The Hitchhiker's Guide to Jack Kerouac
Reviews, feedback, and other buzzes over the transom . . .
Brian Hassett had the presence of mind to pack a good old cassette recorder in his rucksack back in 1982 when he was alerted to the Jack Kerouac Conference being staged in Boulder, Colorado. The real spark to get him travelling across country to be there was Ken Kesey and The Grateful Dead. Brian was 21, knocked out by Jack Kerouac's writing, and the Beat Generation as a whole, when he hitched his way there, thousands of miles, having incredible luck in obtaining lifts as he went. He blagged his way into being part of the conference set-up — there seems to have been a little Neal Cassady-ish conning going on — but it got him at close quarters with all the major participants at the event, presented by The Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics.
There was Allen Ginsberg, William Burroughs, John Clellon Holmes, Herbert Huncke, Ken Kesey, Anne Waldman, Timothy Leary and hordes more. Panels, discussions, debates, films — it went on for ten days. And Hassett was at the centre of it all, recording on his cassette player as he went: Kesey recalling his regret at being in England while his father died; John Clellon Holmes telling the real story of the birth of On The Road – who knew because he was the first person Kerouac let read the scroll version. Holmes explained the true genesis of it all.
The book is a youthful memoir with all the never-to-be-recaptured frantic zest of a young man. Everything is wonderful in the Hassett world, even bad luck. Every cloud he sees has a silver lining. This attitude takes him far as he finds himself pals with Allen Ginsberg and Ken Kesey. Kesey's wife Faye tells Hassett as the conference winds down that her husband thinks Hassett is a great guy. Bursting with happiness, and the thought that Kesey rates him, sustains him. Especially given the fact that he idolizes Kesey like no other.
It's the sheer unbridled enthusiasm that pours from Hassett that is so engaging. His close up portraits of Kesey, Ginsberg, Holmes, Huncke, Gregory Corso, Ken Babbs, Jack Micheline, Michael McClure, and others salvaged from his cassette recordings in themselves are wonderful on-the-hoof artifiacts, as the Beats relax outside the formal panel discussions which were the staple of the conference. Because they're so important, you forgive the eager young Hassett the sometimes intrusive 'cool' slang he uses throughout the book. He hasn't airbrushed it out to his credit. That's how people often talked.
This is the Beat Generation colliding with the rock world of The Grateful Dead. I wasn't aware that the band helped finance the event and were willing participants in the ten-day jamboree. They all knew of Kerouac, he was part of their history. They knew him through Neal Cassady, whose ex-wife Carolyn was there — as was Jack's daughter Jan, and his first wife Edie Parker.
Then there's the story about possibly being given a lift by Steve Jobs ... or was it Bill Gates?
This is a brilliant read.
— Hilary Finch, Beat Scene magazine (out of England)
I just finished a cherished early printing of this book ... and it is a mind blower!
Brian has both the credentials (he spent time with ALL the Beats that were still around in 1982), and he has the chops! He not only writes about the Beats ... but he is the best "Beat writer" I have encountered in a long time — riffing from page to page like a wild be-bop jazz musician.
Brian’s story is about attending a pivotal Jack Kerouac conference in Boulder Colorado in 1982. Using his experience with concert promoter Bill Graham the summer before (on the Rolling Stones 1981 Tour of America), he segues from being a conference participant to a job helping stage the event. For him it is like Alice falling down the rabbit hole. He finds himself accepted into the core group of his heroes — and he brings us along on his wild ride.
My favorite chapter came as a surprise. It happens to be 17 which is a number with much significance in this book! It's a conversation he had with Michael McClure on a stroll after a screening of Robert Frank's Rolling Stones documentary. The discussion wanders between poetry and philosophy and brings incredible clarity to the question of what impact the Beats had on today’s culture. It goes on to a very serious discussion on drug use from a man with a depth of personal experience, who has lost many friends to a wide variety of substances. The youth and enthusiasm of Brian, plus the wisdom of age and experience from Michael, make this chapter alone worth the price of admission, particularly for anyone looking for words to talk to kids about drugs. Not heavy folks … just wise!
For two days, in the middle of the conference, Brian attends Grateful Dead concerts at Red Rocks. This puts us all in that scene, running with the Deadheads! But it all fits. The Dead do a show honouring Jack and their buddy Neal who of course drove Ken Kesey’s bus. “The bus came by and I got on / That’s when it all began.”
Brian connects more dots than anyone before between our beloved popular culture and its roots in the Beat world.
Anyone interested in Jack, Neal, Allen, Bill and the gang needs to read this riveting account of chance meetings and lifelong friendships with so many of the principals in the movement.
He draws lines between Jack Kerouac and much of the pop culture that he influenced over the last half century!
This book is the best addition to Beat literature in many years!
He IS a Beat writer ... not just writing about the Beats. Riffing like Dizzy and Bird!!!
Hoping to get my copy signed in the near future.
— Dale T.
This is good stuff.
— Zane K.
Here's the part where Phil Lesh couldn't stop reading it.
As an avid reader of the Beat writers I was a bit dubious regarding this title.
How do these subjects correlate? Another wannabe? Another boring perspective? Another academic trying to prove something? WRONG!
I was attending a gathering where this author would be present so I thought I should read it.
First off, the writer knows his stuff. Very informative.
What happened to this generation of people? Read on ....
How do all these things tie together? It's in here.
This book is not the tedious standard fare re: Kerouac et al.
The writer takes you on an interesting adventure, with a wonderful cast of real characters, while somehow making you feel like you're along for the ride.
Hassett's prose is lyrical and refreshing.
A hands down must-read for 'Beat' fans.
I enjoyed the whole book in one sitting.
And I walked away smiling.
Thank you, Mr. Hassett!
— Shelly M.
My hero you are.
— Mitch D.
What's so significant about book is that — there are a lot of very good books that come out about the Beats, Jack, Allen etc. — but this IS a Beat book.
It's an addition to the Beat canon. This is not only a book about the Beats — it's a contribution to the literary legacy of the Beats.
It is a Beat book. It's the perfect merging of subject matter and author. The two come together so naturally. And it reads as though you are in the room telling the reader the story.
— Prof. R
I blew through it in one weekend, and came out the other side with a new appreciation for this eternal Prankster and his visions of Jack and that natural progression to Kesey (and The Bus), to the Dead, and the ideology that continues to bring in the Tribe.
I need to take the trip all over again.
This is action writing as Jack Kerouac intended.
And Hassett is certainly no bench jockey!
The energy, desire for experience, and the ultimate in "living" while in constant movement makes this book a must for anyone that wants to know and understand what Jack so eloquently stated about "the ones that never say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn ...."
The anecdotes, the life on the road, the Boulder Conference, the Kesey farm visit, and the characters and heroes in between reads like some wicked dreamscape of Beat-Hippie Nirvana.
