Dream Boogieing with Sam Cooke
Music biographies (and to an extent, biographies in general) are kind of masturbatory if you know a bit about the subject. I know about Sam Cooke- gospel singer, switched to pop, huge star, “Bring It On Home to Me”, shot in a hotel room, the dominant force in soul music, and hero to Bobby Womack, Lou Rawls and Rod Stewart. But then I read Peter Guralnick’s excellent Dream Boogie: The Triumph of Sam Cooke and was completely blown away by the man.
I’ve loved Sam Cooke for a long time (specifically since I found out that he was the singer of “Wonderful World” and “Cupid”), but recently with the help of this book I was able to really get a grasp of what made him so special.
Musically the guy was gifted. He simultaneously took the black Gospel experience, melded it with a little Harry Belafonte-like calypso and some light rock and roll and created out of thin air a form of black music that was in an attractive enough package for white America to digest. To read about this happening and also to hear it in his music is grounds enough to count him as an all-time great, but to read about what Cooke did away from the spotlight is pretty damn Herculean.
Segregation was a horrible thing. But one of the things that happened as a result of segregation (to an extent) was a simultaneous black culture in America that existed independently of white America. Dream Boogie showcases this. There was a Afro-centric news wire (the ANP- Associated Negro Press), black operated newspapers in every major city, and the much vaunted black club scene across America and Sam was in the middle of all of these.
In fact, Sam seemed in the middle of most of black culture in America in the 1950s until his death in 1964. He bubbles up with Little Richard, meets the Beatles, tours with Aretha Franklin and a very young Gladys Knight, and even cuts a single with Cassius Clay (he wasn’t Muhammed Ali just yet). The guy was, as Reggie Jackson said about himself a decade later, the straw that stirred the drink.
So today I decided to share with everyone a Sam Cooke song. It’s not “Bring It On Home to Me”, or one of his bubblegum smashes. Instead, it’s “Nothing Can Ever Change This Love”, which might be as good a song as “Bring It On Home to Me”. Listen to Sam’s voice as he sings it- it’s barely tethered to Earth, and yet there is still a little dirt and grit around the edges. He belts out huge whoa-oh-ah-ohs that take your breath away and holds other words and phrases inside of his mouth, almost chewing on them until the right timbre is hit. I’ve never seen a Picasso, I’m not able to watch land being formed as lava reaches the sea, and I’ve never seen life created in front of me, but I have heard Sam Cooke’s voice, which is as close to the creator as an atheist like myself will ever get.
Sam Cooke- Nothing Can Ever Change This Love
Until tomorrow, be good.
Elvis has left the building (and my current reading list)
I just finished Careless Love: The Unmaking of Elvis Presley by Peter Guralnick and I am utterly and completely heartbroken and destroyed by the life, the death, the spirit, the soul and the utter and complete hopelessness that was Elvis Aron Presley. I can’t put into words how heartbreaking the final years of this man’s life were. He was troubled by addiction, grief over the passing of his mother nearly 20 years earlier, and his self confidence and swagger destroyed by his divorce. I really just want to sit here and write a detailed synopsis of the book, but I don’t know if doing that really illustrates why this book and the last few years of the man’s life has really destroyed me in such a spectacular fashion.
I guess Elvis’ decent into addiction, his trouble with his weight and the shooting of television sets are enough for everyone else, but those things (in their own rather peculiar way) are so mundane by now. What struck me instead was how Elvis fucking Presley had no self confidence at the end. All of the accounts of the man’s life just recall him being utterly defeated by the world and himself. It seemed like for the last five years of his life, Elvis was aware of the inevitability of his death, and worried that people wouldn’t remember him as the devastatingly talented (and important) person that he was.
From Guralnick’s book (the conversation was said to have taken place around this time in 1977:
Over the next few nights he brought up things they had talked about often in the past, but now they took on a different tinge. He spoke to her about his mother, he talked about his pain, he spoke of his place in history. “How will they remember me?” he asked over and over again. “They’re not going to remember me. I’ve never done anything lasting. I’ve never done a classic film” But then his mood would change. His mission in life, he said was “to make people happy with music. And I’ll never stop until the day I die.
