Bummer!!

But there was no way I was going to miss this if I could do anything about it, so I ran over and spotted this girl Angie Lee I’d been talking to in the scene, handed her my camera with instructions to shoot away like crazy, then ran to the back of the bus before everyone got off, and climbed on up and said I had to get my pic with the Woodstock and Yasgur’s signs — which was a bit forward of me telling these stray cat Pranksters what to do — but sure enough they went for it — and it led to a whole new round of shots — with other photographers falling into the scene who’d missed the spontaneous moment earlier now catching it, and suddenly there was a whole second photoshoot going down cuz I’d insisted on it!


As my new best friend Sherry wisely says, “What’s meant to be will not pass you by.”

See … these are the truths you re-learn at Woodstock.



Or then there was the time The Bus was thinking of maybe going to the original Woodstock site and museum just a mile down Route 17B at the new Bethel Woods Arts Center.  ‘Course this plan muddled around all day until I decided I wanted to go over there for reasons also including porcelain facilities and free wifi.  So I did, parking with a nice view of the road, and sure enough before long this bright blue bus came barreling along out of the dark tree tunnel with a loaded rooftop including Thumpah tootling the multitudes with his flute and everyone whooping and waving and pranking the unsuspecting touri wandering the fancy grounds.


Furthur at the Woodstock corner — Hurd and West Shore Roads.

And just as this was happening, in the magic Crazy Karma synch that is Pranksterhood, Museum Director Wade was just leaving for the day and spotted them and screeched over in his car, and offered to let The Bus drive up the walkway to the front doors of the museum!  So, suddenly there was the larger-than-life psychedelic Magic Bus parked at the doors to Woodstock, just like the first Bus had been.  And of course Mr. Museum Director comps us all in (normally $15 per) and before you know it the unsuspecting museum goers are overrun with Camp Prankster colors and voices and giggles and music.

I hadn’t yet shown Zane the fancy Bethel Woods pamphlet that had an aerial shot of the ’69 crowd on the front cover — and a Prankster bus on the back!



And just as I’m showing him this, we turn a corner in the museum — and there it is!  A bus based on his Dad’s is the promotional and literal centerpiece of The Woodstock Museum!  And we climb aboard and … they’ve made a movie about The Bus and the Hog Farm that’s playing on the inside windshield of the bus!  And they’re interviewing Max’s son Sam … and I’m … sitting with Ken’s son Zane … in a psychedelic school bus at Woodstock watching a movie about his Dad’s psychedelic school bus at Woodstock … while Furthur’s sitting out front!

Mind = blown!


Or there was the time we all went for a Pranksters Walkabout late Saturday night, about 20 of us in a roaming nomadic crazy loud krewe with light sticks and magic wands and guitars and flutes and drums and pretty girls and silly boys making noise and begetting smiles and breaking into song as we ambled along.

At some point we found ourselves at the giant nearly abandoned 3-ring drum circle in the jungle dark, and the band members and some singers broke into funny falsetto versions of Led Zeppelin songs, while Zane’s throwing out zany one-liners like his father would — delivered dry and coming from some alternate universe.  Somebody mentioned the bell that fell off the bus and almost hit the follow car, and he goes, “That car isn’t done being hit yet.”  Somebody said, “There’s certain things that must remain unsaid.”  Zane pops, “That’s the first rule of Prankster Club.”  And it was all in perfect harmony with The Unspoken Thing — San Francisco comic and de facto Prankster Robin Williams … who we just lost and were collectively mourning.

It wasn’t dark, but it was getting there.  Comedy in the dark, but not dark comedy.  You didn’t know who was riffing unless you recognized their voice, and everyone was playing along, banging the gong, beating the drum, all with a Robert Plant falsetto as the giggling soundtrack.




Or there was that sunset moment on Sunday where I was tuned into the simultaneous sacredness of the celestial and human event, and going around suggesting to people like new Prankster Moray that I use their camera to take pics of them in that special light, when Zane picked up on what I was doing, the moment I was capturing, and he rounded up the stray cat krewe and wandered us out to the open field between Max’s house and barn and took our jumping-for-joy-Woodstock photos.


And Zane tells us this story of how his Dad would gather people for sunset and watch for the green flash of light just as the sun crosses out of sight, and of course we all do this … and I think I’m seeing flashes — but it may have been from all the jumping we just did!

Anyway, as he’s telling the story in his big booming Oregon farmer Kesey voice — he was looking me right in the eye and telling it directly to me.  And I’m thinkin’ this whole Prankster thing is alright.



Later I started riffing with the Canadian film crew, some B.C. buds that went by Colby and Puds, and even though it’s late in the proceedings I’m spewing my usual nonsense that to some people occasionally sounds articulate, and Puds sez, “I gotta interview you for the movie. Would you mind?”  It felt like I hadn’t had a shower since July or a night’s sleep since June, but The Bus was clanging it’s bell to leave for D.C. in the morning, and now the bell hath tolled for thee.

Puds starts lookin around for a set — someone’s on The Bus doin’ sumpthin’ — and he remembers the giant Woodstock banner he bought that afternoon using Prankster dollars, which was just play money they printed but were able to trade for cool shit.  So, BOOM!  We hang the flag over the inside of the back door of their equipment truck (which Zane calls, “Our trunk”) and climb inside and do a whole long interview there where I riffed on some lessons I learned from Father Ken (soon to be available in my book about our first hang), and how I could see the father in the son with his quick dry one-liners, and how the bus has influenced generations — and even in my three-days-of-Woodstock madness I knew any answer had to be 15, 30 seconds tops.  No long winding Brian stories here — conscious to speak in soundbites cuz they’re making such an epic new Mightiest Home Movie that there’s gonna be a whole lotta noodles to tootle.

And by the time we’re done, it was 10:30 Sunday night, and Lieutenant Hassett’s watchin’ his watch and knows the only nearby beer store is closing at 11, so in this wonderful living flashback to our Canadian roots, me and ol’ B.C. Puds make a last-dash Beer Run just like the old days — two wise Canucks swimming away from the ducks to try our luck and sure enough!  Bingo!  We’re bongo with bounties of brewskies for blast-off!

And after Zane and I had not really connected when I first arrived, by the end of the last day, it was just he and I together at the back of The Bus as he wound up the giant flags into ropes so he could tie them to the ship — the Stars & Stripes and the Oregon State (the only state flag in America with something on both sides, he tells me with pride) in preparation for their highway-driving departure in the morning.  It was just the two of us rapping and wrapping the show — about what worked (everything above plus the impromptu gig they did one morning that I missed), and what didn’t (they shoulda been parked down in the woods), but he had a beatific smiling calm about him that another show was successfully done, and of all the sites they visited this was the first one The Bus had been to before, and that living history was meeting living history (maybe it was me who said that) and that the two family reunions had blended so well. . And by now the Woodstockians and Pranksters have morphed back into the world around us, and maybe you can’t even recognize who we are.  And The Bus has continued it’s Trip, toootling the multitudes in Washington and New York and Cleveland and Chicago on the never-ending Road Trip started by Jack and driven by Neal and jumped on by Jerry and captained by Ken that’s still hugging hearts with loving arms and ever going  → .





And if you wanna go Furthur here — here’s the part where I compared the first Obama Inauguration to Woodstock — and one Michael Lang, conceiver and creator of Woodstock, chose to use it as the climax of his book on the matter.

Or here’s the time the Pranksters brought in New Year’s.

Or here’s the Merry Pranksters in Wonderland family reunion Adventure.

Or here’s Levi Asher’s tale of meeting the Pranksters in New York.

Or here’s an excerpt from my upcoming book on Kerouac, the Dead and Ken Kesey — about arriving at a Dead show at Red Rocks in 1982.

Or here’s a whole Prankster riff on the New Orleans Jazz Fest.

Or speaking of unusual road trips, here’s this early feature story in Relix about the Festival Express.

Or there’s my tribute to Neal’s wife and my dear friend, Carolyn Cassady.

Or here was another Road Trip where a bunch of us Beats including the Cassadys invaded Jack’s longtime hometown of Northport, Long Island.

Or here’s the tale of first meeting Allen Ginsberg, Gregory Corso, John Clellon Holmes and Herbert Huncke at “the Woodstock of the Beats” — the Boulder ’82 SuperSummit — where I also met Ken for the first time and he invited me back to his house and I wrote a whole book about it coming out later this year.

And since we’re takin about The Road and The Bus made Manhattan for the first time since 1964, here’s a Wild Tale of driving the whole length of that badboy island in one fast shot.

And since On The Road seems to be a working theme, here’s going to the movie premiere in London via Carolyn Cassady.

Or here’s the North American premiere story in Toronto where by wonderful Pranksterness I ended up becoming good friends with its director Walter Salles.

Or here’s a colorful riff on doing Beat-and-music shows in Greenwich Village with the likes of Cassady’s kids.


by Brian Hassett

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Seinfeld and The Beatles and The Beats and such

July 29th, 2014 · Movies, Music, Weird Things About Me



Larry David & Jerry Seinfeld were the Lennon & McCartney of comedy.

That’s the way I see it, anyway.

Larry was a Lennon — mercurial, opinionated, sharp tongued, bull-headed, idea generating, creatively uncompromising, a supremely gifted artist born to his medium, with an enormous elaborate expansive vision.

And Jerry was the McCartney — an equal creative master, but more easy-going, conciliatory, more camera-friendly, certainly more camera-comfortable, and definitely more “pop” and popular.

They each excelled at things the other didn’t — while collaborating in their common passion — and making each other laugh. They found their equal, their sparring partner, their riff mate, their sentence finisher, their line perfecter, their bullshit detector — or as Jerry called it, their “cross filter.”

Like Lennon & McCartney, Larry & Jerry might have ended up having successful individual careers had they not met the other, but the two forces collaborating, bouncing ideas off each other, harmonizing on both the surface and the deepest levels, created something that outshone all their peers around them.

Michael Richards actually makes the comparison here — at 19:57 (the year Lennon & McCartney met!) —


And both duos have fans who still argue over which of the pair was better!

Both the band and the TV show lasted 9 years, and the dissolution of each was a major cultural event when it happened.
Here you can hear Jerry citing The Beatles as the reason for ending the show when he did.


And they were both Fab Fours — both based on four creative characters, all of whom were masters of their domain. I mean — their instrument.

And it was the senior creative pairings who selected their supporting players, which in both cases were integral to the endeavour’s overall success.

And each one of both pairs went on to acclaimed solo careers, but in this case Larry was more the hit-making McCartney with his Emmy-winning “Curb Your Enthusiasm,” and Jerry more the reclusive John with his unannounced small club appearances and out of the mainstream (not on TV) “Comedians In Cars Getting Coffee.”

And in the synchronistic symmetry of it all, both pairings had a fellow creative genius in the booth with the same name as one of the principals — Larry Charles collaborating with Larry David, and George Martin with John, Paul, George and Ringo.

And both tandems were based first and foremost on writing — 2:30 songs or 23 minute episodes. Without the writing, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.



Early in the Seinfeld run, Jerry said, “People always ask me, ‘What show is your show like?’ And I always answer Abbott & Costello.” The rapid-fire banter — or what Jerry calls the “musical math” — runs through the whole series, especially in, say, The Bubble Boy, or the classic Kramer–Newman exchanges in The Ticket when Kramer’s been hit on the head and can’t remember his alibi. Although there was a wide spectrum of colorful characters to employ, the dialog Larry & Jerry were naturally predisposed to write was up-tempo duets.

And in further keeping with their love for Bud & Lou (as they called them) and their other comedic hero duo Laurel and Hardy, they were conscious to have the physical distinctions of the short chubby guy (including Newman) and the tall lanky guy — with the hair that started to stand straight up and make him even taller by season 3.

Larry & Jerry even bequeathed George Costanza the middle name of Louis as an homage to Lou Costello; and as Jerry says, he saw his role as the Bud Abbott straight man. He talked about some of this with places like the New York Times and Major League Baseball (and here) discussing “Who’s on first?”

The brilliant comic Larry Miller said of the Seinfeld–Abbott & Costello comedic harmony — “They’d both take a premise that it tissue thin, and just keep dancing on it.”

Jerry talks a bit about his love for Abbott & Costello here —


And here’s the ’93 Abbott & Costello special he refers to —


Their roots in the classic comic masters runs deep.

Jason Alexander said Ralph Kramden was a big inspiration for how he played George. Michael Richards talks about studying the Marx Brothers and how he consciously brought that ensemble rapport to the Seinfeld team. Among other things, the show did their take on the classic stateroom scene from A Night At The Opera in the episode where Elaine’s using a broom closet as a fake apartment. At different times Jerry can be seen doing the besieged and flustered Don Knotts. And of course the futile yet never-ending scheming by the less than honorable leads follows in a direct comedic lineage from Sgt. Bilko to The Three Stooges and W.C. Fields.

Another source Larry & Jerry drew heavily from was The Jack Benny Program where an always put-upon well known comedian played an always put-upon well known comedian of the same name, involving the typical events and wise-cracking characters in the performer’s life. And their homage extended to stylistic choices like using exaggerated facial expressions as punch lines, putting a painfully petty cheapskate front and center, and being happily impolitic, unsentimental, and unrepentant — living up to the famous Seinfeld writers/cast motto: “No hugging, no learning.” ;-)

A noted cinephile friend of mine, Ted The Fiddler, pointed out other subtle connections between the two show’s writing styles — “Having Kramer hit a golf ball into the ocean at the end of an episode as the credits roll, and then George finds a golf ball in the blow hole of a beached whale two weeks later. The idea of setting up the joke a week or more before the punch line. Each joke having three punch lines, each one getting a slightly bigger laugh. 19 major events in a half hour show … the pacing of the show. As a big Jack Benny fan, those are the echoes I enjoy the most.”

Here’s a great conversation between Larry David and Ricky Gervais about the roots and execution of Seinfeld and Curb comedy —>


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Here’s a brilliant interview with Larry David by America’s premier television critic, New York Times’ Bill Carter.


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When Jerry, Larry & Larry describe the motivation behind the writing, they use words like tight, dense, clean, no fat. In fact, the shows were so scrupulously trimmed that a “scene” might be less than 5 seconds with only one word or line of dialog before the next fast cut. Because of this precision sculpting and intricate four-story plotting, Seinfeld scripts often ran up to 70 pages — 20 pages longer than a one hour show.

Also of interest — every joke, routine, and script Seinfeld ever wrote, was originally written longhand on a yellow legal pad using a clear-barrel blue Bic pen. From his first days striving to be a comedian until the present, he’s never varied from his method.

Here’s an excellent NYT video on how he crafted his material –


The initial casting was so determinative to the success of the show. The talent and alchemy of The Founding Four was the reason it became a show. The series was such a longshot to begin with and got the smallest first season order in the history of network television — 4 episodes. If they had scored about one percentage point lower in ratings, it would not have just made the cut for a slightly longer trial of 13 episodes for a second season, which it then only barely survived to be given a full order for the third season. If the three hired principals — Jason Alexander, Michael Richards and Julia Louis-Dreyfus — had not been as exceptional as they were, it never would have survived those lean early years.

When the show first aired, prolly like most people, I focused on George. Jason Alexander was already a well-known (and Tony-winning) theater actor in my and the show’s hometown of New York, and he was the fresh television voice of the never-heard-before Larry David.

When I revisited the series in reruns, I couldn’t take my eyes of Julia, especially when she was not delivering lines — all the little things she was doing to support the moment.

And then in the last year, watching all the outtakes and interviews and the “How It Began” doc and so on, Michael Richards has absolutely blown me away. What a masterpiece of a character he created. And it was largely Michael who did that. Kramer was written (at first) as a “hipster doofus” but it was Richards who came up with the idea that Kramer was not dumber than everybody else — he was smarter. And that became the key to how the character evolved from Larry & Jerry’s original concept.