The conversations with Kesey and Michael McClure are to die for and are alone worth the price of admission.
This book is past the point of a professorial doctorate dissertation. This effort is what happens when an intelligent, no-holds-barred, experience-soaking sponge comes out on the other side after decades of looking for, chasing after, and acquiring the elusive "IT".
The Hitchhiker's Guide is first rate storytelling and a very important addition to that sagging bookshelf called Jack Kerouac.
— Ken M.
"A Wonderful Ride"
This amazing story is, on the surface, about a crucial Beat conference in Colorado in 1982, but in reality it is about the entire history and spirit of the Beat Generation writers and how they passed this history and spirit on to Ken Kesey, Jerry Garcia, Abbie Hoffman — and Brian Hassett, who here takes his rightful place as a true carrier of the torch.
Once you hear Hassett's unique voice you won't want to stop reading — and laughing — until the book, unfortunately, comes to an end ... but you will have had a few new worlds opened up to you before it does.
— Walter R
My granddaughter is RIGHT NOW reading YOUR book!!!
My son visited yesterday (first time since the Beat Shindig).
He FLIPPED SIDEWAYS!!!
He saw her reading it and took the book.
After looking at it asked, "Who is this guy?"
I knew he was a Dead fan but had no idea he knew all about Neal!!!
His best bud was at the concert the same night you went. And his last name is Cassidy. (!)
Telephone calls fly back and forth between them.
Picture of your book sent.
Both ran out to get it!!!!
My granddaughter tells him I met Jami Cassady (thank you!).
The energy level in this house is knockin' on heaven's door.
Thanks to Jack.
Thanks to you.
I find it remarkable that you can write of your life's journey with such joy and detail with such a lack of ego!!
The facts of the trip speak for themselves, you relate that whole process. For those of us that have not journeyed physically across country, etc, it's sheer fun to read about. And of course, the conference, the spontaneous meetups, etc. I think my favorite part is the personal conversations. The fact that you taped a bunch of that stuff, wow! I mean, there is no guessing as to what was said. It's kind of like Visions of Cody, you know? And your descriptions of people you interacted with — really fun — and I can see those people.
I guess I dug the book! :-) I truly did. It's sitting on my little table next to my dining room sofa waiting to be reread. It's that kind of book.
And you're right — it's meant to be read in a big gulp. Next time I'll try to do that.
I hope you sell heaps and heaps of this fun and thought-provoking book.
That poem at the end and your reading it with the band — I love that!!!
THIS is a great book ... loving it! Great job, Brian ... fantastic!
Just read the first 133 pages in one setting. Can't put it down.
And I dug Cassady's foreword ... sounds like John.
This is making me realize why I love Kerouac so much. It's a great read ... I'm loving it so much ... bringing back so many great memories, Brian ... you have NO idea ... but then again you know because we're both on the same Kerouac/Cassady/Burroughs/Ginsberg/Kesey and all the rest wavelength. You really made me realize again why and how much I love Jack and Neal.
I can't thank you enough for writing this book, brother. It was a God Send. It really was.
Your book made me want to write again.
All I can say is "buy the ticket ... take the ride"
Here's what I posted to Amazon . . .
A fantastic book ... for any fan of the Beat Generation, this is a must read. Mr. Hassett has a way with his words to make you feel like you're right there hitchhiking with him, on his way to Boulder, CO. You will meet Allen Ginsberg and William S. Burroughs and all the other characters that Jack Kerouac spent so much time with. You will journey with Hassett to Ken Kesey's farm and feel the warmth of the ole bus, Furthur, as the author takes it all in. Again, a fantastic trip ... a great journey ... a must read book.
— John D.
Magnificent stories and insights on the Beats
This book is incredibly good. The author attended the big Kerouac conference in Boulder in 1982 as a young man. He got free entrance for volunteering. Brian took along his tape deck and finally made a fantastic book albeit 30 years later. He saw the Grateful Dead play Red Rocks midweek and has some vivid recollections. Loved it !
— Grateful Dead Books
Just got this from Amazon yesterday and read the whole thing, and it is more than fascinating. You should go and get a copy! 400+ pages of excellent memories, and he sounds just like a friend of yours. It's a great book!
And a great mix of Beat writers, Grateful Dead folks, Canada, Colorado, Manhattan, all over the map, Merry Pranksters, road stories, tips and tricks for higher living skills, advanced literary shenanigans, and a most interesting life trajectory. I went through it pretty fast.
I've written four non-fiction books myself, and I greatly appreciate the amount of thought and effort that it takes! You should be very proud of this remarkable achievement, especially as it provides so much really absorbing insight into so many important topics and fascinating people — really a road-map of modern thinking in not only the Beat and music worlds, but also of great interest to anyone with a brain and a heart.
— Sam S.
"You made lightning strike."
— Brad K.
Started the book around 5PM, and made it thru chapter 5 still in the sunshine ... read the rest that night in one long uninterrupted flow!!!
Loved this book. A fantastic, exciting and informative tale of adventure, inspired by and written in the style and soul of the Beats themselves. No doubt Kerouac himself would approve!!
Hassett is the real deal, having begun a love affair with the Beats at such a young age back in 1982 and following through with an epic trip "on the road" to attend and participate in the Jack Kerouac Conference in Boulder, Colorado. We soon find out that Hassett not only attends the conference but throws himself into the situation head on, and ends up actually helping organize and run the event itself. Making contact with everyone from the main participants, relatives of Kerouac and Cassady, to fellow "road" travellers, he takes the reader on a magical journey covering thousands of miles, a detailed account of the conference, Grateful Dead concerts, mishaps, adventures, and the amazing face to face meeting with the King of the Merry Pranksters Ken Kesey. It's all a wonderful read.
The spirit of Neal and Jack hover over every page of this epic adventure!!
— Joe M.
If you're a fan of Jack Kerouac, The Beat Generation, or The Grateful Dead, then you've probably heard stories — legends even — of the great Jack Kerouac conference of 1982, in Boulder, Colorado. You've probably heard fleeting stories such as "Jan Kerouac up on the panel .... That was a sight I'll never forget." Or "Oh yeah, old Gregory Corso was at it again!!!" Or, "The Grateful Dead at the Kerouac conference.... What a trip!!!"
But unless you were one of the lucky few who had the good fortune to be there, then you missed it. You just flatout missed it. Either you weren't born yet, or were to young to appreciate it, or too far away, or too tight for cash, or too busy, or you just didn't know about it until it was too late ... Either way, you missed it, and there's nothing you can do to change that. The biggest, grandest meeting of the Beats plus concerts by The Grateful Dead all rolled into one rollicking adventure!!! But you missed it. Or did you......?