Those mood swings- often in the same conversation seemed to be the norm for Elvis in his final years. It seemed like to me- granted I wasn’t there and I only know Elvis from his music and from the 1,200 pages of Guralnick’s books- that Elvis had no sense of who he exactly was in those final years.
I remember reading an interview with George Harrison about his time on tour with The Beatles and he said that it felt like he was just part of the circus when The Beatles rolled into town. I’m sure that Harrison was referring to the spectacle of Beatlemania, but I think Elvis probably felt this also, only he was some sort of grotesque version of our collective past- the rebel as a cartoon character. It’s heartbreaking to think that Mr. White Jumpsuit was the same person who introduced the concept of having hips and shaking them to white people, but they are one and the same.
But that’s not what destroyed me about the book. I guess my own neurosis at times is seeing the neurosis of other people and worrying that I have the same problem. But I do wonder- do I have a true sense of myself? If Elvis fucking Presley wasn’t aware of his own self and what the world around him thought, then how am I, a foul mouthed wannabe writer in Jackson County, North Carolina ever going to have a true sense of who I am and what I’m here for?
I guess I define myself by my friends and family. I define who I am by the smiles on their faces and the warmth in their hearts. I may never do anything 1/1,000,000th as cool as “Hound Dog”, but sitting with my friend Miguel and making fun of Little League Baseball players does compare in some way.
But enough of my neurosis- it’s on to other things. Tonight I downloaded a bootleg of Elvis playing the Asheville Civic Center in 1975. By the sound of the music, he’s not the zombie playing to blue hairs that all written reports like to make him out to be in this time. Instead, he’s playing his hits for a crowd of people 35 years and a million times different from the quaint shithole that is today’s Asheville. The crowd is eating it up, and Elvis sounds like he’s having fun. Jerry Schiff (one of my new bass heroes) is playing his ass off. It sounds like a rocking affair that I wish I could have been alive to see- even if the crowd never really gave Elvis a standing ovation (according to every account that I’ve read).
I hope Elvis, a person that I wasn’t alive to have known, found his peace- either in his final moments or floating through the ether as he is now. I hope that the Elvis from the first half of that quote is long gone and the Elvis from the second half of the quote is looking down at people like me- who wasn’t there for the glory years, the comeback or the decline- is still finding awesomeness in his music.
I don’t usually do this, but I figured some people around here would appreciate it- here’s a download of Elvis’s Asheville show from July 23rd, 1975. It’s a great bootleg entitled “Gyrating Asheville”. Check out the track listing and information here.
Elvis Presley- Gyrating Asheville
Until later, be good.
I Serve at the pleasure of the (Dap) Kings
I sit here befuddled, flummoxed, tongue-tied and confused about what to write about quite possibly one of the best nights of music in my life. My fingers are having a hard time replicating the sheer sense of joy, lunacy and reckless abandon that I had on Wednesday night as I danced my ass off to Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings. I remember listing superlatives in my head and stringing together hyperboles about what I was witnessing, but they don’t seem to be back on instant recall like a lot of things that I note during inferior shows. Instead all I have is a smile on my face from singing and dancing for three solid hours.
A Short Story about Short Stories
Tonight Jessie and I ventured into downtown Sylva to hear local author (who seems to be becoming a big deal outside of Western North Carolina) Ron Rash read from his new collection of short stories entitled Burning Bright at City Lights Bookstore. I must admit that I’m a bit of a neophyte when it comes to Rash’s works, but Jessie’s enthusiasm and desire to go won me over, and man I’m glad I went to the reading.
For those of you who aren’t familiar with his work, Rash writes fiction in harsh, brutal passages that somehow evoke both the charm and the rural brutalism of the mountains west of Asheville. The result is text that is often uncomfortable and captivating to read.