As Jason Alexander put it, “Michael drove himself to these levels of creativity that were extraordinary. I don’t think I’ve ever come across another actor that had that combination of manic drive, that off-beat sensibility, and the genetics of what his body could do to create that character. It was one of those kismet meetings of actor and role that becomes legendary.” Or as Jerry Stiller put it succinctly, “He had a mercurial mind in a weightless body.”

If there had to be multiple takes, he would play every one differently, which in turn kept his castmates on their razor’s edge. And he was so funny, as the blooper reels reveal, he regularly caused the other actors to lose it in the middle of a scene, often literally doubling over with laughter … and the whole time, he never breaks character.

And then to learn how he studied with Stella Adler (who studied with Stanislavsky, and who taught his Method to Brando, De Niro and loads of the other best actors you’ve ever seen) … and all of the on-set stories about his concentration and preparation … and how he was the first of them to win an Emmy … then won three of them … and how he’s equal parts cerebral and slapstick, and an absolute master of both … he’s now up there in the very highest pantheon of actors in my book, even if just for this one character … one who can pratfall alongside Basil Fawlty and Ed Norton as the funniest physical characters in the history of sitcoms.

He did the role for 9 years and there isn’t a bad Kramer episode. In fact there isn’t a scene — or line — that he doesn’t absolutely slay.

And as a funny aside and proof of his effectiveness, the producers eventually had to instruct the studio audiences to not applaud his entrances because it was throwing off the timing of the scenes.

I highly recommended this clip on how Michael Richards created Kramer —


On a personal level, during the entire run of the show, I was the same age as the characters, living uptown in Manhattan, working and performing in the arts (like Jerry), with all sorts of crazy friends like Kramer and George, and a girlfriend whose face looked very much like Elaine’s.

For us New Yorkers, it was kind of “our” show, and it always sort of surprised us that it was also so popular everywhere else. The issues were our issues — parking spaces, urban dating, transitory jobs — and the characters were the characters we lived with — cab drivers, street people, oddball proprietors. It was so definitively New York — even though the creators were by then living in L.A. — like James Joyce creating Dublin from France.

In fact, the out-of-town popularity is exactly why the show was picked up in the first place. The first four episodes did well on the coasts and in large urban markets, but what surprised NBC was that the ratings in small towns in the Midwest were the same as they were in New York and Philadelphia.

It really did become “Must See TV” as the NBC slogan of the time called Thursday nights because you knew whatever you did the next day, somebody’d say, “Did you see Seinfeld last night?” … plus … you really wanted to see it!

My theory is that although it was a take on big city life, Jerry himself grew up in the quintessential suburban town of Massapequa (Long Island), which could be Anytown, North America. As Jerry said of his world, “Massapequa is an old Indian word for ‘near the mall'” — with noodgy parents, gossiping friends, and the same first world problems and aggravations that everyone else was trying to shake off by watching a little tube after a long day.

And then there’s the whole Kerouac angle I love. One of my favorite authors was an early proponent of using the stories of one’s life as the subject for his autobiographical novels — and here’s autobiographical comedy!  There hasn’t been a sitcom in the history of television that was the writers’ real lives as completely as Seinfeld.

When the network made one non-negotiable demand for the first season greenlight, it was that there had to be a strong female character equal to the three male leads. Larry David thought of an old girlfriend, Maggie Cassidy, I mean Monica Yates, who became a friend after they broke up, and realized that was the way to do it. Jerry had had a similar experience with the comedian Carol Leifer, and so with each of the creators strongly grounded in the concept of the ex-girlfriend as friend, Elaine Benes was born.

And of course the roman à clef copping extends to the real nextdoor neighbor named Kramer — and to countless scripts — from the Soup Nazi to waiting in a Chinese restaurant, from negotiating rules with an ex so they can have sex to the entire show-within-a-show storyline. And they also actively encouraged and mined the other writers’ and friend’s real-life moments and stories as comedic fodder. The B.O. in the car, the cutting a chocolate bar with a knife and fork, the trying to help a small neighborhood restaurant and endless other storylines and details were plucked from their personal conversations and turned into national conversations, yada yada yada.

But I mean … the whole Kerouac / Beat symmetry … set in New York … almost in the same neighborhood around Columbia … young New Yorkers on the town, on the make, out for kicks … with George Costanza as their Gregory Corso or Henri Cru, always scheming, always workin’ the angles, but never hitting the jackpot.

Kramer is obviously Burroughs — the tall, skinny, knowing, oddly dressed, unpredictable eccentric who didn’t quite fit in with the others but yet was somehow part of them.

Jerry is clearly Kerouac — at the center of everything and using his friends as the inspiration for his work. And of course Jack’s longtime hometown of Northport isn’t that far from Massapequa in geography or mindset.

The Beats never really had an Elaine, but in a way she was the Ginsberg through-line, collaborating with all the others, ambitious, always with an eye for the boys, and an ability to turn on the charm and work the room that the others just didn’t have.

And if anybody’s Neal Cassady it’s the behind-the-scenes (unpublished) Larry David, the catalytic partner for Kerouac/Seinfeld, the manifestation of the entire enterprise, the “god” the others looked up to.

And I think I’m fine with keeping Leo & Gabrielle as Jerry/Jack’s parents. But since we’re here, I’m gonna go ahead and cast Truman Capote as Newman, Lou Little as the Soup Nazi, and Peter Orlovsky as Puddy.


Some tasty tidbits I came across on the journey …

NBC President Brandon Tartikoff after the Michael Richards audition:  “Well, if you want funny … .”

George Shapiro and Howard West, who managed up-and-coming comic Jerry Seinfeld in the ’80s, also handled Carl Reiner, so they had regular contact with his son Rob, who had just started Castle Rock in 1987 (along with 4 others), and who ended up producing the show starting in 1989.

For Jason Alexander’s audition, and in his performance in the pilot and first couple episodes, he was playing George as Woody Allen.  A couple episodes in, he found out George was based on Larry David, so then began doing “the best Larry David I could.”

It originally premiered as “The Seinfeld Chronicles” before being shortened to “Seinfeld” — but when Jerry & Larry were developing it and submitted the first script, they called it “Stand-Up.”

Just before the show first aired, Jerry asked the most experienced veteran in the ensemble, Jason Alexander, if he thought the show had a chance.  Jason answered it didn’t, “Because the audience for this show is me, and I don’t watch TV.”

Larry David wrote / created and was George.
Jerry ditto Jerry.
But it was Larry Charles who specifically focused on / wrote for and developed Kramer (along with Michael Richards).

To see how Larry and Jason created George, check this out —


Every episode title (except “Male Unbonding”) begins with “The…” then names something from the episode. Larry & Jerry instituted this because they didn’t want the writers wasting time creating clever titles.

Although Larry & Jerry have official writing credit on only 60 and 16 of the 180 episodes respectfully, they re-wrote / transformed / “worked their magic” (as the other writers put it) on every script once it was handed in.

Not only were the NBC execs famously opposed to the Chinese Restaurant episode, but also to the entire show-within-a-show story arc.  And so was Jason Alexander. (!) They all quickly came around, however, once the first shows were taped.

Both Jerry and George had two dads. Each of their fathers started out with actors who were replaced by different actors by the character’s second appearance and thereafter.

Keith Hernandez found out after-the-fact that his two-episode storyline was written to be cut back to one if it turned out he sucked.

Joshua White (of the famed psychedelic Joshua Light Show of the late ’60s) actually directed an early episode of Seinfeld (“The Library,” 3rd season, 1991). He had directed a Carol Leifer special the year before, so that’s prolly how it happened, but it certainly shows the renegade Prankster mindset of the project. ;-)

And yet, from what I’ve learned, none of the principals drank at all, and definitely didn’t use drugs.  Just about every other artist in every medium I’ve ever loved, had a drug or alcohol problem.  But all four leads plus L.D. (and probably most everybody else, if that was the standard set from the top) were mind-bogglingly stimulant-free.

Jerry’s fictional apt. was at 129 West 81st Street, apt. 5A — but the exterior used in the show is actually a building in Los Angeles. Then the real Jerry Seinfeld ending up buying his multi-condo New York uber-pad at West 81st & Central Park West.

The trademark funky bass lines between scenes were actually played on a Korg synthesizer.  Bummer.

Out of the four central characters, Kramer is the only one to never have had an “inner monologue.” ie; He’s the only character whose inner thoughts we never hear.

During the show’s run, players on the Buffalo Sabres nicknamed their teammate (and the greatest goalie of all time) Dominik Hasek, “Kramer” because he was so weird and funny (to go with his tall and lanky).

Michael Richards crossed over and appeared as Kramer in a first season episode of Mad About You, playing the guy who subletted Paul’s bachelor apartment.


In another crossover, on The Larry Sanders Show, Hank (Jeffrey Tambor) wakes up on Jerry’s couch.

But most cooly — Sopranos creator David Chase suggested after both series had concluded that his show and Seinfeld should have switched endings.

Think about THAT for a minute. ;-)



Various recurring and one-off guest stars  (many of whom were not “stars” at the time) —

Jerry Stiller (as George’s father)

Lloyd Bridges (in his final TV appearance)

Philip Baker Hall (the great character actor from Magnolia, Boogie Nights, Argo and about a 150 other movies)

Paul Gleason (who was Jack Kerouac’s friend in the early ’60s)

Brian Doyle-Murray (Bill Murray’s brother)

Bill Macy (Maude‘s husband)

Robert Wagner and real-life wife Jill St. John (Diamonds Are Forever)

George Wendt (from Cheers, whose time-slot Seinfeld took over the following year)

John Randolph (as George’s first father)

Bill Saluga (the “You can call me Ray, …” guy)

Candice Bergen (as Murphy Brown)

Teri Hatcher (and she was spectacular!)

Raquel Welch (and what’s more than “spectacular”?)

Bette Midler (who’s always spectacular!)

Marisa Tomei

Jeanneane Garofalo

Amanda Peet

Catherine Keener

Carol Kane

Kathy Griffin

David Letterman

Larry Miller

Bob Balaban

Stephen Tobolowsky

Clint Howard

Peter Krause

James Spader

Bryan Cranston

Pat Cooper

Wilfred Brimley

Fred Savage

Corbin Bernsen

Bob Odenkirk

John Larroquette

Jon Favreau

Jon Lovitz

Judge Reinholt

Jeremy Piven

Mario Joyner

Taylor Negron

Ben Stein

Courtney Cox pre-Friends

Kristin Davis pre-Sex and The City

Michael Chiklis pre-The Commish

Debra Messing and Megan Mullally pre-Will & Grace

Rob Schneider and Molly Shannon pre-SNL

Sarah Silverman pre-anything

Ana Gasteyer in her first television appearance

Denise Richards, age 21, playing a 15 year old with cleavage

the Farrelly brothers (as writers) before they’d ever done a movie

the Flying Karamazov Brothers in their first and only acting appearance

and Keith Hernandez and numerous other baseball players.


The Vagaries of Network Scheduling:

Season 1 — The pilot originally aired at 9:30 PM on Wednesday, July 5th, 1989, following Night Court.

The four episodes of the first “season” were run as a summer try-out in NBC’s prime slot following Cheers at 9:30 PM Thursdays, in May and June 1990.

Here you can watch Jerry first talking to Johnny Carson about the show the night before the series premiere (starting at 6:30 on the clip) —


Season 2 — ’90 – 91 — When they came back for 12 episodes as a mid-season replacement in January of ’91, they were first slotted in their original 9:30 Wednesday spot following Night Court (replacing the soon-to-be-cancelled Dear John starring Judd Hirsch) and up against time-slot winner Jake And The Fatman. But when NBC’s soap-opera satire Grand underperformed in the post-Cheers slot, they were moved back there for the next 7 episodes, before once again being bumped back to 9:30 Wednesday by the end of the season.

Season 3 — ’91 – ’92 — When they came back for their first full (22 episode) season in the fall of ’91, they were still in their original Wednesday slot following Night Court (now it its final season) but they still consistently lost in the ratings to Jake And The Fatman. At least, for the first time, they stayed in the same slot for the entire season.

Season 4 — ’92 – ’93 — In the fall of ’92 after Night Court finally ended its 8-year run in the spring, Seinfeld moved into their 9 PM Wednesday slot for their 4th season, followed by a new similarly New York 30-something show, Mad About You. But then half-way through that season (in Feb.) they were switched back to the prime 9:30 Thursday slot behind Cheers when Wings was failing to hold the audience. Finally having cracked the Top 30 rated shows in the country (finishing 25th overall for the year) Seinfeld became the network’s heir-apparent when their top-rated Boston bar show finally closed its doors to much hoopla that spring.

Season 5 — ’93 – ’94 — At the start of the fall ’93 season Seinfeld took over the prime 9 PM Thursday slot once Cheers vacated the premises, where they would finish as the 3rd overall show in the ratings for that season.

Season 6 — ’94 – ’95 — Thursdays, 9 PM (for the next 3½ seasons) — finishing the year as the #1 highest rated show on television.

Season 7 — ’95 – ’96 — Thursdays, 9 PM — the last season with Larry David.  Finished as 2nd highest rated show of the year, behind only George Clooney’s E.R. (also on NBC).

You can watch the cast and crew talking about the impact of the Larry departure here —

Season 8 — ’96 – ’97 — Thursdays, 9 PM — again finished 2nd only to E.R.

Season 9 — ’97 – ’98 — Thursdays, 9 PM — until January ’98 when the network moved it up to 8:30 for its final five months. The show finished its last season #1 overall in television ratings. The only two other shows in television history that ended while in first place were I Love Lucy (in 1957) and The Andy Griffith Show (1968).


Most watched TV episodes of all time in the U.S.:

#1 — M*A*S*H  finale (106 million viewers)
#2 — Cheers  finale (84 million)
#3 — Seinfeld  finale (76 million)


Bloopers and Outtakes

You’ve prolly seen every episode many times and there’s no chance you’ll ever see anything new, right?

Don’t be so sure about that!

Check these outtakes! They’re as funny as the show.

Once you get started with this, if you’re on YouTube you’ll see all the other seasons appear in succession at the top of the righthand column.


Also check this “Must See TV” — The Making of An Episode — if you wanna know how this masterpiece was painted.
Spoiler alert:  it’s all about the writing … ;-)

If you pause at 12 minutes you can get a visual of how the show was structured — the table read with LD (and director Andy Ackerman) at the head, Jerry and “George” right next to them, Michael and Julia next, then the priceless “Puddy,” and on down the creative line.


And here’s the super insightful documentary on How It Began with interviews with all the principals telling the story from concept to on-air success.


And you can read all the scripts for every episode here.



For a rough primer on one of the other funniest shows ever produced, here’s my loose riff on Fawlty Towers.

For more on John Lennon check out my story of being at the Dakota the night he was killed.

For a more upBeat New York story check out Election Night 2008.

For more Henri Cru and the krewe surrounding Kerouac, check out this excerpt from my book.

For some comedic storytelling videos, check out Makin’ Movies.

For a Kerouac on Long Island story, check out The Northport Report about a bunch of the Beats gathering in ol’ Jack’s hometown.

Or for another Long Island story, check out the Long Island Mansions Adventure.

Or for a more Manhattan story check out this tale of downtown to uptown.

Or for more on Kerouac and the Beats on screen, check out the story of the On The Road” movie premiere in London.


by Brian Hassett

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Jerry Garcia Band in Toronto

June 16th, 2014 · Music, Real-life Adventure Tales, Weird Things About Me

 Not Fade Away — Birthday Adventure 2014



The start of the Adventure.