Here's the thing ... a mad scientist genius angel poet by the name of Brian Hassett has recently invented a time machine to transport you back in time, right before the convention started. Even cooler, this brilliant alchemist has cleverly disguised this time machine as a book, and it's really easy to use!
No complex gears or buttons or scary red flashing lights to work with.
All you have to do to get the time machine started is open the front cover. This will immediately engage the system and you will be transported back to the summer of '82 where you will encounter a young man who will accompany you on a wild ride, hitchiking from Canada to Colorado for the conference. He will gladly show you around all the different lectures and panels. He will introduce you to the likes of Gregory Corso and Allen Ginsberg puttering owlish over his schedules and list, and running around shouting contradictions to the skies.
He will show you the magnificent allure of Anne Waldman as she holds the crowds in awe. He will point out William Burroughs mumbling on the sidelines. And he will take you to the concert of The Grateful Dead. You will attend every one of these lectures, every one of these parties. You will have conversations with Herbert Huncke. You will be gifted with advice from Michael McClure. You will witness facets of Ken Kesey's character rarely seen before, and experience the grandeur of Carolyn Cassady alive and shining with the brightest of stars.
I won't say any more here, so as not to spoil too much of what's ahead, but if you have a touch of road fever, then there's nothing more satisfying and exciting than to pick up this book and to read it in one delicious blazing eye burning whirlwind reading tornado
. You will not be disappointed.
You have left me breathless, speechless and totally smiling. Way way more than excellent...... Absolutely Wondrous!!!!!!
— Carol D.
Loved the book ...
Besides your voice — which I've dug ever since the first short story I read back in '84-ish (about you helping someone move) — I remember saying to you then that you'd already developed a unique voice for a narrator ... and you've never lost it — you're just painting on a much bigger canvas now.
What I liked best about the book is how you skillfully wove everything you've learned about the Beats SINCE 1982 into the story of the summer of 1982 so that the effect is seamless. We never feel that a 50-year-old narrator is commenting on a 20-year-old adventurer ...
in other words your perspective now on what happened then and your memory of how you felt then merge beautifully.
This book should be the definitive statement for all Beat lovers and scholars on a definitive Beat event.
This is the book you were meant to write. No one else could have written this. Your 30 years of accumulated knowledge shines through.
I thought (at first), as an English professor, that the structure was wrong and it should have ended on the big Saturday night at the conference. "Oh no — there's another hundred pages – what's this?" But then I was surprised I didn't not like it — and in fact did like it. It was honest and what really happened — like Jack wrote.
And I loved that you didn't romanticize Kesey.
It's just so alive and fun to read.
And the expository chapters were great — they were what the book was about.
You hit the ball out of the park.
And you're a damn good writer.
— Dr. R.
Just finished the book and totally dug it! I'm still processing it ... and my reading list has just gotten longer.
Practically had a flashback during the Red Rocks chapter. And the class with Holmes ... Go, man, Go! You're lighting my fire!
Hell, I might even read it again! What a trip! I was totally into Kerouac and the Beats around that time ('82) ... brought back so many memories ... felt like I was right there with you.
— Bob B.
8:28 PM – Just started reading it from the beginning ... no jumping ahead..... Man — the way you set up your "17" paragraph — Brilliant!!!
8:42 PM – On page 86 .... this is making me feel alternately even more furious than before that I wasn't around then — yet elated that the writing is so clear and realistic. You were around my age when this all starts — and this really gives the reader the feeling of being present for all this amazing stuff.
11:37 PM – Finished, in one blazing, eye burning read. Great book! Spectacular. Lots of cool accounts of these remarkable writers!
After reading about this event I now feel like I was there myself — couldn't be cooler!
Also you've got a great, clear prose voice, man, like Jack's.
— Aaron L.
I dip in to some of my copy every single day.
— Karen N.
I'm knee deep into your book and I'm fascinated with your story.
You are an incredible writer and you capture every essence of the Beats.
I have been a songwriter for 35 years with my band, Change To Eden. I come from the School of Jack Kerouac, Jim Carroll, and Taoism.
With that as my reference, I can truly see how much you ARE the Beats — and a big thank you for keeping the stories vibrant and alive.
It matters greatly, and you've done a magnificent job of capturing your experience and the grander picture of it all. I admire and respect you greatly, Brian.
I hope to hear you speak some day soon — and just know the kindred spirits out here are paying attention.
May your journeys remain magical and profound!
You keep writing and I'll keep reading with a voracious appetite for your stories.
— Mark S.
This book is awesome Brian! I'm really enjoying it. The screenplay for the movie should be next!
— Craig M.
Ah, I loved this book!
It has the inside scoop on the 1982 On The Road Boulder Conference which united the Beats with the Grateful Dead, those joyous jammers.
Written by a young man who was there for the whole conference and had the foresight to bring his tape recorder. This is important, because he got to have fascinating conversations with the poets, writers, movers and shakers who were present at the conference, due to his working as a production manager at the event.
He starts his story with how he found out about the conference and how he gets there, hilarious tales of hitchhiking. When he arrives and talks himself into the managing gig, we are along for the ride with him, able to feel his exhilaration and appreciation of all the inspiring people he gets to meet. And the private conversations are some of the best parts. After-hours parties, etc. You get the drift.
This could have been a name-dropper book, with a morsel of gossip here and there. But it isn't. It's a fun ride ... oh yes it is. Lots of humor and A-Ha moments. Coincidences — but are they really? It has a bit of that, "Wow, am I really experiencing this?!" kind of vibe.
This is a book with great heart and positive thoughts.
— Jeanne M
Happy Earth Day, Brian. This is a true gift to the planet.
— David W.
Having just binged on yer book I had to write and tell ya ... your writing makes me smile. Best Jack impression I've ever come across.
Thanks for the insights into where his world revolves these days. One step higher than Ann Charters ... and I can't pay it a higher compliment.
Many of us look around each day and are amazed by the fact that Weir still here ... and ... tellin stories.
You spin a nice tale in a warm way.
— Dennis O.
"I don't want to give you this book back.
I'll give you $20, but I'm not giving you this book back."
I've dabbled in some reading about various Beat generation luminaries, but I'm certainly not that well versed in the literature.
Nevertheless, I found Brian's memoir of his trip to the Boulder '82 "On The Road" Conference made for compelling reading. He recounts hitchhiking to the conference, becoming immersed in helping to run the conference and meeting many of the Beat icons (too numerous to name). He even spent time at Ken Kesey's farm in Oregon on the way home. Brian saved all his notes, photos and cassette recordings from the trip and they're used to complement the text as you read along. He interviewed many of the participants at the conference and also did research with archival materials.
Brian tells his story in a casual friendly style.
Something else I really liked about the book is that the type size is nice and large. It makes for easy reading. Your eye floats effortlessly across the page.
A wonderful achievement, and great reading. Highly recommended.