“Parson went to the window and watched as the sheriff backed out onto the two-lane and drove toward the town’s main drag. Snow stuck to the asphalt now, the jeep blanketed white. He’d watched Danny drive away the day before, the tailgate down and truck bed empty. Parson had known the truck bed would probably be empty when Danny headed out of town, no filled grocery bags of kerosene cans, because the boy lived in a world where food and warmth and clothing were no longer important. The only essentials were the red-and-white packs of Sudafed in the passenger’s seat as the truck disappeared back into the folds of the higher mountains, headed up into Chestnut Cove, what Parson’s father had called the back of beyond, the place where Parson and Ray had grown up.”
From “Back of Beyond”
That paragraph has one hundred and thirty five words in it, and there’s not a single wasted word in it. There’s something so engaging and stark about Rash’s writing that I just fell in love with after hearing him read and then bringing home his collection of shorts. The guy is like Cormac McCarthy only with more punctuation and less of a Pentecostal bend.
The other thing that Rash does that I love is that he writes about this area. Not only in casual mentions of Asheville, Sylva or Boone, but in the people. Rash really captures the rough necked bravado and the tight-lipped secrecy that so many people I encounter in this town seem to have. I’ve never met a stranger and these people are either all ready to kick my ass or are strangers in their own worlds. Rash knows them all, and isn’t afraid to show it.
Needless to say that I love this book- I actually put the book down to write this entry because I knew that if I allowed myself to continue reading I’d be up all night trying to finish the book.
It’s succinctness that I love. That economy of words that arrived in literature that Hemingway wielded like Excalibur through the Gordian Knot of the last vestiges of the overly wordy Dickensonian writers. I love that minimalism, and I just wish I could do it so well. It’s so brutal, so frank and so able to sum up and entire moment in one sentence.
(Keep in mind that I just wrote a sixty six word paragraph with a mixed metaphor to describe brevity and simplicity in words. Yes, I am aware of that and no, I don’t think it makes me an idiot.)
After a brief Q&A Jessie and I took our copy of Burning Bright and stood in line to get Mr. Rash to sign the book. The bookstore was hanging out small slips of paper for us to write down what we’d like the author to sign in the books and Jessie thought about it for a second and scribbled it down. I had a feeling it was going to be poignant or funny, or sweet or random. I had a feeling that it was going to be perfect. After some small talk with Rash, he handed the book back to us, shook our hands and walked out the door. Tonight after getting into bed I studied the inscription one more time.
“For Jessica, who likes to read, and Jason who likes to write!”
Thirteen words, all neat all perfect. Looping J’s that Rash developed himself outside of school, an exclamation point added because of his schooling, and a sentiment, elegance and simplicity in the choosing of the words that I would never have been able to have done. I may be the writer in the family (I hope), but my wife is the poet.
I had a feeling that Rash writing Jessica’s words would be perfect, and I was right.
Until later, be good.
My Wife, My Nerd
Valentine’s Day this year was pretty dull and uneventful- just the way I like it. We spent the afternoon at our house, cooking Pad Thai and Jessie asking me constantly if the unrelenting hangover I was suffering from was easing. Yep, it was a Sunday all right.
But Monday was a different story.
After a nice lunch (12 Bones Barbecue!) Jessie and I decided to hang around Asheville a bit more. It’s rare when we get to escape Sylva and enjoy Asheville on a weekday. It’s one of the few times in the city where if you ignore all of the new shops and progress, it really feels like the city we both love. Everything was pleasant until I saw something that I wasn’t prepared for: I saw my wife and a friend that I’d introduced her to have a pretty dramatic falling out.
Post-apocalyptic Bugg
A few weeks ago, I finished reading The Road by Cormac McCarthy and loved it. The book was everything that I like in a book: a great plot, beautiful writing and a story that was in the words of a friend of mine who I loaned the book to “emotionally exhausting”.
But as I read the book and followed the story of the Man and his son (who remain unnamed throughout) I couldn’t help but to place myself in their shoes- two people with nothing left, walking aimlessly to what they pray is salvation in a dying world, and the whole time battling the elements, hunger and the cold, grey cataract of a world that is getting harsher by the day from taking their hope, morality and love from them. I was touched by the relationship and the singularity of the love between the Man and the Boy.
But I also knew that beyond a shadow of a doubt that I wouldn’t last twenty minutes in that world.