Just home from the 5-show birthday blow-out!  Sheesh!  Started with New Orleans’ Soul Rebels outdoors in a park with my New Orleans Soul Brother Ross Perlmutter.  The funky brass-n-drums combo were joined for some songs by Toronto’s own frontline horndogs The Heavyweights, creating a new 11-piece band called The Soulweights, or maybe The Heavy Rebels. But whatever it was, it was a living incarnation of the collaborative jazz that’s makes New Orleans the birthplace of music as we know it.




The show’s part of this massive luminous 2-week Toronto arts festival called Luminato with thousands of artists from all over the world putting on theater, film, photography, readings, magic, dance, installations, interview talks, improv street theater, and of course — music!

And as part of the park concert scene, this Cuban collective called Los Carpinteros (art carpenters) created the illusion of a beach with deck chairs, beach umbrellas, cabanas, and even a lifeguard tower — all made out of cardboard!  You could lounge on the beach chairs or climb up in the guard towers of this temporary installation … but all made from recyclable paper products!

Ross and I groove post-show on the picnic tables in the enormous outdoor bar with some frosty Canadian microbreweries for company as we’re sharing crazy tales of mother Nawlins.  After I walk him to his car to end Part One of the day, I head back to the park and sure enough Ziggy Marley’s doing his soundcheck for the evening show!  I smooth-talk a security guard that I’m an out-of-town promoter and wanna scout the site, and he lets me in!  And there’s the son-of-a-Bob and his enormous band that just won the Grammy for Best Reggae Album for his “In Concert” live disk last year, and he’s rockin’ steady with the real roots including a couple joyous run-throughs of his Dad’s inspirational incantation “Lively Up Yourself.”

Then it was a mad dash up to Bloor Street to hit my favorite little bookstores, where I walked away with a cool Evergreen Review collection with Kerouac and all the boys in it, and the Jann Wenner oral biography of the mighty doctor, Hunter S.  Then it was a synchronistic sojourn back to the site of my 50th b’day, The Cadillac Lounge on Queen Street West, to meet up with the next round of loogans, Damo, Greg, Peanut and the boys, who were all caught up in a New Year’s Eve-like party of screaming World Cup “football” fans from a half-a-dozen face-painted countries in this multi-cultural metropolis, guzzling beer using pitchers as glasses!

With a Herculean effort, I finally pour my bloods out of the sports stream, and we toss Damo’s bike in the back of the Blue Bomber, put Dr. John’s “Locked Down” on the jukebox, and bolted off to the next big park party scene — with a Led Zeppelin cover band!  Of course just as we’re walking in they begin the ultra-trippy “Dazed and Confused” which they proceeded to play for about the next week.  Then in keeping with the New Orleans theme, they noticed we were there and broke into “When The Levee Breaks” which I thought was quite nice of them.

From there it was a bolt over to the main course of the day’s feast — a Jerry Garcia Band in a funky old neighborhood pub, the Linsmore Tavern, that’s been hanging there on the same corner wonderfully unchanged since the 1930s. Fulla Deadheads — in a place you wanna go where everybody knows the game.  And they’re already playin’, both band and audience, in that magic unspoken collaboration between listeners and musicians that we all know and live — playing in combo and rising with the tide of the vibes.




It was Mark Thackway’s band, and of course I ended up hanging with him and the Merl Saunders/Melvin Seals keyboard player, Wayne “Shakey” Dagenais. Although you’d never know it, it was actually these two veteran’s first public performance together — a new musical adventure for both them and the audience.  And work it did!

They played three sets and all the songs you’d wanna hear … That’s What Love Will Make You Do, Sittin’ Here In Limbo, They Love Each Other, How Sweet It Is,  After Midnight with an Eleanor Rigby woven in the middle, SugareeThe Weight, Deal . . .

But it was really this one Moment that brought it all together:

In this perfectly small bar, the quartet was perfectly replicating the small bar the Garcia Band was born and raised — the Keystone in Berzerkeley, California.  With the band set up by the front windows and the tables and chairs cleared away all around the stage and corner door, the dancing music energy was at its vibrating peak at the very threshold where you stepped into the room.

And that’s right where this Magic Moment occurred numerous times . . .

As the musically motivated would arrive mid-set, when they pushed open the old inner smoke-windowed door they were already sporting a grin from ears to cheeks, and their face was beaming like an incoming stage light, as they gratefully, gracefully, dancefully floated into the improvised scene — not looking for a seat, not ordering a drink (till the set was over) — but falling seamlessly into the rhythm groove and group move, strangers dancing with strangers, just to shake their body, rub-a-dub dubbed, and the hugs were free.


And speaking of hugs, Magic Moment #2 happened right in the middle of this mayhem as some girl I’d been sorta dancin with n stuff overhears somebody wishing me Happy Birthday, and goes, “Oh — it’s your birthday!”  Big smiles.  “Well, what kind of a drink do you want, birthday boy?”

“Well, aw geez I don’t know …” cuz see, I don’t really drink the hard stuff anymore.  But she’s quite persistent, she is.

“You gotta have something special.  I’m buying.  It’s your birthday …” And finally I come up with my old go-to — tequila & orange.  And she squeals in delight and jumps me with a hug and kisses me on the cheek!

“I LOVE it!” she says, and heads to the bar, and all of a sudden I’m headin for trouble.

And, ya know … we start dancing side-by-side arm-in-arm, swayin’ in the groove and talking in the downtimes, and she’s very soft and bright-eyed, and it’s definitely The Old Flirty Bar Fling Routine.  But to be perfectly honest I’m still in love with all the girls I’ve ever been in love with, and all my memories of intimacy are fairy-tale idyllic.  And in this moment in this bar on this reflective day, I just didn’t want to mix some new bleary beery images with the tender magic I’ve lived. Not to mention mixing bodily fluids with a complete stranger.  I believe it’s written somewhere — When A Girl Buys You Drinks On Your Birthday, You’re Supposed To Go Home With Her.  But then … see … I’ve never been much of a rule follower.

And THEN right when this is not going down … The Giant Downer Happens — where my ever-present everything-in-it over-the-shoulder bag was stolen! What an insane birthday bring-me-down!  I’m talkin to some other vivacious girl post-show and go to grab something out of it — and … it’s gone.  I mean — gone gone.  Nowhere.  Definitely.  A bunch of people start looking around for it, so I bolt out the door to see if maybe I’d see somebody leaving with it or find it ditched somewhere or something … but of course … not.

My camera. Cell phone. Notebook. Car keys!!!  What?!  I’m totally fucked.  It’s totally gone.  I’m shaking, white as a ghost.  I tell my bloods Damo and Greg while the blood is draining from my face … lost and gut-punched, in a trembling trance.  Then at some point I turn around blankly and hear some guy say, “Did you lose a bag?” …  And he’s wearing it!  The guy was so dazed and confused by the end of three sets of Jerry, he walked out and started heading home with my bag instead of his own!!  Oh my Lord!  I had it back!  Cashin’ in a buncha karma coupons right there!  Had to have a whole sit-down chill-down after THAT!

And THEN as a final evening musical encore — out on the sidewalk along the Danforth at 2-something in the morning, some brother strapped on an acoustic and began singing us all onto the road and into our night with “On The Road Again,” which I always thought harmonized so beautifully with my brother Jack’s most famous motif. ;-)

And THEN he breaks into one of my handful of favorite songs ever written!  “Not Fade Away” by the immortal Buddy Holly, which became a climactic singalong anthem in the Dead’s repertoire for their whole 30-year run.  And not only is it a personal favorite, but it’s also the song where I appear in the movie of their Radio City shows, Dead Ahead!  And there we all were, singing like buskers without a case on the street-corner of eternity.

And that’s the name of that tune.

“Love for real, not fade away.”




A smoky night in The Big Smoke.
(miraculous photo and tale exactly as happened)


For more Grateful Dead birthday adventures, check out “The Grateful Dead Played My 30th Birthday

or here’s where Furthur brought the magic back to Madison Square Garden

or here’s arriving at a Grateful Dead show at Red Rocks in 1982.

or here’s the story of The Pranksters invading Woodstock

or here’s a feature story I wrote for Relix Magazine about Jerry & the Boys on the Festival Express train trip across Canada

or here’s the Toronto Dr. John adventure from last year

or there’s the Johnny Clegg adventure from a couple months ago

or the Paul Simon in Hyde Park adventure

or here’s some riffs from a recent New Orleans Jazz Fest

or here’s a fantastic collection of the best live music performances I reviewed for RockPeaks

or here’s something on a decision I made — as did a lot of other cool people — to not have kids.


by Brian Hassett


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Spring Peace piece

May 27th, 2014 · Poetry



Spring Peace piece


Gonna ring a big ding
Calling out from Sing-Sing
Gonna have a spring fling
Kinda have an inkling

Everything is gonna sell
Comin’ out the dripping well
Middle East a burning hell
Clanging morning warning bell.

The toast is up, the jam is done
Twisted people think it’s fun
Blowin’ neighbors with a gun
Sneaky-creepy bang-bang run!

B for bombing and belabor
S for slitting with a saber,
I don’t know, but “Love thy neighbor”
Seems to me was from your labor.

Jumpin’ Jesus what went wrong?
Rodney King sez “get along”
Lennon leaves us with a song
Bloomberg does it with a bong!

The Dalai Lama makes the case,
And Jerry did it out of space,
Alicia’s singing soul’s new face
But best of all is this new place!

I’ll tell ya why, it’s cuz we’re here,
It’s live, it’s now, ya have a beer!
Top me up with living cheer!
I’m Sargent Pepper feeling gear!

We’re … water water everywhere,
Make us grow and make it better;
Water water everywhere
Take the dry and make ‘em wetter

Spring is here, I smell the bloomin’
Many minds on Bowery zoomin’
Beatin’ back the glummy gloomin’
Trippin’ like you’re mushy schroomin’
Honest like you’re Harry Truman
Shooting wicked witches broomin’
Martin Luther King exhumin’
Everybody here’s a crewman,
Take your soul and keep on groomin’
Spike the spirit, keep on zoomin’

All it takes is bein’ human.


= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

Some other poem riff-rides you may enjoy  . . .

Love Is

Be The Invincible Spirit You Are

Sans Sons — A Song In Names Only

Where Wayward Jekylls Hyde — The Mighty Bama-Rama Rap

The Royal Woods of Cassady County

The Boys Who Grew From Northern Lands

A Song of Enid I Sing 

The Carolyn Cassady Birthday Poem

A Shakespearian Cassady

Smokin’ Charlie’s Saxophone

The Ballad of The Profiteers

Sittin’ On My Roof In New Orleans


by Brian Hassett

photo by Brian Hassett — Olympic Park, London, 2012


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Johnny Clegg concert in Toronto

April 20th, 2014 · Music, Real-life Adventure Tales

“It’s Your World, So Live In It”




Note:  Years ago when I picked the best musical performances I ever saw after watching thousands and reviewing hundreds for RockPeaks, it was a Johnny Clegg clip that I considered the greatest single musical performance I ever saw.

*          *          *


At the end of the darkness following Jerry Garcia’s death, the first instrument I heard played live a month or two later was a solo violin in an art gallery — and it was so beautiful it brought me to tears.  After that breakthrough, when music seemed possible again, the first ensemble I went to hear was Johnny Clegg.  He felt like the right and only music worthy of breaking the spell of silence — one of the few musicians whose impact transcended the medium — and it stole my face right off my head!  That this similarly inspiring polyrhythmic mystic music was still being played broke down a wall and made me believe in the magic of the musical muse once again.

And here he was … comin’ around … in a circle.

The only floor ticket left five months ago was one of those wheelchair companion seats.  As a former caregiver, I knew the routine, the seat next to the wheelchair spot, in this case towards the back of this gorgeous new 1,100 seat Royal Conservatory of Music hall, which feels even smaller with the two tightly stacked circular balconies.  It’s got the best of everything, is acoustically immaculate and visually melodic, with plushy seats, high-class uniformed ushers, and royal everything.

When Johnny’s son Jesse was doing his half-hour opening set, during the last song I went down for a first-hand recon and the only empty seats were a nice 4-spot on the aisle in the 9th row!  Ha!  So of course that’s where I experience the show from — until the manic dancing up front for the climactic half-dozen songs with a bevy of joyously bouncing Canadian spirits.

The show was great, and as usual I was fully charged by the magic conjured by this all-South African troupe, and ready to groove-sail into the blissful Torontonian night.  But when you exited the theatre into the lobby, they’d actually hired another South African band to play as people were leaving!  It was so Bill Graham of them … simultaneously encouraging people to linger and sponsor a World Vision child as Johnny’s promoting, and generally continue the experience and perhaps have another cold beer or wine or whatever and dig on some music and bask in the aftershow glow with fellow concert goers before heading out into the cold late-snap April air.

And bliss it was, too — including a nifty outdoor balcony a person could slip out on for a smoke or a call.  But fine groove though it was, after a wee buzz it was time for a wee pee before the drive home.  And just for the trip of it, I decide to take the nearby elevator down instead of the faraway stairs.  And as I’m waiting by the silver doors, these two bubbly well-to-do women come along, being ushered by a straight-street walkie-talkie Security Lady.

I’m trying to go down to the ground floor, but the elevator comes and it’s going up, which is where this trio was headed.  And I’m, “Hmm … let’s see … you three are going to the third floor / upper balcony … after the show … why would that be?”

So, naturally, in an elevator ride of two floors, I become total besties with the happy duo who are just blubbering over some new Johnny CDs in their hands and still jammin in the joy of the just-birthed show.  “Make friends with everybody,” I always say.  Might as well.

At the third and top floor, Security Lady tells me there’s no bathrooms up here and I have to go back down.  But … I know there’s bathrooms on this floor.  I pre-scouted the shit outta this place.  And the two friendlys walk out the elevator and go, “Oh, look, there’s one right here!”  Uh-huh.  So I slip out the doors behind them, turn left down the carpeted hallway, and Stop — in the name of … them having enough time to walk away.  Turn, go back to the edge of the hallway/elevator alcove in time to see Security Lady leading the two birds diagonally across the balcony atrium into the only room up there, about a 20-foot lobby-cross away.

So … disappear — the old into-the-bathroom routine, give Security Chaperone time to leave.  Back out … and it’s the third floor of this wild open atrium that goes all the way down to the band playing below … and the two outer walls … are made of glass!  Ah-ha!  So I stand back against the opposing alcove wall and with the pitch-black midnight mirrors can recon the empty lobby with the Shining bar along the wall and no one there except the lone bartender and one old security suit aimlessly pacing around, way past his bedtime by the looks of things.

As soon as I spy him turning and slumber lumbering off in the opposite direction I speed-walk on an urgent mission from my elevator cave to the cross-lobby sacred door alcove … which turned out to be two doors!  Both wide open!  And BOOM!  The first person I see is … Johnny!  

Keep goin’, no hesitation, you belong in this room.  And the very next face I see is son Jesse!  Who’s name is pronounced Jess, or at least that’s what Pops calls him.  Anyway, he’s not surrounded like “the old man” is — as he calls Pops.

So I walk right up and tell him I liked his opening set, which was actually really good, hypnotic, up-tempo acoustic, just him and the old man’s guitarist who’s been with him since the Savuka days.  Jess’s girlfriend’s from Toronto and he recorded his latest album here at David Botterill’s Rattlesnake Studios and we got talkin’ about Canadian immigration and visas and gigs … and that they’re doing this whole tour by bus, and I mention how they were soon playing both Boulder and Saskatoon — two usual places I’m familiar with.  And he goes, “Yeah — and they’re back-to-back.”


“Fourteen-hundred miles.  We’re staying an extra night in Mile-high to rest up the driver.”