— Sharry W.
Best book I have read in a long time. Thanks Brian!
I'm so stoked to be getting back into some good reading after being reminded of all those old books that started my crazy adventures.
You've rekindled my love of well placed words!
— Sunny D.
It was 1982 when the 21-year-old narrator was in a Vancouver bookstore buying a copy of ON THE ROAD for a friend’s birthday and spotted an event poster that “changed his life.”
When he saw the poster, Hassett got on the phone to the coordinator. (Neal Cassady’s family nicknamed Hassett, “Gets Things Done.”) He had no money, but he had a long list of production credits and he heard the magic words, “Yeah, we could use you. Come on down.”
A bus, 17 rides, and two days later he was in the midst of 300 participants and 3,000 attendees. At one point he says, “It was the Super Bowl of the Beats, and The Grateful Dead were playing the half-time show.” He describes the panels, interviews, and just plain hanging-out with those who touched Kerouac’s life.
Hassett took along his cassette deck, and his readers get 1982 conversations taped verbatim. Among the many are Herbert Huncke, John Clellon Holmes, Ken Kesey (who invited him to the his farm after the conference), and a crazy, fun encounter involving Al Aronowitz (who introduced Dylan to the Beatles), Allen Ginsberg, and Jack Micheline.
The Guide isn’t limited to Beats and counterculture figures. We’re in the passenger seat listening to many drivers who pick him up; for example, a cab driver (or a cab thief) in a New York City Checker with a gorgeous babe, who might have been a working girl, in the backseat smoking a joint. Later going to Kesey’s farm, he gets in with an “Ernest Borgnine-looking guy” going to Cheyenne who snarls, “Are you a hippie? You look like a hippie.” When Hassett says he’s from Canada, the guy says, “Canada? What the hell is there in Canada.”
Some chapters are written with the non-stop enthusiasm of the 21-year-old that Hassett was in 1982. In others his voice is that of the thoughtful man he is today whose love for the Beats has not diminished. And there are some 60 photos throughout.
The book ends with Dessert: “In Memoriam,” (the departed conference participants). “Love the Living in Your Life” (surviving participants and what they are doing now), and The Five Documentaries Shot at the Summit.
— Mary E.
Your timing is perfect. Things couldn't be better lined up. Prankster events — the Beat Shindig in S.F. — the Dead shows in Chicago ... with the band that personified "On The Road" ... it's just all right.
The world is so ripe for this book.
You've baked a luscious pie and put it on the windowsill — and there's a LOT of hungry people just waiting for something like this.
And it's not some scholar-sounding university dissertation with big words and a bad attitude. This is a romp ... it leaves no one behind.
— Wizard of Wonder
First and foremost, Brian Hassett, is an outstanding writer and you feel you are a part of this legendary journey. He is a brilliant storyteller.
The presence of Kerouac is felt throughout this book. You can sense his wanderlust and the impact he had on so many of us in the post-Beat era.
Somewhere in the mist, Jack sits quietly, nodding his head in approval. All the Beats are widely recognized and discussed in this book. You'll have to read it to get the whole picture. Just know the picture is accurate, profound and presented with the insight of a young man who knows his Kerouac.
Hassett delivers a tasty and exquisite tribute to the movement, writers and poets that changed America.
The Beat philosophy is alive and well — and we are all much better for it!
— Spike S.
This is a book that had to be written.
— Sylvia G.
Here's some excerpts in you wanna take the ride . . .
Meeting Your Heroes 101 — Allen, Gregory, Holmes, Burroughs & Huncke
Who all was there ... of which John Clellon Holmes said, "More of us were together than had ever been in one place at one time before." And it never happened again.
My best pal and my best gal — Edie Parker and Henri Cru, with Allen Ginsberg sandwiched in the middle.
Arriving at The Grateful Dead shows at Red Rocks Amphitheatre during the summit in '82
Here's where you can get the book direct from the publisher (where the author gets the highest royalties)
Here's where you can get the book in the U.S.
or in Canada
or in the U.K.
or in Germany
Brian Hassett email@example.com BrianHassett.com
Tags: Grateful Dead·Jack Kerouac·Neal Cassady·The Beat Generation·The Hitchhiker's Guide to Jack Kerouac
I saw the best minds of many generations,
dancing, hysterical, naked ...
at the Farewell send-off of the Gratest live band in history.
While The Grateful Dead were breaking the all-time attendance records for Soldier Field stadium in Chicago — I was seeing them in a small venue from about 5th row center. I was so close I couldn't get all the band members in a single frame of my camera, and had to turn my head from left to right to watch Trey signal Hornsby and Bruce receive it.
I'd "won" the mail-order lottery — a 1-in-10 chance — and had requested pit / orchestra tickets for opening and closing nights, and then an expensive side seat for the middle July 4th show.
I'd just finished two weeks in the Bay Area — everywhere from the Kerouac–Snyder Dharma Bums house in Marin to the "Dear Jerry" show in Santa Cruz, while also headlining 3 appearances at The Beat Shindig put on by The Beat Museum in North Beach, and catching the opening Santa Clara show — with some carefully-timed discipline, on the Thursday leading into the final weekend shows I stayed grounded and writing and in transition. There were non-stop incoming calls & messages going off like a blinking Christmas tree promising grate presents in the presence of my GD and Merry Prankster families arriving from all over North America, but I paced myself knowing there were entire days of non-stop standing and dancing coming up for this 50-something geezer who had to actually practice walking again just to be in shape for this very real 3-day-long Acid Test in Chicago.
And the opening day it was even worse in The Distractions For Fun Dept. Everybody was gathering everywhere around this massive ancient coliseum of warrior Soldiers, and everywhere was a song and a celebration. But I had this idea — "What if I went in as soon as they opened the gates? Maybe there's a chance I could actually get somewhere good on the floor ... get to know the people around me ... and see it from someplace I could see it."
I went ahead and got in the early-entry line while my phone was still going off with "Meet me here" messages — and scootilee-doo — I end up inside the stadium well before the 70,000 other people arrived.
The open chair-free floor was divided in half at the 50 yard line — the back half being TicketMonster General Admission floor tix, and the front being the mail-order winners. The front section was also divided in half down the middle of the field, and I first went over audience right (formerly Jerry side) and immediately realized I wanted to be Phil side, so I went to the back of the soundboard where there was the only passageway between the right-left sides, and motored my way up to the still nearly empty front of floor.
Deal was — if you bought the expensive I'm Special tickets, you got to go on the floor before us plebes with regular tickets, and these Special folks had laid down blankets and such to commandeer the front-most space. The first roughly 20 feet from the front rail was taken up by these seated picnic basket types eating grapes — but what I was able to do, being a solo flyer, was weave my way between the patchwork floor tapestry and find some place to stand just a few feet from the front rail that wasn't really on someone's blanket. If I'd been traveling even as a duo, this wouldn't have been possible. But since it was just skinny little smiling me, I was able to insinuate myself (to use Keith Moon's phrase for joining his band) into the picnic basket crowd and immediately start talking to whoever was there ... making you, by accepted conversation, one of them.