Charcoal and Shampoo
I promised myself that I wouldn’t write some embarrassing and overly emotional tribute to fall, but tonight might be the exception to that rule. Tonight Jessica and I made a nice dinner (hamburgers on the grill!) and watched “Away We Go”, which is a movie featuring that one guy and that other chick. I wanted to see it because it was written by Dave Eggers, and Jessie wanted to see it because of John Krasinski, so it worked out nicely.
The movie was good, in that chick flick with just enough parts to keep me entertained kind of way, and while it will never win any awards or anything like that, it did make me think every once in a while and even some of the characters and their problems reminded me of situations I’ve found myself in. I guess that’s a good thing.
In a lot of ways, the movie reminded me of why I like Dave Eggers so much: he makes things that I like and that are for me. His first book, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius was about people who weren’t particularly good looking but weren’t particularly ugly at a particular time in their lives. I read that book at the precise moment when I was thinking and feeling some of those same things, and it resonated with me. Now in “Away We Go”, there’s something similar happening.
Before anyone freaks out, Jessica isn’t pregnant. But we have talked about having kids in the future, and the movie brought out in both of us a few of the conversations and dilemmas that we’ve had about parents, children, family, home and where all of that fits in this bizarre little world that we’ve created for ourselves. I was taken aback a few times, and poor Jessie was a basket case for three quarters of the movie. I’m serious, it was Niagara Falls.
But watching that movie, which while not particularly good and only fleetingly relevant to my own life, with the woman I love more than anything made me realize how nice my life is. I could have more money, more time and more energy to create a more secure bubble around Jessica and I, but I have her. I could figure out a way to go back in time and do the “right” thing in my late teens and be a bank employee by now, but I wouldn’t have Jessie. I could have really tried harder a few times and be living in a glamorous city with big city problems to match my big city self-centeredness, but I wouldn’t be here with Jess, Chili, Spooky, Frank, The Peach and Moe (yes, even Moe). My life is pretty darn neat.
For the first time in a while, it was cool enough in the house to where just sitting close together on the couch didn’t result in a sweaty mess. So Jessica put her head on my chest, covered up with a blanket and cried throughout the entire movie. I moved my head down near her and ran my fingers through her hair. I could smell the charcoal smoke-scent of my hand mixing with the sweetness of her shampoo and it was just about the nicest smell that I could ever remember having smelled. I could have had an aneurysm there and been okay with it. I was warm, my girl and a smattering of pets were on the couch with me, and there wasn’t a problem in the world at that moment.
I won’t tell you everything that happened after the movie, but let’s just say that we watched a Ken Burns documentary, she went to bed and I stayed up, if you know what I mean. I think that means that we watched a Ken Burns Documentary, she went to bed and I stayed awake. Despite how mundane it sounds, that shit was hot.
One day Jessie and I will probably have a baby, and I’m sure “Away We Go” will be either entirely too relevant or dismissed as some fantasy world representation of what happens to a pair of aging hipsters in their thirties as their love deepens and their fertility dies off, but for right now and for tonight, it was just about as perfect a movie as I’ve seen. I’d like to think it was because of Dave Eggers and John Krasinski, but instead it’s probably more because of Kingsford and Pantene.
Until later, be good.
More Ramblings (this time featuring musings about work, Yo La Tengo, Thomas Pynchon and my own writing)
I sat down to write this blog and this really sad thought flew over me: I hadn’t listened to any music all day long today. I’m pretty sure that makes me sound like a hippie, but it’s true: I listen to music pretty much any time that I’m alone. It makes me happy and when it’s over I feel more alive, revitalized and aware of my surroundings. So for the rest of the day, a book won’t be cracked, a baseball game will not light up my living room and an internet page will not be opened or refreshed until I do some serious listening. I can’t promise a lot of things, including this blog entry being coherent, worthwhile or particularly relevant to anyone’s life but mine, but here goes. (more…)
For Dirk…
This blog is probably no different than any of the previous blogs over the course of the last month or so, but it is different in the sense that I am finally writing it from my computer once more. There’s something comforting about this ancient piece of crap that takes ten (10!) minutes to boot up. It’s mine, and when I use my ergonomic keyboard I feel like the ideas and thoughts come out of my head quicker, and with less hand cramps. I’m sure the keyboard has nothing to do with the former and everything to do with the latter. So in honor of my computer, I wanted to put down some thing s that I currently give it up for:
- hoodie weather: It’s approaching my favorite time of the year- the time when I get to wear a hoodie and shorts at the same time. There’s something about this weather that wraps it’s big, hairy arms around you like a muscle bear in the bathroom of a club and makes you feel warm, slovenly and comfortable. These are positive qualities. Well, except for the muscle bears, but then again, Jessie could leave me at any time, so it’d be nice to keep my options open. That’s right, bear community, there’s still hope!