And then he starts telling me about how the Old Man just gave a lecture at Dartmouth College in New Hampshire, and how he riffed for an hour-and-a-half without notes, and I told Jess the truth: “Your dad’s as good a storyteller as he is a musician.”  Cuz all during the show tonight he told the most wonderful and elaborate tales about South Africa and life and death that echoed with the rich anthropology that Johnny not only lived through and studied but also taught at the university in Johannesburg.

Then Jess tells me about how he and one of the crew slipped off afterwards to a Dartmouth keg party … in order to study first-hand the anthropology of American students in their natural habitat, you understand.

And the whole time he’s talking with that great lyrical British/South African accent that also weirdly comes through in their singing sometimes.  Ya know how you don’t hear much of an accent in most British groups/singers’ recordings?  Well, somehow in Johnny’s singing, his accent often comes through.  It’s weird, and wonderful.  Anywho, they both talk with that lovely lyrical sing-songy lilt.

And as Jess and I are hangin’, we’re right near the Old Man, who has a kinda unofficial receiving line going on.  And all these different people including my two winking elevator besties are hanging around biding their time to go up and shake his hand.  And it’s the same thing for all famous people who’ve affected others in a deep way — each person wants to share their story — how much the music meant to them, some pivotal moment where their life changed after hearing it — and he’s really gracious as he listens to each confession.

Then this funny thing happened where … when somebody came up to talk to Jess, I’d just spin over to Johnny beside me, and we somehow fell into this improvised routine where he started using me as his sidekick.  He’d already seen me groovin with Jess, and … he’d often say these funny things, but the person he was meeting was so sorta nervous or whatever that they wouldn’t get he was making a joke.  But I would.  And he’d turn and twinkle wrinkle his eyes to me … and I ended up playing Ed McMahon to this Johnny all night.  What a hoot!



Johnny Clegg, yours unruly, son Jesse Clegg

Note the eye line   ;-)

And another funny part was later when things were kinda winding down I blurted my own gushing moment!  I told him how the climax of tonight’s show actually had me choked up seeing all these (I didn’t say it but, normally reserved) Torontonians up and dancing.  It was crazy cuz it was what I call a “PBS audience,” all these lefty greybeards and beardettes in an already absurdly restrained audience city that does not get up and dance almost ever.  But it was the women especially who were breakin’ ranks and excuse-me dashing from their mid-row seats out to the aisles and letting loose and we all had a helluva dance party out there, lemme tell ya! :-)

It was so heartening and joyous I actually started choking up in the glowing love energy moment … having to force myself to not start bawling outright cuz I was, ya know, in a room full of people.  But it was that beautiful a moment …

So I tell ol’ Johnny this emotion he evoked, and he’s like, “Yeah, uh-huh. Next.” !  After all my Ed McMahoning I was a little disappointed!

Nah — he didn’t really say that, he said something really nice.  But the point is everybody, including me, thinks their precious anecdote is of vital importance … but people like Sri Clegg have heard so often stories of transformation from their art … it’s just part of the soundtrack of their lives.  Imagine having people come up to you, multiple times a day, telling you how you changed their life.  And it happening day after day, year after year.  Psycho trips, man.  Then add psychotropic drugs.  By the bushel … … …

Wait, where were we?  Oh yeah, I worked around pop-stars-of-the-month at MTV and it’s such a totally different trip when it’s artist-fans who’ve been sharing the same spiritual journey for decades.  And Johnny’s been on this path since he first heard a guitar in the streets of Johannesburg in the 1960s.  As a South African I met recently responded when I mentioned Johnny Clegg — “You just said the magic words.”

So, there we were, eye-to-eye — the two of us exactly the same height — check out the eye-line in the photo.  It’s not often you talk with someone who’s on exactly the same level as you. ;-)  Anyway, I ask him about his Asimbonanga performance when Mandela came out that was cited and quoted and shown all over the world after Madiba died a few months ago, and how I reviewed that very performance years ago and was now finally able to identify the heretofore unknown location of the gig straight from the horse’s source.  He told me it was the closing night of some world health conference in Frankfurt, Germany, where Mandela had given the keynote speech, then stuck around for brother Johnny’s show.

Also … it hit me a couple days ago playin’ old discs n tapes that Savuka’s album cover had Johnny with a kid on his shoulders and I asked and sure enough that’s now 25-year-old Jesse.

I love this multi-cultural world-beat human-collage city.  And so do a bunch of other people.  And some of the locals are white South Africans tellin’ Johnny about how he and his music gave them strength and vision and direction of how to act with both purpose and dignity in their country’s racial revolution.  And then there were these black-as-night South African Zulus who’d talk with him in their native tongue, and oh MAN!  Is that one weird language!  Holy surreal syllables, WhaKooBan!!  Not exactly rooted in yer Latin!

And the son’s drinking white wine, and I’ve got a frosty local Steam Whistle, and Johnny’s got a straw in a tall glass of Coke, which somehow me and Jess start goofing with him on his line about “kinky kola” in “Digging For Some Words” and I ask him straight-up, “What the hell does that mean, anyway? Sexy Coke?” and he smiled and nodded a sort of Yes but wasn’t about to elaborate, as is the poet’s prerogative, and at least not with his son standing right there.

And it was all magic and fun and then that part was over in the blink of a bus dash … but just to flash back …


There was this stupendous two-hour concert …

The thing that’s different from his ’80s and ’90s shows is — he’s really evolved into a storyteller!  It’s so enchanting and inviting and inclusive.  I remember Sinatra did this.  Randy Bachman does it.  Neil Young’s been rambling a lot lately.  He doesn’t do it every song, maybe every second or third he tells some wild elaborate wonderful story.  It’s great.  But unlike those other narrative troubadours, some of this guy’s tales involve band members and friends being killed in the warfare in South Africa.  The whole show was kinda like a Director’s Commentary … explaining the motivations and background behind his shots/songs — like how the ground stomp was as important as the kick in the tribal dance he did.  If you don’t know, this guy studied and performed with Zulu dance masters since childhood and was fluent in the spoken language by 16.

And it’s all about The Songs.  It’s still that ripple from The Beatles’ splash — musicians writing Their Own songs.  And Johnny now has a lifetime of them — anthemic authentic Zulu-Western songblends that grew out of the streets and tribal lands of a segregated country that he brought together musically.  He’s got so many hits spanning so many decades he didn’t even have time to play them all in a two hour show.  

And it’s the Unpredictable Arrangements … in an uncategorizable sound.  It’s jazz, it’s pop, it’s world beat, juju, gospel … and all with a rock band foundation.  It’s multi-linguistic, multi-ethnic and multi-instrumental.  It’s multiple forms of magic, is what it is.

And it’s all about The Players!  This band!  These harmonies!  Great 3-part all night, including the soprano he’s been teamed with since the ’80s, Mandisa Dlanga.  And the guitarist and musical director, Andy Innes, who’s been with him since the ’92 Savuka days and switches off on electric, acoustic and mandolin as the song suggests.  And then there’s the all-purpose horn man on alto and soprano sax as well as the keyboard fills, Brendan Ross.

And it’s all about The Vibe.  It’s some sort of crazy mix between a black Baptist Sunday revival and a folk singer protest rally.  It’s Sam Cooke, “A Change Is Gonna Come,” and Bob Dylan, “With God On Our Side.”  At the same time.

And in this spiritual preacher space, he climaxes the main part of the show with “Cruel Crazy Beautiful World” (written for son Jesse) with its joyous endless chanting refrain, “It’s your world, so live in it,” over and over as the audience starts LIVING a few degrees higher than they were before.

And in the truest gospel tradition, he ends the final encore, “Dela,” with its benediction — “I’ll pray for you,” and makes a point of saying it directly to every person in the room.

And … that’s sorta what Johnny Clegg is like.




 *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

Set list  (except for a couple songs I didn’t know):

Heart Of A Dancer
I Call Your Name
Take My Heart Away
Bullets For Bafazane
Digging For Some Words
Step Into My Circle Of Life
The Crossing
Great Heart
Cruel Crazy Beautiful World
Dela (I Know Why The Dog Howls At The Moon)


The band:

Johnny Clegg — acoustic guitar, concertina, lead vocals and storytelling

Andy Innes (from the U.K. and S.A) — guitars, mandolin, vocals (the band’s Musical Director, who’s been with Johnny for 22 years)

Mandisa Dlanga (from Lusikisiki) — vocals (harmonizing with Johnny for 26 years)

Brendan Ross (from Pretoria) — alto and soprano saxes, keyboards, vocals

Trevor Donjeany (from Durban) — bass and vocals

Barry Van Zyl (from Capetown) — drums and percussion



Here’s a whole page of musical tributes to Nelson Mandela including lots more Johnny 

or here’s the Adventure of The Merry Pranksters invading Woodstock

or for some other adventures there’s also the Sneaking onto the Pittsburgh Penguins Bus During the Playoffs story 

or for another Toronto concert night that ended with hanging with the band, check out what happened at Dr. John

or there’s the sneaking backstage at the On The Road premiere and meeting Walter Salles story

or going to Shakespeare’s Globe and hanging with the cast doing magic tricks afterwards

or this Long Island Mansions Adventure with Steve Winwood, Sheryl Crow and a bunch of others 

or that one with Carolyn & John Cassady at the Northport Big Sur reading 

or that time I drove the whole length of Manhattan in about a non-stop minute story

or speaking of on the road here’s the account of what went down the day the Original Scroll was auctioned

or that whole Obama Inauguration Woodstock was just insane!



Brian Hassett

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Shakespeare’s Globe Adventure

March 29th, 2014 · Real-life Adventure Tales, Weird Things About Me

The Taming of The Shoobeedoobie”




Next stop, Shakespeare’s Globe,” says the driver downstairs on the red double-decker bus winding its way through the narrow South Bank streets of London.

I went early so I could do the official tour of the theater, and of course the guide was extremely well-versed, among other things explaining how back in the day the audience would drop their pence or two in the admission box, and then they’d go lock up the box in an office. That is, the “box office.”

And of course he and I start jammin’ and it causes our little tour to run way overtime.


Then I ask Mr. Cool-Guide if I can go back into the private area and look at their wall with all the founding donors’ signatures cuz I know Carolyn Cassady who I’m staying with is one of ‘em.  And he lets me!

But when we get to this huge bronze wall of little signatures at the top of the stairs, he’s thinking, “Why did I let this guy back here?  He’s never gonna find one signature …” and right away starts mumbling out loud, “Um, people aren’t really supposed to be back here, and uh … ”  Boom!  —  “THERE IT IS!!”



And as I’m taking a picture of it he’s sayin – twice –  “I can’t believe you found it that fast!” :-)

After this score, I do the whole two-floor exhibit on Shakey Willie and how this theatre’s exact replica reconstruction took 50 years to happen, and I spend the whole afternoon totally living it and transported back to the horse & peasant days.

I’d made a bunch of really awesome daytime plans for a boat ride on the Thames and exploring Potters Field by Tower Bridge for the Olympic screen-scene, but once I was back in ancient England it was, “I’m not leavin’ Shakespeareville!”


At some point I slip through the back gates and end up backstage sitting at a courtyard picnic table with the props guys, and one of ‘em says, “You wanna beer?” and hands me a frosty Corona from the crew cooler and proceeds to tell me all these wild stories of how they do the “O.P.” shows, Original Practices, and how everything’s done exactly like it was in 1600 and all the costumes are dyed with animal fluids, and washed by hand, and the neck ruffs are made with pins-only — about 200 of them! — and how they toured America and played a prison and the guards counted every pin coming in, and the crew had to manually count and account for every pin coming out!

Next thing I know I’m in my freakin front-row-center lower balcony seat overlooking the groundlings on the floor — best seat in the house — and the show’s to die for!


And one of my questions going in was — are they gonna do the opening Induction?  It’s this whole weird set-up to the play that’s often not performed — this elaborate premise that there’s some debate about whether it actually connects to the play or not.

But before it even starts there’s this drunk guy on the floor who gets into a fight or something with the staff!  And it starts to escalate, and to get away from it the guy actually runs up on the stage!  And security’s called, but before they can get there the guy starts taking a wiz against one the pillars!  And then he starts stumbling around and literally pisses on the audience!  And this poor guy in the crowd runs out screaming for a towel!  And the drunk guy passes out or worse on the stage and the freakin’ paramedics get called!  And the stage manager in her headset runs up there and is telling everybody what to do, and the crew and actors all peak out from the wings, and eventually she says the show has to be cancelled.


And I’m like, “Dude!  This is two times in a row!!  Can’t you guys put on a show in this town?!”  This just happened when I went to Long Day’s Journey Into Night last week!  They had some electrical fire backstage and the stage manager came out and cancelled the show half-way through the first act!

But eventually they wake up the drunk guy and decide to put on a play for him.  Just as Shakey Willie designed it.

And thus it was we were introduced to the supreme majesty of THE theatrical master.


And of course the whole play — “The Taming Of The Shrew” — is insanely great, and they work with the groundlings on the floor during the entire show.  At least half the stage entrances and exits are done walking down into the standing audience — pushing through them, starting arguments with them, hugging them, seeking their guidance — extending the play to forcefully include the audience whether they like it or not.  No getting around this one.  Yer in it.

And Then!  All of Shakey’s plays back in the day ended with a jig!  I never knew that.  But all the actors would come out and have a party on stage and dance and improvise songs and interact with the audience and confirm to them this was all a play and a party and they’d end with a dance, the healthiest of human activities, London Olympics be damned.  So this whole theatre-wide dance party happens, with everybody on stage and in the audience up and dancing and clapping and hooting and whooping.

And when the show’s finally over … I don’t leave.  It’s just the way I don’t roll.  I let everybody else make like sardines while I stay in my seat soakin’ it in, the last guy to leave the balcony.


And even after that, I linger in the second floor lobby of the modern building we exit into, and Boom!  there’s the absolutely gorgeous delicate blond young-Michelle-Pfeiffer-looking actress, Sarah MacRae, who of course I had an instant crush on, walking right towards me!  I jump at it and thank her for the great show and she’s all smiles and lovely and graceful and grateful.  And as I can’t take my eyes off her I see her slip through some unmarked door.  Ah-ha!

The power of the pre-scout, baby!  I knew that that Open Sesame actually led to an adjacent Shakespeare-themed bar.  So I follow her in, and right away meet one of my favorite actors from the play — in a supporting role, but he just Crushed it all night — Tom Godwin.  In fact, he was also one of the musicians and at one point riffed a really funny “Johnny B. Goode” that got a theatre-wide laugh.

So we start talking and really getting into it and after a bit he pulls a cig out of a pack and I’m like, “Oh, can you smoke in here?”

And he’s, “No, I’m gonna go out there,” nodding to the outdoor patio.  And I’m, “Oh cool, I’ll get a pint and join you,” and he’s like, “Yeah, great, do that.”

So I go out … and the guy’s actually waiting for me!  And it’s this whole private patio garden bar overlooking The Globe and the mighty Thames and the whole cast is there including Michelle Pfeiffer looking like a white rose in bloom, and Tom & I start jammin’ fast n furious on Shakey Willie and theater and how to do it.  And right away we fall in with one of the leads, “Lucentio,” and we’re all jamming the rehearsal process and turning the words into actions and creating the direction and Shakespeare vs. O’Neill and the overt sexual entendres in this 400 year old play and how slapstick isn’t a bad thing, and I’m having such a good time with these two I go ahead and have them sign my program.  Gotta be the first time since I was a kid that I asked for an autograph, but we were having such a grand old groove of it on this riverside balcony with couches and cold ones, and I had one of these cool new £4 programs they sell insteada giving you a free one, but they’re so much nicer, and how many times do Shakespearean actors get asked for autographs?  So the program gets passed around and about a dozen of them sign cool chit in it.