And following shortly behind me were the rest of the regular Pit ticket krewe, often in groups, who would get to the outer edge of the blanketed floor and stop there. Once they stopped and stood, the people coming after them would stand behind them. So right away there was this dividing line of packed-in standing people, and sitting down blanket people. And I was sure on the right side of that divide — in front of stage right, at the right time. By the time the band came out at 7:30 and blanket nation stood up, I was effectively 5th row center for opening night (!) . . . with tons of room to dance!
Once the show started, if someone tried to crash into where we comfortably and spaciously were, we knew they weren't one of us (after our two hours of being there) and the improvised leaders in our improvised community would tell the interlopers to go back where they came from.
And another cool thing was — this was not a high stadium stage as used to be the design choice. In fact my eyes were about exactly even with the floor of the stage — which, in cool thing #2, was not set very far back from the front audience rail. Suddenly I was standing maybe 20–25 feet from the front line of musicians I'd flown to Chicago to see.
Except for the width of the stage, this could have been the Village Vanguard or Bottom Line. I like to see the visual interaction between musicians in a band — especially one that's good enough to improvise as they play entirely different shows and every song live (as this incarnation) for the first time. I don't know if I was hearing the stage amps or what, but I could look at any player and zone in on an iso audio of their lines. It was the most fun, perfect thing I could imagine. It felt like I was sitting on the stage — watching that freak of nature Phil Lesh conducting the orchestra with his six-string bass — the first ever played in rock n roll that I know of. I remember thinking, "I could read the time on his watch if he'd just turn his wrist a bit."
And there was the brother-like relationship between Phil and Trey. They both came out of dressing rooms on audience left — the rest of the band audience right — with Bruce & Jeff in one room, and the Core Three in the other.
And on the first night there was obviously serious tension between Phil and Bobby — Phil just wailing away and having the time of his life, and Bobby scowling and with a sour face playing discordant chords as a way to voice his displeasure — a detached self-isolated sourpuss all night. There was Trey and Phil signalling right past him, cueing the keyboard duo stage left, who would respond with popped eyebrow solos whenever stage right tossed them the look — including the memorable moment where Trey called an audible during Franklin's Tower and gave Hornsby the solo for the last song of the night — a player who'd been way-ignored musically to this point — and for the first time we heard a Franklin's that was piano-based and not guitar. And everafter, Hornsby and Jeff became infinitely larger parts of the shows than they had been thus far. In fact, this exchange during Franklin's felt like the moment they really became a band.
Or seeing the playful bond between Mickey & Hornsby. Or between Hornsby and his protege Jeff Chimenti (on Brent's old B3) — who, not incidentally, is so much more coherent, grounded and versatile than the GD's final keyboardist ever was.
Note the reflection of the audience in the shiny Steinway.
But mostly it was the ability to hear any instrument at any time. And except for the keyboardists' hands and Billy being somewhat hidden behind his kit, you could watch-to-hear whatever they were doing string-wise, vocally or percussively.
And the music was as complex and interesting as it gets — jazz soloing; polyrhythmic patterns you could follow any one of while two or three others played simultaneously; soulful vocals that literally brought tears to my eyes more than once; in-the-moment interactions as players were racing all over fretboards at breakneck speed but still locked into one another in a unified whole made of 7 very different parts.
One odd thing:
I've been in the audience for all the different band incarnations since Jerry died, and never do I remember really missing The Voice and The Tone and The Soul ... until this version. Maybe because those were all known to be new ensembles taking it furthur — and this was so much ... The Grateful Dead. Chicago was more of a reflective look back and celebration of where we've been than a progression into the future. And although Trey carried the day and was as adept and well-studied and playful and energy-infusing and able-to-handle-it a guitarist as you could find, for the first time since hearing a re-birthed Dead post-'95, to these ears, there was very obviously someone missing.
But two things that were actually better than the Jerry days were Drums and Space. Although Phil's an even better player (and now a bandleader) than he was back then, the instrumentalists who have really taken their gig furthur were the drummers. Particularly the first night in Santa Clara (where it clocked in at 22 minutes!) and the middle night in Chicago, Drums became a wildly expanded percussive exploration — and for the first time the audience was able to watch it via a robotic HD camera flying above The Beast, as well as roving handhelds surrounding them. And Mickey, being a smidge more of a ham than the rest of the flannel & Birkenstocks band, played to the cameras at times like Jagger — but all in the service of punctuating the music.
And throughout the show it was interesting to see how often Mickey used wide-fanned brooms (thick stemmed brushes). And just like the way the band started, Billy was totally The Beat, the rock n roll kit drummer who drove the engine, as opposed to much of their career when it was largely both of them. Now Mickey's not even on a kit, has no cymbals, stands the whole show, and works this array of toms with the versatility of a large orchestra's drum section but with the passion of a Latin combo at Carnival.
And then Space — which was always performed on a pitch-black stage — was now filled with a subtle but illuminating white light — and especially from my 5th row center spot I was able to see how they worked the non-musical sounds as an ensemble — the three guitarists gronking out whale cries and wolf howls while the drums and keys kept a close eye and added their subtle fills in response.
By the end of that first night, I felt like I'd lived that quote, "Life is not a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in one well preserved piece, but to skid in broadside, thoroughly used up, worn out and shouting, 'WOW! What a ride!!'"
The middle night — July 4th — I was 11 rows off the floor with a view of the whole spectacle including the massive fireworks they set off not just that night but to open the second set of the final night as well.
The sound and mix in the stadium was as crystalline as it gets — once again the Dead pioneering live sound reinforcement — but instead of the Wall of Sound it was a Circle of Sound — as they employed true 360° surround-sound that added to the surreality of an already very altered space.
And the video screens! Oh my! There were the huge digi hi-def images of the players (on both sides and above the stage) but also a dancing fractal morphing rainbow visual show that was the colors and undulating images of a Grade A acid trip. In fact, the visionary Candace Brightman came out of retirement to do the lights, and she incorporated the original Joshua Light Show era gel projections as part of her palette. No matter where you were in the 70,000-person stadium you were hearing the show like you were wearing earbuds and seeing it in technicolor like you're on 5 hits. And frankly, these guys don't get enough credit for discouraging drug use by creating acid trips without the acid! ... although, when you do put them together . . .
For the third and closing night, I figured my front-of-floor routine was a long-shot since everybody else would have figured it out by now — but I went for it anyway — and sure as shootin' got right to the same 5th row-ish spot Dead center (!) and saw several of the same 1st show peeps . . . and once again —>
I was experiencing the Dead's farewell in a small venue!!