- Routines and the fight against them: I know those two things may seem contradictory, but there’s something comforting about embracing a routine. Jessie and I cook a lot of the same meals from week to week and even watch the same television shows together (Seinfeld at seven on the SuperStation, bitches), but it feels like the aforementioned arms of the big muscle bear (let’s call him Dirk) gentling patting me on the back during a tender hug and telling me that it’s going to be okay (Dirk calls me “big fella”, right afterwards, but I will omit that for clarity). But the fight against those routines is sometimes nice. I think as the dust we kick up in our twenties dies down in our thirties, it’s real easy to resign yourself to being settled down and scared, to not want to challenge yourself, to play it safe, and to write off those things that you indulged in at a younger age as youthful exuberance or dalliances. But I think those things are important. That’s why I’ve started a band again. That’s why I haven’t sold out just yet and joined the square community. It’s why middle aged men play sports. I just think that the battle to stay vital and young has to go hand in hand with growing older and leaving some of the turmoil of youth behind.
- Billy Joel: I have never been a fan of the guy, he seemed like a pedestrian Springsteen, but lately, I’ve really been digging the guy. His music is still pretty blah, but I dig the hell out of it. I really think that I’m starting to suck.
- My job: yes it’s a corporate hellhole counter job, and some people who have read this blog and found out what I do for a secondary source of income have made fun of me for it, but I really love it. It’s nice to talk to people all day about something like books. It’s nice to see people’s reactions to writing and it’s nice to be out of the house and amongst the living.
- Sleepovers: Because of my job being a few miles away from home, I’m spending a few nights a week away from home. It sucks because I don’t get to be around Jessie, but it is nice because I get to hang out with Bort. We usually don’t do much of anything, but it is comforting sometimes just talking about mundane things with the guy. I miss living with him and it’s a nice thing from time to time.
- My new band. I don’t know if we have a name yet, but so far it’s been nice jamming with the guys. It’s not as much of a big muscle-y rock band as I’ve been in before. Instead we do this nice surf guitar/early R.E.M. thing that I dig.
This probably wasn’t the most exciting entry, but bear with me, I came home from work rather ill today, and I don’t have the energy to justify myself or to make this entry sing, like Dirk did on that summer night all those months ago.
Until later, be good.
The Good Book
This is probably going to make me seem like a philistine, but I haven’t ben engrossed with a book in a few years. I’ve flipped through books and half heartedly read a few chapters, half a book, and even finished one here and there, but nothing has grabbed me as of late.
That is, until I picked up a copy of Jonathan Lethem’s Fortress of Solitude. At first it’s a story that is familiar to me; a young boy and his friendship with another neighborhood kid. But it’s about other things, also. It’s about comic books, soul music, funk, the rise of punk rock and the gentrification of a neighborhood in Brooklyn, New York. It’s about fathers raising sons alone and sons growing up without mothers. It’s about rock critics and their struggle to keep going, about couples who fight and people just learning from each other. In other words, it’s exactly the kind of book I’d love to write one day; emotional, funny, relevant to a complete strangers life and with a touch of the fantastic.
I’d love to meet this Lethem guy and thank him. I haven’t finished the book yet, but I’m sheepishly getting closer, knowing that the story is coming to an end soon. In fact, I feel guilty right now that I’m writing this blog and not finding out what happens to Dylan and Mingus, the book’s main characters.
So, in closing, pick this book up. Also, try to find out Jonathan Lethem’s number for me, and see if he’d like to have lunch.