And I’m telling them the “Long Day’s Journey Into Night” story about the stage manager coming out to cancel the show, and how that’s now happened to me twice in a row in London!  It kills.

And then one of the actors, he’s 26, in his first Shakespeare play, and is a total freakin’ Prankster, starts doin’ magic tricks right in front of us in the latenight trip of it all.  In the middle of a conversation he suddenly starts spitting pins out of his mouth as though they kept unexpectedly showing up there.

And then he gets prodded by his troupe for more, so he tears off a long strip from a paper napkin on the table, hands it to a brother actor, and says, “Is that just a piece of tissue paper?”


Hands him a lighter.  “Prove it — light it on fire.”  So he does.  And as it’s burning the guy reaches into the middle of the flame with his finger and thumb and pulls out … a crisp 10-pound note!

And then some New York actress falls into the scene, and the volume kicks up, but there’s also some bar manager nosin’ around startin’ to bust us for being in a pub after 11 PM in this Puritan country, and finally people start to cut out — and fully half the actors leave by bicycle!

For the first time all night I look at my watch and — “Holy oh-oh!” — it’s 20 minutes till the last train outta London!!

So I book it down the back stairs to the Thames — and on this pedestrian-only walkway … sits a freakin cab!  What?!  No way!!  Boom!  And he even knows a place between here and Waterloo Station to grab some late night beers-to-go, hits it on the way, and I’m once again on the last train outta Dodge with a pocketful of prosody.





Or for some other adventures there’s The Merry Pranksters invade Woodstock

or the Sneaking onto the Pittsburgh Penguins Bus During the Playoffs story 

or the sneaking backstage at the On The Road premiere and meeting Walter Salles story 

or sneaking into the afterparty with Johnny Clegg

or this Long Island Mansions Adventure with Steve Winwood, Sheryl Crow and a bunch of others 

or that one with Carolyn and John Cassady at the Northport Big Sur reading 

or the tribute to my U.K. friend Carolyn Cassady

or that time I drove the whole length of Manhattan in about a non-stop minute story

or speaking of On The Road here’s the account of what went down the day the Original Scroll was auctioned

or that whole Obama Inauguration Woodstock was just insane!



Brian Hassett


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Kerouac Birthday Bash in London

February 15th, 2014 · Kerouac and The Beats, Real-life Adventure Tales


Roaring at The Lion


He’s Ninety-Two

Let’s Hoist a Few

The Jack Kerouac Birthday Bash

On The Road in London

March 12th, 2014, 9 PM

The Red Lion


 Brian Hassett — from New York City

 John Cassady — from San Francisco

 Sam Hammond — Swiss Lips bandleader

 Julian Joyce — Jam Junkies blues blower

 Paul Kirkby — British bandleader

Readings, music, songs & stories



Sponsored by: The Beat Museum and LiteraryKicks

A  Spirit  Production


For more Brian and John Cassady Adventures — check out The Northport Report.

For more on John and his mum Carolyn — check out The White Knight & The Queen.

Or for other On The Road Adventures in England — check out the On The Road movie premiere.

Or for a whole other wild ride — check out hanging with director Walter Salles at the On The Road movie premiere in Toronto.

Or for a complete overview of all the Beat movies — check out The Beat Movie Guide.

Or for a poetic riff of one of these Beats and music shows — check out Be The Invincible Spirit You Are.


by Brian Hassett


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Olympic Hockey Sochi 2014

January 2nd, 2014 · The Hockey Hippie

Olympic Hockey — Sochi, Russia, 2014




The Eastern Time Zone in North America is 9 hours earlier than Sochi, Russia.

The broadcast networks are — CBC and NBC.

Canada is currently ranked 5th in the world — we’ve sure fallen a long way since The Golden Goal!

Current IIHF World Rankings — click on country name for each 2014 Olympic roster

1. Sweden
2. Finland
3. Russia
4. Czechs
5. Canada  — here’s their jerseys.
6. U.S.A.  —  here’s their jerseys.
7. Switzerland
8. Slovakia


Or all rosters are officially laid out on the NHL’s site here.


The Goalies:

Carey Price — .924 Sv % — 2.30 GAA (Montreal)
Roberto Luongo — .933 Sv% — 2.22GAA (Vancouver)

Ryan Miller — .927 Sv% — 2.60GAA (Buffalo)
Jonathan Quick — .918 Sv% — 2.05GAA (L.A.)

Henrik Lundqvist — .914 Sv% — 2.58GAA    (Rangers)
Jonas Gustavsson — .914 Sv% — 2.39GAA    (Detroit)

Tuukka Rask —  .929 Sv% — 2.11GAA    (Boston)
Antti Niemi — .913 Sv% — 2.39GAA    (San Jose)
Kari Lehtonen — .915 Sv% — 2.65AGAA    (Dallas)

Semyon Varlamov — .927 Sv% — 2.34GAA   (Colorado)
Sergei Bobrovsky — .916 Sv% — 2.53GAA  (Columbus)

Ondrej Pavelec — .899 Sv% — 3.02GAA   (Winnipeg)

Jaroslav Halak — .912 SV% — 2.29GAA  (St. Louis)


For some reason Canada lucked out in the groupings — playing our three seed-determining round-robin games against, in order, Norway, Austria and Finland.

Whereas the USA has Russia & Slovakia in their group;   and Sweden and the Czechs are in the same group.

We also have the preferred time slot for all the round-robin games — the last game of the day, 9PM local, or Noon in the Eastern time zone in North America.
Whereas the USA is playing all their games at 4:30PM local time, or 7:30AM on the East Coast.


Canada’s Schedule:   . . . . . (all times Eastern)

Noon Thurs Feb 13th — Canada vs. Norway

Noon Friday Feb 14th — Canada vs. Austria

Noon Sunday Feb 16th — The Big GameCanada vs. Finland


The U.S.’s Schedule:

7:30AM Thurs Feb 13th — USA vs. Slovakia

7:30AM Sat Feb 15th — USA vs. Russia

7:30AM Sun Feb 16th — USA vs. Slovenia


Other important dates / times:

Opening CeremoniesFriday Feb 7th — prolly around 9AM our time.

Sweden vs. Czechs — Noon Wed Feb 12th


Hockey Elimination / Playoff Games:

Quarterfinals — Wed Feb 19th — games at 3AM, 7:30AM, and Noon

Semi-finals — Friday Feb 21st — games at 7AM and Noon

Bronze Medal — Noon on Sat Feb 22nd

Gold Medal — 7AM on Sunday Feb 23rd


Useful Olympic newsfeed link from the NHL —


May luck, flukey bounces, and referees have nothing to do with the outcomes.




Here were the complete rosters including jersey numbers, stats, position, everything, for the top seven hockey nations for the 2010 Olympics.

Or here’s my Everything You Need To Know page for the 2010 Vancouver Olympics, Hockey Division.

Or here’s my photo album from attending the 2012 Olympics in London —

Or here’s my wild Sneaking Onto The Penguins Team Bus during the playoffs story from a few years ago.



by Brian Hassett  


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Nelson Mandela Musical Tribute

December 5th, 2013 · Music, Politics



With the passing of The Giant I thought of all great music he inspired …
and interestingly enough I’d reviewed a lot of it over the years so thought I’d put some of the best together here …

This is my single favorite clip of all the live music performances I’ve ever seen on film … by anybody, ever … you just have to experience it …

And then that captured moment was so priceless and impactful that the performer, Johnny Clegg, used it in his 2013 concert at the Royal Albert Hall in London.  And as The Great Spirit provides, one audience member up front was capturing it on his camera and shared it with the the world …

And here’s the same song, “Asimbonanga,”  sung by the Soweto Gospel Choir a few days after Madiba died . . . as a flash mob in a store!!

And then here he is two days later doing it solo with a choir at the Nelson Mandela Centre of Memory …

Or here’s an interesting version with Peter Gabriel on most of the lead vocals … and that builds to a rather choirific climax …


Then there was The Specials’ “Free Nelson Mandela” — the very first song in Western culture that brought attention to Mandela’s plight in early 1984.

Here’s the earliest live version of the song captured on film, on the offbeat Channel 4 show Tube, just before the song’s writer Jimmy Dammers would leave the band.  And don’t miss the surprise appearance by Elvis Costello.  ;-)


To these ears, the most powerfully rockin of all the Mandela songs is “(I Ain’t Gonna Play) Sun City,” written by Little Steven and recorded by his all-star assemblage Artists United Against Apartheid in 1985, following in the draft “We Are The World” earlier that year.

Here he is whipping the best live version ever captured on film — in the small-venue Ritz in NYC with brother Bruce showing up to join Little Steven’s Disciples of Soul … and whoever the hell that teeth-rattling bass player is — I want him in my band!


Here’s the long-form video of “Sun City” that Little Steven’s collective of masters made.  Some of the legends I noticed — Miles, Herbie, Dylan, Ringo, Springsteen, Bono, Lou Reed, Joey Ramone, Jackson Browne, Bonnie Raitt, Peter Wolf, Jimmy Cliff, The Temptations, Clarence Clemons, George Clinton, Afrika Bambaataa, Run-DMC, Darlene Love, Nona Hendrix, Ruben Blades, Peter Garrett from Midnight Oil … and … my old front yard, Washington Square Park, was the setting of the climactic choir scenes!  ;-)


And in 1988 when Jimmy Dammers, the guy from The Specials who wrote “Free Nelson Mandela,” organized the massive all-star “Nelson Mandela 70th Birthday Tribute” at Wembley Stadium, he was able to summon the likes of Little Steven, Peter Gabriel, Eric Clapton, Dire Straits, The Eurythmics, Whitney Houston, Stevie Wonder, Sting, Joe Cocker, Hugh Masekela, Miriam Makeba, Simple Minds, UB40, Youssou N’Dour, Jackson Browne, Chrissie Hynde, Tracy Chapman, Paul Carrack and loads of others.

Here’s the first five minutes of the all-star “Sun City” from this gig — including Little Steven’s rippin rap about “the terrorist government of South Africa” before being backed by Simple Minds with Peter Gabriel, Youssou N’Dour, Jackson Browne and others …


Or here’s where Gabriel and Youssou N’Dour join Simple Minds for an hypnotic “Biko” — a song about another political anti-apartheid activist in South Africa — but who was killed by the police in 1977 …


Or here’s Aswad leading Sly & Robbie, Gabriel, Youssou and a ton of others in a joyous “Set Them Free” …


Or here’s Simple Minds — who were the basically the house band at the Wembley 70th Birthday Tribute — doing their “Mandela Day” …


And, okay, this has nothing to do with Mandela, but The Eurythmics do a “There Must Be An Angel” with the most soaring melodic harp solo I’ve ever heard delivered in a stadium … you just gotta experience this … it’s the climactic two minutes of the song …
and not fer nuthin but … the best female vocalist on the stage is not Annie Lennox.
Check it.


= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

For more Adventures in music you can check out the (Route) 66 Best live performances ever captured on film.

Or for the similar time we lost a global giant — John Lennon

Or the time I met and hung with Madiba’s #1 music man Johnny Clegg.

Or Paul Simon playing Graceland in Hyde Park in London. 

Or the night Dylan showed up at Springsteen’s show at Shea Stadium in New York.

Or the New Orleans Jazz Fest ride.

Or how The Grateful Dead came to play my 30th birthday.

Or when Dr. John came to Toronto and I hung with the band afterwards.

Or when Neil Young returned to Massey Hall in Toronto.

Or Furthur came back and reprised the Dead at Madison Square Garden.

Or when the Dead, Janis, The Band and others took the Festival Express train trip across Canada.

Or here’s the day I finally “got” Bob Dylan

Or for all the music stories in general go here.




Brian Hassett

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Haiku for Carolyn Cassady

November 28th, 2013 · Kerouac and The Beats, Poetry

I just came across this in the files.  Glad I did.  Kinda cool.

They’re not really traditional 5–7–5 haiku — they’re what Kerouac called Western Haiku — “simple 3-line poems that make a little picture” — written while I was living with and inspired by Carolyn.  There certainly was something about that woman that inspired.  She had so many arts flowing through her at every given moment — painting, writing, theater — it couldn’t help but transfer to those around her.

This outcropping, sketched over the summer of 2012, is a portrait of her, using a tiny haiku brush.

Everything comes directly from something she said or I saw.



Haiku For Carolyn


Portrait painter, married Adonis
loved a movie star
could still draw their faces from memory


Houseful of books
skyscraper stacks
grow on every surface


Still watches movies
like the set and costume designer
she always was


Still cooks every meal
meat, potatoes and veggie
like her bio-chemist father taught her


Touch-typing emails
looking at giant Mac screen
words flow with ease


In love with history
so much a part of it
and not just this lifetime


Designed her own garden
and put in a waterfall
knowing I was coming


WACed a war
mothered a family
batted away suitors by the battalion


Hung with heavies
but keeps it light
as fans gush their hearts


Still twinkles by day
and beams at night
reading in every morning


Turquoise and purple
color her home
herself and her life


She enjoyed this life
as much
as she enjoyed all her others


At home in her home
her skin
her life



Carolyn Cassady — 1923 – 2013 — RIP



For a nice remembrance upon her passing — check out my tribute to her.

Or for another ode to her from several cycles ago you can riff the Carolyn Birthday Poem.

Or here’s a video tribute for her Memorial on the one year anniversary of her passing.

Or for one of our many great adventures together, check out this one in Jack’s Long Island —  The Northport Report.

Or for a picture of her and John together check out this short portrait of their duet.

Or here’s another poem from when I was there about her as living history — The Royal Woods of Cassady County.

Or check out Kerouac’s own “Book of Haikus” masterfully put together by Regina Weinreich.

Or America’s foremost haiku authority Cor van den Heuvel’s definitive “Haiku Anthology



Brian Hassett

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Edie Kerouac Parker, Henri Cru and Allen Ginsberg — The Boulder Summit ’82

October 29th, 2013 · Kerouac and The Beats, Real-life Adventure Tales

Some of Jack’s oldest & dearest friends

Edie, Henri and Allen 



Edie and I in her living room in Grosse Pointe with her Jack paintings.


An excerpt from

The Hitchhiker’s Guide to Jack Kerouac:

The Adventure of the Boulder ’82 On The Road Conference —

Finding Kerouac, Kesey and The Grateful Dead

Alive & Rockin’ in the Rockies


Jack’s first wife Edie was the one I could talk to back then — and in fact would grow to become close friends with shortly after Boulder.  She even enlisted me to write her autobiography with her, which seemed like the opportunity of a lifetime, until I learned she’d already scratched out a thousand pages … and wasn’t even up to where she met Jack!  She was absolutely insistent that every detail of every moment of her life be included, and even at my young age with this huge opportunity before me I knew this would be an impossible task and we’d end up fighting over every detailed description of every piece of clothing she ever wore … so I didn’t end up joining her on the journey and we stayed friends instead.

Where Jan and Carolyn were shy and quiet, Edie was a ball of fire — always talking, often to more than one person at once, telling stories, and relishing the spotlight.  Where Jan didn’t want to go in front of a microphone, Edie would eat them up like the six sauerkraut hotdogs she ate the first time she met Jack, the story of which she probably told 60,000 times over that week.

She was a hoot, a bona fide character, “a real pisser” as they called people like her back in the day, a “dynamite broad,” a catalytic woman, gregarious, a natural chatterbox, a female Neal in her confidence and making the party jump wherever she went.

She came with all these paintings she claimed Jack painted, but nobody was ever able to authenticate them. She had them displayed in her room and at an art gallery show that was part of the conference and she was trying to sell them or get them in a museum or something. Never happened.