And by this 5th show (and even by the 4th) the band had really gelled into a unified collective. Whatever internal conflicts that were so obvious at the first Chicago show were happily gone, and the keyboard's background-singer-status had been elevated to full participating players.
Y'know — if these guys just stuck with it, they might get somewhere.
From this vantage point — the many-hours-long fond Farewell was beyond my fondest dreams.
And another funny thing — back in my run of a hundred-sumthin shows between 1980 and '95, every time I saw them they played at least one song I'd never heard them Dew before. But with this very limited 5-show Gratest hits retrospective finale there's no way they're gonna play anything you haven't heard even once over the entire second half of their career ... right?
The first night in Santa Clara, they played not one, not two ... but five songs they hadn't performed live since the '60s (!); the first Chicago had two; the second Chicago had The Golden Road (to Unlimited Devotion) which was actually the very first Grateful Dead song I ever liked (!) from when I bought their greatest hits "Skeletons From The Closet" album as a curious 14-year-old in 1975 — a "hit single" song they (naturally) never played live again after 1967! And the final night I was absolutely floored on the floor by a 14-minute Mountains of The Moon (!) — that Middle Ages Canterbury Tales-meets-Lewis Carroll ballad written for harpsichord that they played famously on Playboy After Dark in 1969 and never since!
And all that's not even getting into the scene! which is what made this a Grateful Dead experience and not just a Phil & Friends / Ratdog / Whatever. It always was about the natural mixing of the band and the audience that made Dead shows special, and there's no band (or anything else) in history that created a friendly party on the scale of the Dead. From every brief elevator encounter in a hotel miles from the venue to the stranger dancing next to you for 5 hours, we were all instant old friends, where a rightly timed smile could convey volumes of truths you've both internalized.
And this party went on for miles . . . from the front of the pit through every corridor and seat of this giant stadium; from the grass hills outside to the Shakedown parking lots down the way; from the underpasses with massive drum circles to Grant Park-facing Michigan Avenue that was unabashedly taken over for block after block after block; from Hunter Thompson hotel rooms to the giant Buckingham Fountain in the park in front of The Congress ... it was "strangers stopping strangers just to shake their hand" all over town.
Around 2 AM outside the Hilton on Michigan Avenue.
And another beautiful thing was that the crowd was almost evenly split between those who'd experienced the Jerry Dead and those who'd missed it but who'd somehow internalized and manifested everything that journey was about. And both were an equal joy to share it with — the veterans who knew the score and how to run it up, and "the kids" who were clearly having the time of their lives and gushing with a Christmas morning orgy of rapture.
If Phish was once a cousin band to the Dead, the two became siblings this weekend. Deadheads gained respect for the very respectful Trey, and Phishheads I talked to had studied the entire Dead repertoire in the months since the announcement. Every player on that stage will continue making live music, and this was just a roundabout in the road that will slingshot each of them into some reinvigorated orbit backed by generations of new listeners.
And how interesting they chose to not include a single "guest star" after being the biggest (by number of members) band inducted into the R&R Hall of Fame, and probably had more people sit in with them than any other band in history — and certainly any that sold out stadiums! But the Farewell didn't need gimmicks or distractions. It was just some cats playing music — complex "electric bluegrass," as Crosby calls it — with nary a hit song to their name — but who ended up breaking the all-time TicketMonster record for one event, as well as the most people to watch an online or music-based pay-per-view event in history, while setting a new attendance record at Soldier Field ... then breaking it each consecutive night!
And all this while being the most overtly unprofessional act in show business! They start their concerts with the Bang of tuning up for two minutes. The few quasi-hits they have – they almost never play in concert. They wear what appear to be rumpled Goodwill clothes on stage. They never say so much as "Hello" to the audience all night — until Phil comes out after it's over and asks for your organs. They flub lyrics and cues all over the place ... and laugh about it. They take one hour intermissions ... and the audience doesn't blink an eye ... about that or anything else — because the music and the high and the vibe and the energy is So Overwhelmingly Positive and Powerful.
And the other thing — this was all one-take stuff. Other than their anthemic Truckin' that they played once in each city, and Cumberland Blues, which they did once solo Bob, and once group vocal, there were 80-something different songs played once and one time only. Everything one take — just like rock n roll was invented.
This sure has been a long strange trip — and this was one helluvan encore!
You might also enjoy the time I met Phil Lesh about two weeks before these shows.
Or here's when — The Grateful Dead Played My 30th Birthday.
Or here's a Grate review of Furthur playing Madison Square Garden a few years ago.
Or there's this excerpt from The Hitchhiker's Guide to Jack Kerouac about going to a show at Red Rocks in 1982.
And you can buy a copy of the book here (in the U.S.) or here (in Canada) or here (in the U.K.)
Or here's The Highest Peaks from RockPeaks — the live music video site I wrote for for years.
Or here's the feature story on Festival Express that appeared in Relix.
by Brian Hassett
karmacoupon@ gmail.com BrianHassett.com
Tags: Chicago·Deadheads·Grateful Dead·Soldier Field
Getting My Phil at The Crossroads
It's the Father's Day weekend, 2015, and my bassist bud Al Robinson tipped me that PhilZone.com had its countdown clock to the next Phil show indicating Sunday night. That was the only lead I had.
I was out in the Bay Area where, a few years ago, Phil bought a nice large restaurant and performance space in San Rafael, calling it Terrapin Crossroads. Conferring with my local live music confrère Adrienna, we were able to put the two-and-two together of his son's band, Midnight North, and their Father's Day booking at his father's club, and guesstimated that was the spot.
At the time, I was staying down the coast in the Capitola / Santa Cruz area with the Cassadys, but wanted to do a few days in Marin, so it seemed like Father's Day was the perfect time to transition from Adventures South, to Adventures North.
I stopped in at John Cassady's in San Jose on the way up, left there about 5:30, and made it to Terrapin Crossroads in San Rafael in an hour and 15 minutes. (!) "You could have been waiting in the line for the [Golden Gate] bridge for an hour and fifteen minutes!" locals later told me, in near disbelief at my Cassady-like road time.
Terrapin Crossroads (TXR for short), is a very large multi-room family-style seafood-leaning restaurant right on the water of the San Rafael harbor, and just a couple blocks from the band's legendary office / rehearsal space on Front St. It has a separate "Grate Room" for larger shows, but every night (and often daytimes too) bands play on a small, low stage in the main restaurant / bar room.
This being 7PM on a Father's Day Sunday there was a long line of people waiting to get in. Having never been here before, I thought they were in line for the Phil concert, and I'm like, "Is this the ticketholders line?" To which I got strange responses, cuz, see, there are no tickets ... it's a restaurant, you tourist.