She and Henri Cru were a real going concern for a while — until Henri made the mistake of introducing her to his friend Jack.  That kinda put a damper on their relationship for oh about 40 years.  But the old lovebirds finally reconnected in 1980 and became fast friends again for the rest of their days.  And I could sure see why after I also became friends with ol’ Henri in the months following the conference.

These two birds were sure flappin’ the same feathers — always workin’ the angles to hustle a buck.  And I don’t mean that in a bad way.  They were both generous, giving, loving, people people, but they always had some wild get-rich-quick scheme goin’ and about 20 deals in the middle of being made at all times.  Jack coulda written whole books about either one of these two.

The thing about Henri was — he had the greatest laugh in the world — but Jack already told you that in “On The Road.”  And yeah — there was a pattern here among his old compadres.  Henri was a born dry comic who loved to deliver drop dead funny lines totally straight and only move his eyeballs to see if you got it.  And if you did, he’d explode with this high-pitched hee-hee-hee which would make you laugh even more which would make him laugh even more.

He had these stock lines he’d deliver over and over — “You can’t teach the old maestro and new tune.”  Or “Plant ya now and dig ya later.”  Or if someone wasn’t talking, “You wouldn’t say shit if you had a mouthful.”  And for years he’d been immortalizing these sayings into rubber stamps he had made at some little shop in Chinatown.  He had hundreds of them stored in various old fishing tackle boxes — sometimes whole 3-sentence jokes he thought were hilarious but were really just extremely corny puns.  Maybe this was his way of getting his words in print like his friend Jack, I don’t know, but sometimes he’d send out whole letters to people that were nothing but pages of his stamped jokes and quotes of wisdom!

Unlike the people who’d made the pilgrimage to Boulder, which Henri couldn’t do because he’d just recently been confined to a wheelchair due to losing half a leg to diabetes, but he also wouldn’t do it because he didn’t share the assembled’s awe of his friend since high school.  As Henri said, he “wasn’t entirely pleased” with how Jack portrayed him in his novels (even though anyone who knew Henri knew Jack painted a vividly accurate and loving portrait), and he didn’t care much for Jack’s “fruity friends,” or how rude he could be when drunk.  ‘Course, that didn’t stop him from listing himself in the Manhattan phone book until the day he died as “Remi Boncoeur,” the pseudonym Jack gave him in On The Road.  What the old buddies were, more than anything, were two dashing young men on the town on the make.  Neither of them, as it turned out, were really the settle-down marrying types (as Henri put it, “I don’t breed well in captivity”), but they both loved to have a pretty woman on their arm and in their bed — and sometimes it turned out to be the same woman.



Henri Cru’s 70th birthday – April 1991.
Henri in the chair — me in the peacoat,
Stringbeans Kurman & Tim Moran in the back,
Mary & Alexandra behind Henri,
outside the Blue Note Jazz Club
where we saw Maynard Ferguson,
West Third & Sixth Ave. in the Village,
with the famous Waverly Theater over our shoulders,
where “On The Road” would finally open in NY 20 years later.

This gathering in Boulder was the first time Edie’d ever appeared anywhere to talk about Jack — but then that was the case for a lot of these people, this being the first major summit and all.  But she knew Jack before anyone else who was here — having met him when they were both teenagers in 1939 and fallen in love not long after.

In fact, she had this whole thing she called “the ’40s gang” — which was just her, Allen, Burroughs and Huncke — the core four who pre-dated everybody.  Neal, Carolyn, Holmes, Corso, Ferlinghetti — they all came years of youth later.  You remember who your oldest friends are — who came first, who dates back the furthest.  And same with Edie — acutely aware of who the original group was, and she made a point of reconnecting with each of them, but especially with Herbert who, for whatever reason, she seemed to dig the most.  But then — that was my vibe, too.

And just to be clear — Allen was The Man.  This whole thing happened because of him, start to finish.  As an event producer myself … you don’t get to hang with your friends and have fun.  I mean, you do on a deeper and long-term level, but in the present it’s all work, check lists, constant mental mapping of the future minutes, hours and days.

And that’s what old Allen was doing — working his ass off — starting more than a year before this happened, and then all during it, not only coordinating every damn thing that went on, but also conducting writing workshops, doing reading performances (where he killed), press conferences, conflict resolution, into leading silent meditation sessions, then back into administrative crap, and more hassle defusing, and croissant monitoring, and panelist rescheduling, and housing management, and dinner arranging, and most importantly — Vibe Establishing.  It was all from his Tender Heart that this whole thing sprung and kept springing.  And he was everywhere at once.

Neal Cassady + Bill Graham = Allen Ginsberg

But first came Edie — who introduced her brainy boyfriend Jack to this cool guy from her Columbia art class, Lucien Carr … who in turn introduced Jack to his life-altering partners in crime Allen Ginsberg and Bill Burroughs … making it pretty easy to peg the Beat Generation’s inception to Edie’s introduction and the all-night drinking and talking and phonograph playing sessions they danced across the universe in the four rooms of the Morningside Heights apartment she shared with Lucien’s girlfriend, then one Joan Vollmer Adams.

As much as Jack and the Beats were products and practitioners of the male-centric world of the 1940s and ’50s, it was almost comically common for the women to be the real catalysts of creation.  It was Jack’s mother who gave her grown-up son the love and shelter and stability to write and preserve his manuscripts.  It was his last wife Stella who mothered him after Mémère had a stroke, and was keeping his filing cabinets and archives intact after they both passed away.  It was Ann Charters who was the first scholar to take him seriously — and while he was still alive — showing up on his doorstep in 1966 to begin the work that would become his first biography.  It was his second wife, Joan Haverty, who had the job that paid the rent on the apartment at 454 West 20th Street that gave Jack the space to write his career-changing scroll of On The Road in that 20-day shot in 1951.  It was Carolyn who first moved to San Francisco, 1947 — long before Ferlinghetti or any of them — and THAT’s why Neal went there, followed by Jack, Allen and the domino tumble of history.  And it was one wild fun-loving woman named Frankie Edie Parker from Grosse Pointe, Michigan, who chose to room with a like-spirited woman who would soon be Mrs. Burroughs just as she’d be Mrs. Jack and who together hosted the rented Eden from which an entire generation spawned.


full_cover12 copy



You can order a copy from CreateSpace here 

. . . or Amazon here.


For more from the SuperSummit, check out Who All Was There.

Or … Meeting Your Heroes 101.

Or here’s the part where we arrive at Red Rocks for the Grateful Dead show.

Or another Beat summit adventure at the Big Sur gathering in Northport.

For another cool riff involving both Edie and Henri, check out Famous People Who Didn’t Have Kids.

Or my tribute to the mighty spirit and my close friend Carolyn Cassady.

Or for an over-all on all the Beat movies that have been coming out lately and throughout history check out The Beat Movie Guide.

Or for another Henri Cru story check out When The Legend Turned 70!

Or for a nice Beat riff about the live shows we did so often in the Village you can check out Be The Invincible Spirit You Are.




Brian Hassett

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Carolyn and John Cassady

September 27th, 2013 · Kerouac and The Beats

The White Knight and The Queen




Ya know how our favorite Beats were not exactly role-model parents?

How there aren’t a lot of heart-warming parent-child stories in Beatlandia?

Well, …
there is one.


Carolyn Cassady and her son John were sumpthin else.
Honestly I’m tearing up just now picturing them together.
It was the greatest thing.
They loved each other as much as two people can.

And they were like a comedy duo, like a Burns & Allen, or Dashiell Hammett’s Thin Man couple, wise-crackin’ all the time — so in synch you’d think they’d been jamming since birth!

They had each other’s rhythms and thoughts DOWN — and could just play the other — it was amazing — like two instruments trading off in a band.

There could be a room fulla people and they’d be in different clusters and they’d still somehow be hearing each other and one would say something and the other would laugh from 10 feet away.

And they could tell the most risqué jokes or one-liners that would make me blush — and the two of them would just roar!

There were so many nights in hotel rooms or restaurants that we’d all be talking and laughing so loud there were noise complaints.

And this was never ending. They didn’t even have to be on the same continent and they could make each other laugh — just by hearing the other’s voice in their head.

When I mention in my tribute to Carolyn about her inspiring me with my own mom, it was really seeing them together that exploded my framework of what a parent-child relationship could be.

They were like two little kids when they were together.  Look at that picture above.  I bet that’s the exact same expression of giddy silly playful joy Carolyn had when she was 4 years old. 

And they could also be like two complaining old fogies on a swing on the front porch grousing about how things ain’t like they used to be — then crack each other up at the irony.

What I’m saying is — there was at least one tremendous parent-child relationship up on Mount Rushmore in South Beatlandia.

And those two were living it.



For one of our many great adventures together, check out this one in Jack’s Long Island —  The Northport Report;-)

Or for a video tribute to Carolyn on the occasion of her Memorial — check this out.

Or for a sweet ode I wrote for Carolyn several cycles ago you can riff the  Carolyn Birthday Poem.

Or for the tribute to Carolyn upon her sad passing — check out my tribute to her.

Or here’s another poem about CC as living history from when I was living with her — The Royal Woods of Cassady County.



Brian Hassett

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Carolyn Cassady tribute 1923 – 2013

September 20th, 2013 · Kerouac and The Beats, Real-life Adventure Tales



Another giant has fallen — another angel taken flight.

Carolyn Cassady has just left us to join Neal and Jack on that great road trip in the sky.

Her son John, the light of her life, was there by her side till the end.
After a year’s refusal of entry into the U.K., just 3 months ago he was able to return to England to be with her.

She was her regular rockin self up through Sunday, woke up with a tummy ache Monday morning, had an infected appendix, and checked out by Friday.

We should all be so lucky.  She was 90 years old and still drank her white wine and smoked her More menthol ciggies every day.

That is to say — she was living the life she chose, on her own terms, in her own house, until the very end.

Besides Neal’s love for her, it’s my considered opinion she was also the love of Jack Kerouac’s life — and they pledged to be together in the next one.

So there’s that.


Carolyn was spiritual, an intuitive channel, naturally smart, well educated, well read, independent, creative, curious as all get-out, strong … yet loved hugs, uncommonly forgiving while still holding a firm sense of right and wrong, and was a helluva gifted portrait painter.  Sold hundreds of them.  

She grew up in a library of a house, with a biochemist father and English teacher mother, and intellectual discourse and reading were the orders of the day.

She got her BA as one of the first students at the revolutionary Bennington College in Vermont, then earned her MA in Theater and Fine Arts at the University of Denver, where she was living when she met Neal.

Carolyn was the first of the then unnamed generation of Beats to move to San Francisco, and she was the reason Neal went there, which is why Jack went there … and so tumbled the dominoes of history.

I used to phone her at her cottage home in the forest around Windsor Castle every few months just to chat, and a little over a year ago she told me she didn’t expect to be here next year.

Since none of her three kids could get over there at that point, and I was sort of freed up for the first time with my mom just passing, I went and lived with her for 3 months, and boy did we have a time!

When we first started hanging out in the early ’90s, we were having so much fun, it made me realize I could be doing this with my own mom, who was about the same age.  And for the next 15 years my mom and I took our adventure even further and were even better friends than we had been before — and it was thanks to Carolyn opening those doors wide so I could see how much possibility there was.

Carolyn was born a week after my mom in April, and died a week after her in September.  I always wanted to get the two of them together but I guess we were always a week off.  Talk about fabulous roman candles exploding across the stars — those two together woulda lit up the night sky till dawn!

And she wasn’t just a surrogate mother to me, but was the den mother to the entire Beat Generation, the only one in that whole crazy krewe who maintained a home with kids and a garden – and a Kerouac bivouac under the backyard tree.  And she remained a mother figure until the end to hundreds of fans who would email her, and she’d write every one back, offering her advice and years of wisdom to help with any problem anyone else had.

She maintained a routine for at least the last decade of her life, where she would do emails in the morning, read from a stack of books beside her bed all afternoon, and by 5:00 it was okay to have a glass of wine and watch the local and then Beeb national news, then quiz shows or nature documentaries in the evenings.

She also had shelves full of Beat movies that I went through and had us systematically watch every damn one, and I could ask her any question and we’d hit pause and go off on crazy tangents and get another glass of wine and maybe watch another five minutes then something else would come up and it would take us about ten hours to get through one movie!

And she’d always say to whoever was talking in a documentary, “That isn’t how it was!” and be correcting the history as it’s being presented.  And the funniest time was when she was yelling at the screen, “That’s completely wrong! You don’t know what you’re talking about!” and it was her being interviewed!   :-)

She is survived by her beloved son John Allen Cassady — named for Kerouac, Ginsberg and Neal — but she called him Johnny.  As well as by her daughter Jami “Jack liked me best” Cassady-Ratto, and her first-born Cathy Sylvia, as well as her grandchildren Jamie, Becky and Bill, and her great-grandchildren Jon, Ellie, David, Bradley, Elizabeth and . . . Cody. ;-)


Carolyn rocked —
              but she also held down the Beat so others could solo.


Carolyn Cassady      1923 – 2013       R.I.P.



Here’s a video tribute done for her Memorial —>


For a sweet ode I wrote for her several cycles ago you can riff the  Carolyn Birthday Poem.

Here’s a riff on the wonderful relationship she had with her son John.

Or here’s another one about CC as living history from when I was living with her — The Royal Woods of Cassady County.

Or there’s our great adventure in Jack’s Long Island—  The Northport Report. ;-)

Or for some pictures of her and her house when I was there last summer you can check out the FB photo albums …


For a riff on my Carolyn-like Mom … check this  Song of Enid I Sing.




Brian Hassett

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Kill Your Darlings movie review

September 11th, 2013 · Kerouac and The Beats, Movies


Allen & Lucien — I mean, Radcliffe & DeHaan — sharing a laugh at the premiere gala at TIFF, next to Michael C. Hall (Kammerer) and Jack Huston (Kerouac).


Just home from “Kill Your Darlings” — the second of three movies based on Jack & the Beats being released within a few months of each other in this 2000-and-lucky-13.

The following goes into a lot of detail about the film.  Even though the storyline is not a mystery, if you want to keep the film a mystery for yourself, you should skip this.  On the other hand, there’s a lot of cool chit that’ll enhance your experience — or at least let you know what you’re in for.

This may be long and complicated — but to quote a memorable line from the movie: “I like complicated.”

The Setting:
The Toronto International Film Festival (TIFF) — at the festival and the city’s premier venue, Roy Thompson Hall — a high-end 2,000-seat symphonic concert hall.

The deal with having your film at this schmacy space, I found out, is that it has to be sponsored.  Mega-corps like (in this case) Audi, Visa & a corporate law firm, buy the venue including renting secondary rooms for VIP/client schmoozes — in fact, with full china sit-down table settings pre and post film for the suits ‘n’ manicures set.

Turns out — the only seats sold to the public are the balcony — in which I of course score front row.

So … playing in this huge ritzy showplace is a Beat movie about people who couldn’t afford a small bag of ($5) popcorn in the joint. And speaking of joints, it was a buzz to smell the righteous Canadian sweetleaf being sparked up as soon as the lights went out!

I talked to lots of people in line and in the theater and couldn’t find a single person coming because it was a Beat story — it was basically all Radcliffe fans — bringing serious flashbacks of the people swarming the On The Road premiere at TIFF a year ago this week for Kristen Stewart.

If they weren’t there for Radcliffe, most seemed to have come for some completely random reason, like they got a free ticket or it was the only movie they could get a ticket for.

And also bizarrely similar to OTR, the line-up outside was about a 70-30 majority of women over men.  Seems weird — but this was true of both these films’ premieres at TIFF, and the London premiere of OTR.  Except in this case, of the 30% who were male, about two-thirds were gay couples.  Apparently this movie is sorta big in the gay community — it has gay main characters, a gay director and screenwriter, male movie stars kissing each other, and a naked gay sex scene.
So, there’s that.