The dining tables were all full, but right in front of the tiny stage were a few high bar tables and chairs, and one of them was empty, except for a guy named Cliff. And if you've read "The Hitchhiker's Guide to Jack Kerouac" you know that's a sacred name, a guiding light, in my AdventureLife. Soon weir joined by a guy named Jeff, with this table looking right onto the stage. I asked these regulars if they think Phil is going to play tonight, and they point out there's no big bass rig on the little stage, so they doubt it. "But you never know. We could be sitting here and Phil could come walking right through that door."
And not three minutes after he says this — it happens!
Here comes Phil, with his wife Jill — and they go sit in a large open unused area up a couple steps behind the stage.
I'm kinda freakin out. There he is. The Man himself. Just a regular dude in a restaurant. About 30 feet away from me.
I've already told Cliff & Jeff about my book and how I'd love to talk to Phil and maybe give him a copy.
And pretty much right away, Jill leaves the table they've encamped at, and as he's just sitting there, Cliff says to me, "This is probably a good time to go talk to him. He's all alone. It's only going to be busier later."
Five minutes earlier it looked like a long-shot he would be here, and now, with no prep or no liquid courage to speak of yet, I was suddenly "on." It was showtime.
Luckily, blessedly, perfectly — a lightning bolt across the skull hit me — a-ha — what I could tell him — how I could start talking to him . . . I had an angle from an angel . . .
With Coach Cliff pushing me into the deep end, I grabbed a copy of the book and jumped off the diving board into sumthin I couldn't turn back from.
He was sitting with his back to the far wall, facing into this large unused extra room, and could see me coming from the moment I crossed the threshold. I just went for it. Cliff was right. It was early, things were quiet, and this was the best shot in what might become a long, long, crazy, crazy night.
"Yes," he looks at me, not unfriendly.
"I have a story for ya . . . " I said with a Prankster twinkle, as I dropped down comfortably in a chair facing him. "I just wrote this book about the '82 Kerouac conference in Boulder where you guys played Red Rocks as part of it, and I actually go into the connection between the band and the Beats more than any other book ever, including Dennis's or anybody's," and I've definitely got his eyebrow-arched attention.
"I'm friends with the Cassadys, and was hanging out with Neal & Carolyn's son John a couple days ago — 'Neal's kid' as you guys called him," I said, pointing to him and smiling, and he's nodding yes yes, totally with me. "And ... did you know that the very last question Jerry was ever asked on film ... was about Neal?" And he makes this "Wow! I didn't know that!" face.
"John didn't know either, so I read him — rather dramatically — the answer Jerry gave about his Dad, and it was so moving, John actually got choked up and started almost crying. It was unreal."
Here's the part I read to John —
In fact, the very last question in the very last interview Garcia ever gave on camera (to the Silicon Valley Historical Association), was about Neal Cassady. "I got to be good friends with him. He was one of those guys that truly was a very special person. In my life, psychedelics and Neal Cassady are almost equal in terms of influence on me.
"Neal was his own art. He wasn't a musician, he was a 'Neal Cassady.' He was a set of one. And he was it. He was the whole thing — top, bottom, beginning, end, everything. And people knew it. And people would be drawn to it. He was an unbelievable human being — the energy that he had, and the vocabulary he had of gestures and expressions — oh boy he was funny. Phew! I really loved him." ... were the last words Jerry Garcia ever said on camera.
And John was sitting there shaking with emotion and trying not to totally lose it in front of his friend.
"And then, a while later," I keep tellin Phil, "Something reminded me of what you wrote in your 'Searching For The Sound' which I quoted in my book — you wrote so passionately about Neal — it was so beautiful — so I read John that part — and this time, John started crying almost from the moment I began reading, and so much so, that I started getting choked up ... "
Phil devoted much ink in his memoir to this milestone moment in his life [Neal's death], including, "It hardly seemed credible that a life force like his, so generously endowed with the rhythm of motion through time, could be smothered and shut down at such an early age. . . . Neal's death had hit me harder than I knew; I'd been obsessing on the loss of one of the most inspiring people I'd ever known personally. . . . I vowed to myself that in the future I would live up to Neal's inspirational example."
"... and I could barely finish reading it ... and the next thing I know we're in each other's arms hugging and shaking and crying together."
"Wow! That's . . . beautiful!" he says, laser-beaming me in the eye. "Thanks for sharing that with me."
"I just thought you should know. ... You wrote so passionately about Neal ... I thought Johnny should hear it," and we both looked into each other's eyes in a prolonged moment of respect and reflection.
And with that, I gave him a copy of the book, and said Thanks for making the connection to history like he did, and left him to his privacy, as I walked back out of that room, eyes bulging out of my head that this just happened!
Back at the high bar tables in front of the stage, where we had a direct view straight into this wall-less room where I'd just talked to him and the guys had been watching me, I was freaking out. I bought a round for the table in gratitude for their coaching, and I felt like my life was now complete. I'd finally written a book about how the Grateful Dead connect to the Beat writers ... and had passed on copies to both the Cassady family and the main guy in the Dead.
And as we sat there, eventually I realized, "Geez, I prolly shoulda gotten a picture with him." And ol' Cliff says, "Well, he's still just sitting there. I could take it for you if you wanted." And I looked over at Phil, but he seemed all immersed in something, and I didn't want to disturb him asking a dumb favor. But after a few more moments of reflection and sips of frosty liquid courage, I figured I better do it now — again, while it's early, pre-show, quiet. So I said Yeah to ol' Cliff, "Let's do it."
And as we walked up the couple steps into the extra room where Phil's the only person there, I see he's bent over reading something ... and I'm like, "No! . . . there's no way . . . " And sure as shit — Phil is sitting there reading my book! I couldn't believe it!
It certainly made it easy for me to ask, "Hey Phil, can I get a picture with you?"
And he looks up with the biggest smile on his face! "Yeah, sure!" he says with genuine enthusiasm!
And he jumps up for us to do it, then goes, "Wait," and reaches back to the table and grabs the book and holds it up front and center!
Couldn't believe it!
And then the night rolls out, and his son's band plays their first set — a mandolin–electric–guitar bluegrass–rock amalgam with Grate 4-part harmonies — and luckily for all, as a vocalist, the son did fall far from the tree — as Pops comes and sits right behind us for the set.
Generally speaking — I'm thinking — "This must be heaven; tonight I crossed the line ..."
I'm just a beaming Brian, floating on the golden road at the end of the rainbow, with a stage-side seat to some fantabulous music, surrounded by new friends, and a photo with Phil on my camera!
And then during the set break, Jill and some other people come and join Phil at their kinda private table in their kinda private room, basically right in front of our field of vision, and I'm sorta keeping an eye on him every few minutes. And then I notice, he's not talking to the other people at the table. He's sitting there, looking into his lap.