Outside it was the now-modern-classic image of all these people standing in line with their heads down typing on their phones.  I spotted four different people reading books — none of which were Beat related.  One guy wrote a paper last year on Burroughs, and one girl heard about the Beats in her English course at the U of T, but those are the closest connects I found in talking to a score or more of people.

The movie is an Allen’s-eye-view of meeting Lucien and discovering New York and his own identity.  It’s so crazy sad that he couldn’t live to see this or Walter Salles’s On The Road.  He would have loved both of them.  At least he’s giggling safe in heaven’s theater.

This is not really a movie about the murder (as portrayed in the trailers and ads) — it’s the story of Allen growing from an insecure recent high school grad through his journey to college and writerhood.

I haven’t seen Big Sur, the third film in this 2013 trilogy of Beat dramatizations, but this does make for many interesting harmonics with On The Road.  There’s the jazz club scene, the benzedrine scene, the small bohemian apartment scenes, the gay sex scene, the wild young buddies getting blissfully drunk together scene — many of the same adventures, but set a few years earlier in the same 1940s Manhattan — with Lucien in the role of Neal Cassady.

In Jack’s epic Duluoz Legend, this would come just before Road.  (For the complete list of films chronicling The Duluoz Legend by date, see the Beat Movie Guide or the box at end.)

One difference between the two films:  you should definitely experience On The Road on the big screen — for which both the auteur’s vision and the cinematographer’s lensing were very much designed.  Kill Your Darlings could probably be just as well experienced on any home screen.  Maybe this has to do with it being made by a first-time director and/or someone who grew up watching and living with smaller screens versus a director who’s made 20 films and has a big landscape vision, both for the screen and life.

Also like On The Road, this features tons of high-end actors in a low budget indi film — because most of them were fans of the subject, as were the screenwriter, director, and production and costume designers — Beat fans all.  In fact, Michael C. Hall, famous as the eponymous lead in Showtime’s “Dexter,” who here plays the doomed David Kammerer, met Allen a couple times (being the oldest of the young gang of actors) and confessed to being awe-struck by the gentle living legend.

And that’s this generational transference that’s never stopped happening with the Beats.  The screenwriter and director were college roommates 10 years ago when they were inspired by these writers and first hatched the idea as a theatrical play.  And the TIFF Grand Pooh-bah introducing the film called the Beat Gen “the most pivotal artistic movement of the 20th century.”
So, there’s that, too.

And you should know this was a no-budget movie. It got made on less than a shoestring, shot entirely in 3 weeks, all on location (mostly upper Manhattan), and all on film (not digital – so I guess that’s where whatever money went). DeHaan and Radcliffe managed to squeeze in a total of 5 days of rehearsal beforehand.

The film does succeed in taking you back to New York circa the late war years, including a great soundtrack with “Sunny Side Of The Street” and lots of others.  And there’s a cool use of a period Manhattan subway map to take the viewer around town.

Besides the overall capturing of the Beat milieu, this is also a classic bad-boy buddy-picture that fits comfortably in the same pranksterish cinematic school as Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, The Blues Brothers and Rumble Fish.  And that it was made by two real-life college buddies, about real-life college buddies, makes it all the more resonant and cool.

It also quite candidly and bravely explores a not-long-ago time when “hymies” and “queers” were routinely and acceptably stigmatized.  The way the film deals with these terms and sentiments so casually yet impactfully is one of the its real strengths.

And this Dane DeHaan who plays Lucien!  Meet your new movie star!  This guy has the charisma, looks, chops, brains (as revealed in interviews) and screen-presence of someone we’re gonna be seeing a lot of in the future.

Lucien was the New York catalytic Cassady, the guy who sparked the fire, who had the mind that could hold the attention and confidence of a some pretty smart and challenging writers. And DeHaan’s performance would make me follow this guy anywhere.

And Radcliffe . . . it’s so reminiscent of OTR with this HUUGGEE megastar in the movie.  Most of the public who paid to come, came for him; most of the fans at the red carpet were there for him; … and would the sponsors be throwing this gala if it wasn’t him in that role?

One interesting thing about this kid, I mean this versatile young actor, is something he confessed in an interview when the film was premiering at Sundance — “I’m in a very fortunate position where I don’t have to be on a set where I’m not completely enthused and passionate about what I’m doing.  I can be selective enough that I only do things that I really believe in and think can be something special.”

And another interesting note – his acting career is based on playing a famous literary character — not some Home Alone kid or something — and one of the first roles he takes after that is to play another famous literary character.  And Allen Ginsberg was quite the character!

I don’t know if I’ve watched 10 minutes of all nine Harry Potter movies combined.  Maybe others will, but I did not see the actor.  I saw the character.  To me he was a very believable Allen — frantic, frenetic, passionate, crazy, insecure, heart-broken, eager, curious, challenging.  And not fer nuthin but Allen has sure gotten some great portrayals lately — James Franco, Tom Sturridge, and now Daniel Radcliffe. Two of whom are British! Go figure.

And Burroughs is just doppelganger dandy!  First in the “trilogy” Wild Bill was personified brilliantly by Viggo Mortensen, and now here by Ben Foster, who (like Viggo) was a big Burroughs fan before he got offered the role.  When the director first called him about maybe being involved, he answered the phone as Bill.  And he pulls off the blinking, shifty eye movements and lip twitching to a T.

And then there’s Jack.  Who, if you’re a fan of, is A) kind of written out of the story, and B) looks the least like, is played the least well, and has the least lines of any of the principals.  What’s up with that?  I have yet to see a cinematic portrayal of Jack that comports with the visual, audio and written accounts of the man.  He had “classic” good looks — and was just about the only writer in history that a Jon Hamm or Rob Lowe or any of a million handsome up-and-comers could play and it wouldn’t be unrealistic. His wife Edie and others who knew him then summed him up simply with, “He was movie star handsome” — as any of his mid-40s thru mid-50s photographs attest.  It’s weird and sad to think one may have to go back to John Heard in 1980’s “Heart Beat” for the closest thing to Jack on screen.

Even though the film was cooked up and populated by 20-somethings, it also has respected veteran actors like Jennifer Jason Leigh, Kyra Sedgwick and John Cullum joining this very independent unglorified college-film.

That Allen’s parents are played magnificently by Leigh and David Cross (who recently played Allen circa 1965 in the surreal Dylan film “I’m Not There“) shows the depth of casting, and the commitment to Allen and his story.  Leigh, who to these eyes has never been less than mesmerizing in any role she’s taken, is yet again in a class of her own here as the Kaddish Queen.

Then there’s the story

We already have Jack’s version of the events leading up to and following the Kammerer murder — 3 times! — The Town & the City, Vanity of Duluoz, and And The Hippos Were Boiled In Their Tanks.

We have Burroughs’ version in his chapters from Hippos.

We have Edie Kerouac’s wonderful telling — the most flushed out of any of them, spanning nearly a hundred pages — in her “You’ll Be Okay” posthumous autobiography.

And now we have this film of Allen’s version — drawing from his posthumous “The Book of Martyrdom and Artifice.”

In other words — we have many different first-hand accounts of the meeting of these minds and the unexpected extreme event that occurred in their midst.  Ya gotta just be happy that at least one of them ever got made into a full-length motion picture.

The problem is — telling the Kammerer murder story from Allen’s point of view is sort of like telling On The Road from William Burroughs’s.  Allen was the least involved and the last to find out.  That this key moment in the birth of the Beat Generation should be portrayed as a trio that does not involve Jack Kerouac is like making a movie about the birth of America without Thomas Jefferson.

Then there’s just so much they got factually wrong, at least compared to every account I’ve ever read — and they’ve been working on this thing for ten years.
In just this one viewing I noticed …
They have Lucien going to see Jack first after the murder, and then Bill, when it was kind of importantly the other way around (!)
That Lucien had a steady and traffic-stoppingly gorgeous girlfriend at the time, and that the two of them along with Jack & Edie were a regular dating foursome, and that these two robo-babes were living in the same apartment together while going out these two uber-dudes — who were the central ones involved — is completely absent.
And according to Jack, Lucien kept saying to him, “I’ll get the hot seat for this.” But in the script he says, “I’ll go to jail for the rest of my life.”  This may seem small, but since Jack was the only one there to hear it, and reported it differently, repeatedly, and that the real line is so much more impactful and distressing, not to mention historically significant as he’s referring to the famous “Old Sparky” electric chair in Sing Sing just up the Hudson that was still in use at the time — how after ten years of rewrites would you not have this right?
Or they have Jack phoning his dad for bail money, and the character asks for $5,000 — not the $100 Jack actually asked for and needed (as documented in every account of his incarceration, including his own).  And since his dad famously turns him down … $100 (the real amount) would have been so much more dramatic and to the point.
Or how they have Burroughs happily doing cut-ups more than a decade before scissors were ever a gleam in his eye.
Or, startling to any New Yorker … they portray the Hudson River shoreline in Riverside Park … as a sandy beach fer chrissake!

I’m no Allen scholar, but it sure makes you wonder how much about him they got wrong as well.

Then there’s my biggest beef by far — that Frankie Edie Kerouac Parker is portrayed as a shrew.  This is so wrong, on so many levels.  Edie was the catalyst, and for sure the coolest, most fun, most go-along simpatico chick Jack (and maybe any of them) ever hooked up with.  Edie “got it.”  Big time.  Her apartment was the center of the gang’s activity — when not at their neighborhood clubhouse, the West End Bar.  And she was cool with that.  In fact, the crazy messy endless party scene bothered Jack more than her.  She was the one who created it, and more often than not was the only one paying for it and anything else.

It was Edie who first met Lucien in her evening Columbia art class and introduced him to her boyfriend Jack — which led to him meeting both the movie’s protagonist Ginsberg, as well as Burroughs.  It was Edie who made that pivotal connection — cuz she dug both these smart, wild-eyed happening guys.  Not to mention that Burroughs met and then married her next cool apartment-mate Joan.

And if you don’t know, since the filmmakers didn’t seem to, Edie at the time was this gregarious buxom blond knockout who was always having a good time and attracting attention wherever she went.  Jack described her as looking like Mamie van Doren.  That she’s written and portrayed so completely 180 degrees opposite of who she was, really brings into doubt the integrity of this entire endeavor.

Then there are all these disconcerting overt implications — that Allen’s dad sent his mom to the insane asylum so he could have an affair;  that Lucien was the one who first said, “First thought, best thought;”  that Kammerer verbally asked to be stabbed and killed.  When you think of the obvious well-known facts they got wrong … that they’re committing these implications to celluloid is something of a crime against real people’s reputations.  I mean, the movie’s being sold as “A TRUE STORY!”

But in the end … the loving movie they made is an energetic passionate creative youthful super-college-film.  Good for them for sticking with it and making it happen.  What a dream-come-true for these young Beats to see this showcased at Sundance, TIFF and Venice.  And they definitely captured Allen’s ride … with his parents, in his classrooms, with his friends, losing his virginity … and I assume most Allen fans are gonna love this.

But after it was over, some guy outside on a phone was telling his friend — “It was Harry Potter in a weird gay porn movie.”

Which may sum it up for the unBeat masses better than I ever could.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

Kill Your Darlings” opens in limited theatrical release in the U.S. starting Friday Oct. 18th, 2013.


The Duluoz Legend sequence of films (so far) would be:

Kill Your Darlings — set in 1944  (released 2013)
The Last Time I Committed Suicide — set in 1945  (released 1997)
Heart Beat — set in 1946-66  (released 1980)
On The Road — set in 1947-49  (released 2013)
Beat — set in 1951  (released 2000)
Pull My Daisy — set in 1955  (released 1959)
Big Sur — set in 1960   (released 2013)

For a full Beat Movie Guide to all the dramatizations check my summery with links at — The Beat Movie Guide.


How they all met (in 1944) —

Lucien — knew Kammerer and Burroughs from St. Louis;  met Jack thru Edie, who he met at an evening art class at Columbia that they both took;  he met Allen when they were both freshmen living across the hall from each other in the dorms at Columbia.

Jack — met Lucien thru Edie;  then via the Lucien revolution he met Allen, Burroughs & Kammerer.

Allen — met Lucien living across the hall from him at Columbia dorm;  thru Lucien met Jack, Burroughs, Kammerer.

Burroughs — vaguely knew Lucien from St. Louis; thru Lucien he met Kammerer, who introduced him to Jack; thru these 3 he met Allen.



Brian Hassett


For another TIFF story from the world premiere of the final version of On The Road — check out the Meeting Walter Salles Adventure.

For the On The Road New York City premiere and afterparty Adventure — check out On The Road Comes Home.

For the London premiere of On The Road outdoors in a palace courtyard — check out On The Road To On The Road — Sex, Drugs and Jazz.

For another cool riff involving Allen Ginsberg — check out Famous People Who Don’t Have Kids.

For a really funny video review of “Darlings” by a cool British chick — check out her CinOphelia’s joyous riff.

For more comedic riffs on the Beat movies — check out Makin’ Movies.

For an excerpt from my book about the ’82 Kerouac Conference in Boulder — check out Meeting Your Heroes.

For more from the Boulder Beat Book — check out Who All Was There.

For a vivid account of being at the historic “On The Road” scroll auction — check out The Scroll Auction.

For a complete overview of all the Kerouac / Beat film dramatizations including clips and reviews — check out the Beat Movie Guide.

For a story about Henri Cru’s birthday — check out The Legend Turns 70.

For a beautiful poem to Carolyn Cassady on her birthday — check out the Carolyn Cassady Birthday Poem.

For an inspiring description of being at a Beat jazz-&-poetry reading in Greenwich Village — check out Be The Invincible Spirit You Are.

For an account of the historic Beat show at the Whitney Museum in New York — check out Wailin’ at the Whitney.


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The Northport Report

August 30th, 2013 · Kerouac and The Beats, Real-life Adventure Tales, Weird Things About Me

 The Northport Report




Whale, we had another Jackfest — dancing with Big Sur by the Sea, My Brothers! — this time in Jack’s wave-lapping hometown of Northport, the idyllic little living Rockwell harbortown where he went to dock near the darkness of the city but still remain a slip away.

I’m just back from the novel-performing road trip with Cassady, and his bottle’s still spinning on the table but not falling over as he’s dashed out the door to JFK to hop the bird back to Cali, so before the body gets cold and the news gets old lemme be so bold as to share some gold …

Sunday, July 22nd, 2001 began with a proclamation where the mayor gave Carolyn & John Cassady the keys to the city or some such thing at a very official ceremony. And as part of it, Carolyn read two revealing letters Jack wrote to her. One, from Oct. ’61, was just after he finished writing Big Sur, and describes the big bursting Cassady-Kerouac reunion scene in Ferling’s tiny cabin that, wildly, we were all going to read together later. Both letters were full of longing and heart-felt passion — and Carolyn’s just a beaming gem in a tender-heart treasure-chest. Jack and her were really close, and it’s so nice she was around for the whole weekend being open and accessible to anyone who wanted to talk.

It was Sunday morning in the Universe, and this being the crumbling Empire of New York, there were no liquor stores open! So, Big Tim Moran and I — he was Edie, Henri & Herbert’s friend — bolted back to our Chalet hideaway to collect the only bottle of cold white wine in town. It was a dizzy hounds of hair morning for more than just myself after a night of howling at the Jackmoon out on George Wallace’s back deck. We were bad. Clearly could have used some parental supervision.

So Tim and I follow the directions to where the all-day reading of the novel will be, and he looks back at the paper and says, “That’s it right there,” pointing to a sign that reads “Northport Police Station”!