"No! . . . no way . . . don't even think it ... " . . . but I do. And I get up and go to where I can get a clear view of his lap . . . and sure-a-gawd-damned nuff . . . on Father's Day, with his son's band in the house . . . on a non-work night out with his wife and their friends . . . he's sitting there at their table ... reading my book!
And then more crazy shit goes down, there may have been some jazz cigarettes involved, and another set of smokin' bluegrass–rock-n-roll, and another round of — get this — Prankster beer!!
And we're talkin at the table about all sorts of stuff including my book, and this other author named Sandy Troy is there, and Merry Prankster Adrienna, and dancin' cowboy Harri, and it's a very High Time with some very hardcore cool Marin County cats, and at some point the jam rolls around to one of the photos on the back cover ...
from Halloween night, 1980, right after the final Radio City Dead show — and how I only asked to have the picture taken because I'd just found Molson Canadian in a deli for the first time since moving to America a month earlier!
And ... I'm actually wearing a Phil Lesh button in the photo!
And then I realize — Shit, I should tell Phil this. He'll never be able to see that that's him on the button. So, sure as heck, being well-primed with some well-placed Prankster beer, I decide to go over one more time — which, y'know, is verging on being a pest. But when I walk up to his now full multiple tables of friends, he looks up, and as joyously as could be, goes, "Oh, hi Brian!" And this is a guy who back in the day had a reputation for sometimes being a little less than friendly to people. But he was just as nice and open and into-it as a person could be.
So I go on one knee beside him with the book on his lap and point to the picture and start to tell him the story about Halloween Radio City, and he goes, "What year was that?" Kinda blew my mind that he played this historic run at Radio City Music Hall, made two double-albums and one movie from it ... and doesn't have a clue what year it was!
Anyway, I tell him the funny story about why I had this picture taken and the only reason it exists — because this Canadian was just so jazzed he could get beer from the homeland in New York City — and Phil, being an old Heineken man himself, obviously appreciated a good beer story, and as soon as I told him, he popped his head back and let out a huge laugh, and totally got it.
Not only was I not being a pest, but he completely dug why I was telling him this vitally important background.
And then a few days later — while in the middle of another Beat conference — I joined him and 75,000 others at Levi's Stadium, as this beer-and-book-worm played his band's Farewell to California . . . including their song about Cowboy Neal at the wheel of the bus to Never-Ever Land.
Because that's when it all began.
For more GD fun — here's the Grateful Dead Chicago story.
Or here's when The Grateful Dead Played My 30th Birthday.
Or here's an excerpt from "The Hitchhiker's Guide to Jack Kerouac" about the GD at Red Rocks.
And here's where you can get the book in the U.S.
. . . or in Canada
. . . or the U.K.
And for Facebookers — there's a photo album of the whole "trip" here.
by Brian Hassett
karmacoupon@ gmail.com BrianHassett.com
Tags: Phil Lesh·San Rafael·Terrapin Crossroads·The Hitchhiker's Guide to Jack Kerouac
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."
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 firstname.lastname@example.org BrianHassett.com
Tags: Adam's Ale·Merry Pranksters
Then Along Comes Kesey
Excerpted from "The Hitchhiker's Guide to Jack Kerouac”
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
karmacoupon@ gmail.com BrianHassett.com
Tags: Boulder Kerouac Conference 1982·Ken Kesey
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.
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
karmacoupon@ gmail.com BrianHassett.com
Tags: Boulder Kerouac Conference 1982·Grateful Dead·Jack Kerouac·Red Rocks
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 email@example.com BrianHassett.com
Tags: Brian Wilson·Frank Zappa·Pet Sounds·The Wrecking Crew
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 M.C.ing 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.
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.
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 firstname.lastname@example.org BrianHassett.com
Tags: Adam's Ale·Grateful Dead·Jojo Stella·Ohio
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!
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 email@example.com BrianHassett.com
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 firstname.lastname@example.org BrianHassett.com
Tags: Allen Ginsberg·Beat Generation·Jack Kerouac·Lucien Carr·Toronto·William Burroughs
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 email@example.com BrianHassett.com
Tags: documentaries·Edgar Winter·Johnny Winter·Muddy Waters·Rock n Roll
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 firstname.lastname@example.org BrianHassett.com
Tags: Neil Young
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 email@example.com BrianHassett.com
Tags: Carolyn Cassady·Jack Kerouac·On The Road·On The Road premiere·The Merry Pranksters·Woodstock
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 firstname.lastname@example.org BrianHassett.com
Tags: Furthur Bus·Furthur Bus 50th Anniversary Tour·Jack Kerouac·Ken Kesey·Melanie·Neal Cassady·Pranksters·Woodstock anniversary·Yasgur's farm·Zane Kesey
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!)
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 email@example.com BrianHassett.com
Tags: creating Seinfeld·Henri Cru·Jack Kerouac·John Lennon·Kerouac and Seinfeld·Larry David·Larry David and John Lennon·Michael Richards·Neal Cassady·Seinfeld in Massapequa
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, Sugaree
, The 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 firstname.lastname@example.org BrianHassett.com
Tags: Jerry Garcia·Jerry Garcia Band·Linsmore Tavern·Mark Thackway·Soul Rebels
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 . . .
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 email@example.com BrianHassett.com
photo by Brian Hassett — Olympic Park, London, 2012
"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
Cruel Crazy Beautiful World
Dela (I Know Why The Dog Howls At The Moon)
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 firstname.lastname@example.org BrianHassett.com
Tags: Jesse Clegg·Johnny Clegg·Koerner Hall
“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 email@example.com BrianHassett.com
Roaring at The Lion
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 firstname.lastname@example.org BrianHassett.com
Tags: John Cassady·Kerouac birthday bash·Kerouac in London·Red Lion in London·Swiss Lips
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
5. Canada — here's their jerseys.
6. U.S.A. — here's their jerseys.
Or all rosters are officially laid out on the NHL's site here
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.
: . . . . .
(all times Eastern
Noon Thurs Feb 13th — Canada vs. Norway
Noon Friday Feb 14th — Canada vs. Austria
Noon Sunday Feb 16th — The Big Game
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
— Friday 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 — http://www.nhl.com/ice/newsindex.htm?location=/olympics/2014
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 — https://www.facebook.com/Brian.Hassett.Canada/media_set?set=a.10151940453750261.877846.646055260&type=3
Or here's my wild Sneaking Onto The Penguins Team Bus
during the playoffs story from a few years ago.
by Brian Hassett
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.
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
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 email@example.com BrianHassett.com
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
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
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 she enjoyed all her others
At home in her home
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 firstname.lastname@example.org BrianHassett.com
Tags: Carolyn Cassady
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.
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 email@example.com BrianHassett.com
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?
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 firstname.lastname@example.org BrianHassett.com