He kept driving looking for a parking spot as I’m looking back over my shoulder, but still see the word “Police”, as I’m tryin to shake the picture clearer in my beer-soaked lab, but it still, “Looks like it said ‘Police Station’ back there.”

“Yeah,” Tim bursts out with a long-suppressed laugh. “That’s where it is.”

“Hmm,” I say, turning around, trying to count how many laws I was breaking at the moment. “First time we ever played a cop shop,” I Jaked to his Elwood.

We go up the stairs and on the right is the door directly into the precinct, and in the center are 2 glass doors leading to . . . a courtroom. Sure enough, we’re celebrating Jack’s judgement day novel in a court of law. There’s a poem in here somewhere. But we must have been acquitted cuz in the end (tho I don’t want to give it away) we were all let go on our own recognizance.

Levi Asher and others are sitting up in the judge’s bench area, there’s a big camera from the Metro Channel in the witness stand, and the room’s packed with rows of chairs that are all full in the early excitement. Maybe a hundred people, then a spilling overflow anti-chamber room just outside the courtroom by the glass doors where the pacers and racers had a space to zoom. Printed on the front of the table with the books and CDs for sale it says in big bold letters: “Defendants Stand Here” — as if we needed this reminder when we’re admitting our guilty pleasure!

Outside the doors, the front steps became the green room hang-out scene. You could just open the glass doors and hear the show from right there, and sorta pick whichever chapter or reader you wanted to catch, then take a break and hang with the cigarette smokers and surreal surfers.

It became obvious that we needed a proper dressing room, so I brought out a nice chair for St. Carolyn By The Sea, and that pretty much evened out the Universe — except that we didn’t have a corkscrew! We thought of going in the police station to see if they’d confiscated one recently but instead John & Big Tim went across the street to the old brick house that was the Northport Hysterical Society with two old ladies behind glass-top counters containing artifacts and tiny labels like, “Hammer – circa 1850” or “Mabel – circa 1925”

“Uh, do you have a corkscrew by any chance?” asks our dangerous duo. “No, I should say not!” Then Ambassador John turns on the charm and they get to talkin’ and he says, “It’s for me mum, she’s the co-chair at your event across the street.”

“Oh, who’s she?” asks the inquisitive matron. John looks down at the countertop and there’s a picture of her & Jack & John’s two sisters. “That’s her right there.” And the motherly one behind the counter smiles and says, “Just a minute,” and goes and unlocks one of the glass cabinets and takes out this large bone handle corkscrew that Walt Whitman used or something and goes, “Here, maybe this’ll work.”

So we popped open the bottle, and oh yeah, we’d brought one crystal goblet from the sweet suite, and got Carolyn perched on a throne sitting at the top of this grand staircase like Abe Lincoln, holding a glass of wine and holding court, surrounded by her coterie of boys as different people would come by to visit her. Most would squat down to be close to her, and each would have some story they wanted to share, always including the line, “I first read On The Road in 19whatever and it changed my life . . .”. Eventually I snuck out a few more chairs and smuggled over some Heinekens from my secret iced 2-4 stash in the trunk and it evolved into a full-blown, feet-up, room-with-a-view backstage party — on the front steps of the Main Street police station at high noon on a Sunday!


Inside the reading, Dave Amram’s set up in the corner with his 7,000 instruments strewn all over the place, with drummer Kevin Twigg workin the brushes on a full kit, and bearded John Dewitt thrummin’ the upright bass. There’s about 5 different little digi cameras rollin, and it looks like a two-camera shoot from The Metro Channel. There’s musician-poet Casey Cyr, painter-poet Susan Bennett, installation artist China Blue, filmmakers and actors Michelle Esrick and Peter Gerety, architect and photographer Larry Smith, poet George Dickerson, and on and on.

And if this wasn’t already enough of a Surreal Circus — in between some readers there were these — belly-dancers!  Ya’huh. Jingling little-bell-tingling colorfully costumed barefoot belly-dancers weaving to Amram’s best Middle-Eastern snake-charmer, and yer goin’, “Okay, which one’a you Pranksters slipped the acid in my joe?”

Within this belly-dancing 3-ring courtroom, some readers really rose to the occasion — like Levi Asher on chapter 9 who was understated and funny and riveting reading Jack’s first sea-me breakdown. And then this actor John Ventimiglia who’s in The Sopranos among other things, plays Artie the restaurant owner, he’s way into Jack (had just played him in Joyce Johnson’s play Door Wide Open) and as John smiled later, “He sounded more like Jack than Jack does.” And Carolyn said, “When I closed my eyes I thought I was listening to Jack.” So he was pretty good. He read chapters 10 and 11 including Jack’s great description of Lew Welch & Phil Whalen’s S.F. Zen-East House crashpad.

And then this local woman Kate Kelly came up for 12 and kicked the thing into another gear being really passionate and playful and strong and forceful and funny, all done with a smile as Jack rages thru his confusion. Then, with Amram on piano, John Cassady read chapter 13 — and John’s funny cuz he throws in all these little asides and commentary on the text as it’s passing. “’… in the old photo …’ Hey who took that? ‘… throwing tires all over the place …’ Oh this is so accurate, it’s great,” he says, laughing along to a quick memory movie. He picked chapter 13 cuz it’s about their life in Los Gatos, and he’s tossing off comments to his mom who’s keeping a running commentary right back in a smile sharing across a half-a-stage and half-a-century of them playing together.

After John read, we had a break until the three of us were on for our chapter 23 group jam, so we drifted down Main Street and popped in Gunther’s Tap Room, Jack’s old drinking hole, and you can see why — nuthin but a bar and a pool table. Except today there’s just tons of people sitting around with orange & black Big Sur paperbacks in front of them. So we shambled off like dingledodies down the sidewalk like we’ve been doing all our lives until we found a front window booth in some joint who’s motto was: “If you want service, serve yourself.” No sooner did we sit down than Levi and his sister Sharon come along (who was into the Beats before Levi was, we learned this weekend) and they stand there looking at the outside menu as we’d done seconds earlier and make the same call we did. And then Regina Weinreich … and now there’s a whole whack of us Beats munchin the Big Cereal recovery brunchfast. But this is also how ya miss part of the show, you understand.

So of course I get us back to the gig about 5 minutes before we’re supposed to go on, as Carolyn’s proclaiming with a raised I-told-you-so finger, “Brian gets things done!” followed by a big smile and laugh. She’s been riffing that refrain since we first started hanging together and by now it’s a running joke.

For my reading, even before we knew they were coming to Northport, I’d picked chapter 23 about the Cassadys arriving at the cabin and surprising Jack and McClure. I wanted to do it justice if they weren’t gonna be here to do it themselves (it is a courtroom after all) — then Lo and Behold! The Angels! They showed! So we weaved it into having John do the Neal & “Timmy” parts, Carolyn doing her parts, and me playing narrator Jack. We’d read together in Amsterdam — the first time John & Carolyn ever performed together thanks to High Times and the Cannabis Cup of all things. Then John and I just did a duet in L.A. at the Jack scroll-writing celebration that S.A. Griffin & I put together for Jack-finishing-On The Road-Day April 22nd, so we were already old hams at this.

And it was funny cuz everybody else was reading solo and suddenly we’re a trio with god knows what kind of improv winginess, and I’m sure ol’ producer George Wallace was kinda, “Oh jeez, what are these guys gonna do?!” ‘Course, we had no idea either. We’d gotten together the afternoon before and attempted to block off paragraphs and passages, but we were all just seeing each other for the first time in ages and much more gushy gooey gabby than rehearsey.

And it was funny — I wuz tryin to funnel some paragraphs or passages to Carolyn cuz she didn’t have too many “lines”, and each time I’d pass over something she’d scan down it and then go, “Aaa-no.” She loves the writing but it’s too close to home and some pretty graphic details about Cody’s lovelife.  But it also has the stuff about Carolyn having two husbands for a while, which she loves, so we just go, “Ah, wheel wing it. No potholes on this golden road.”

So we get to the courtroom and Amram’s just taken off for soundcheck at his evening concert, but our “song” was gonna be so chaotically theatric we’d be more than making our own music!  So we start off, bouncing back & forth, and John takes the McClure dialogue so we get to perform the cabin rap in two voices, and then he also rides the “Boom!” Cassady-bursting-in-the-door scene. When Jack lists the kids’ character names John starts laughing at his sister Jami’s Jackname ‘Gaby’. “See, that’s so perfect for her cuz she used to get up on his knee and just gab-gab-gab-gab-gab.”

And John takes off on the Neal raps, channeling Pop, rollin fast like the road, with animated hand gestures, laughin’, goofin’, playin’.  Carolyn yells out “Grape” when Cody’s tryin to think of his new jeep’s color.  At Jack’s comical adage for Neal, “He Lived, He Sweated”, John cracks up and starts doing this classic Cassady Sweating Shuffle dance at the podium, laughin and hemmin ‘n’ hawin and ah-shucksin’ and ya-had-to-be-therein’, then laughs again and says, “Ah man, that’s the best line in the book. I’m only serious.”

At Carolyn’s dialogue we all get it about half right which of course makes it even funnier and everybody’s laughin but it’s workin and there’s Carolyn gentle and petit and lady-like laughing away and gamely trying to hit her mark and it was a sweet tender family-beaming moment in Beatport.


After the reading we went off on a wild adventure to two of Jack’s three houses in town. The first one at 34 Gilbert was Really Nice!  Couldn’t believe it.  He bought it for $14,000 in March ’58 on a one-afternoon road trip with Robert Frank and Joyce Glassman (Johnson) just after On The Road splashed down.  It’s a large Victorian, 50 years old when he bought it, with brown shingle siding, a big front porch, high front hedge, massive tree in backyard, and a big old double garage for both the cars he couldn’t drive. The house has three floors, with an attic garret for his writing zone, and as Levi kept commenting on, this beautiful stained-glass window in the front, looked like a reclining cubist nude, maybe 3′ wide, 18″ high. “You’d think this would have made it into the fiction somewhere,” Levi says.

So we take a buncha snaps with Levi and John and China Blue and Anthony who booked us in Amsterdam and who grew up right behind Jack’s house here as he tells us about Memere inviting them in for cocoa in the winter and disheveled Jack shuffling around in his terrycloth bathrobe and bedroom slippers.

All weekend there were different people with different memories of Jack. The artist Stanley Twardowicz was softly sharing stories of their drinking exploits, and Larry Smith who took their pictures remembering the mix of solemness and revelry, and all these other locals with little anecdotes about him. He really did live in Northport a long time — April ’58 to September ’64, minus a few excursions to Orlando.

Stanley was a great guy, by the way. Very friendly and open and sensitively remembering his old friend. Larry Smith had a few photos he’s never had published that were haunting. One of them from ’64 just gave Carolyn the willies. “It’s all in there. It’s all in those eyes,” she’d say emphatically pointing and shivering all over.

Then we went to his second house at 49 Earl Avenue after getting lost for about 500 hours. This was the “secret hideaway” he moved to after he sold Gilbert Street and their plans to build a house in Florida fell through — and where he was living when he took the Big Sur trip.  He bought it in part for the finished basement he envisioned as his study, but later insulated the attic and put in a little electric fireplace to warm his crow’s-nest.  It looks smaller than Gilbert, and did indeed have “the six-foot fence I’d built around my yard for privacy,” as he describes in Big Sur — a high old stockade style that you couldn’t see thru or get over.  In fact Jack climaxes Big Sur right here on Earl with, “— The corner of the yard where Tyke is buried will be a new fragrant shrine making my home even more homelike somehow — On soft Spring nights I’ll stand in the yard under the stars — Something good will come out of all things yet —” And sitting on the front step of the house watching us watch the house was this big warm friendly calico cat, who never laid down or ran scaredy-cat away, but rather held there, saying, “Hello. Yes. I’m here.”

We never did find 7 Judyann Court, but wheel be back cuz we were all fully stoked about this fairy tale of a town with its salty harbor and sultry air.  I mean gorgeous — quaint old-world Main Street with windy tree-covered sideroads, surrounded by hills ‘n’ sails, and nooks ‘n’ grannies. “Why didn’t Jack write more about this place?” Carolyn kept asking. The beauty of the town was really the surprise hit of the weekend for all of us. We were fully bummed we didn’t catch more of the readers, but it was such a gorgeous day and there were seven or eight Adventure Cards on deck. Had t’play ‘em.

After the tour, we all went out for this enormous steak dinner following a tip from a local actor Cassady’d dubbed John Goodman — and we took over the place.  It was your jumbo grill here’s-the-beef kinda joint where we could only get a big table in the non-smoking section, so we’d keep leaving our spread completely empty like a Dine ‘n’ Dash and huddle in the smoking corner while our sad plates sat there silently steaming.

We finally headed to Amram’s show late as hell, got lost, and when we finally found the park in the dark there’s this flood of people leaving with lawn chairs and blankets, and we’re like, “Whoops!”  Carolyn and John were supposed to read some Jack with Dave’s band. So we wag up with our tails between our legs — but thank gawd he’s just takin a break and there’s a whole second set!

I spotted Jason Eisenberg, the crazy Lord Buckley channel who read chapter 18 and was probably great but we missed him when we went for that surreal recovery brunch, so he & I snuck away for a comical confab in the holy gazebo in the back of the park and riffed on the Universe as Dave wailed away on Ellington and Monk down the dark treed hill below us.

Then Carolyn came out and read the part of OTR where Jack’s “on the rooftop of America,” at The Great Divide, yelling across the plains to an old man with white hair walking toward him with “the Word”.  And then John came out and knocked it out of the Harry Chapin Park — probably his best reading ever.  Like a blues player he sang, “I’ll be seeing old Denver at last.”  By this time I’d wound down with Levi and his parents & sister on a blanket right at the foot of the stage, and he leaned in and whispered, “He’s channeling Neal.”

Then John Ventimiglia did the ‘Hearing Shearing’ riff from On The Road with Dave’s sextet stepping into the role of Shearing’s band. Killer jazz-jam rendition. And local hero George Wallace closed the show with the classic last paragraph of OTR, just praised by the New York Times’ Editorial Page earlier this year. He read with this quiet sadness that almost made me cry, and it sounded like he was going to break down himself and could barely choke out the words, “I think of Dean Moriarty.”

So, there it is.  I believe there may have been some drinking involved. Some folks are real straight and some folks are nine-bottles-later. It was pretty funny. But everyone was golden and glistening. It was really … small town niceness. The locals are livin’ near enough to New York City that there’s still a healthy voltage surging thru them, and they’re passionate about words & self-expression and being yourself — all the while living in a Norman Rockwell painting — just really good people … with a penchant for partying in police stations. 


{An early version of this story first appeared in Beat Scene magazine.}


For a video version of this and other Carolyn–&–John Adventures, check out these Beat video stories.

For an excerpt from my book about the ’82 Kerouac Conference in Boulder — check out Meeting Your Heroes.

For more from the Boulder Beat Book — check out Who All Was There.

For Henri Cru’s 70th birthday party — check out The Legend Turns 70!


For a vivid account of being at the historic “On The Road” scroll auction — check out The Scroll Auction.

For a story about the London “On The Road” premiere at Somerset House — check out this sex & drugs & jazz.

For a great story of the world premiere of the new shorter final version of “On The Road” — check out this Meeting Walter Salles Adventure!

For a complete overview of all the Kerouac / Beat film dramatizations including clips and reviews — check out the Beat Movie Guide.

For a beautiful poem to Carolyn Cassady on her birthday — check out the Carolyn Cassady Birthday Poem.

For an account of the historic Beat show at the Whitney Museum in New York — check out Wailin’ at the Whitney.

For an inspiring and colorful description of being at a Beat jazz-&-poetry reading in Greenwich Village — check out Be The Invincible Spirit You Are.


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by Brian Hassett      —


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