Newsgroups: bit.listserv.allmusic
Date:         Sat, 21 Nov 1992 15:29:59 CST
From:         Little Inquisitor <U33963@UICVM.BITNET>
Subject:      Musical memories

Allmusicdom:  These musical memories are dedicated to all of you.

Renato

                     * * * * * * *

                      WEDDING

When we got married, my wife and I (at my urging) wedged a 45 rpm
copy of "Come Go With Me" by the Del-Vikings on top of the wedding
cake, and our theme songs for the reception were  "Be My Baby"
(Ronettes) and "All Day and All Night" (Kinks).  The latter,
an apt segue into next story.

                    THE KINK

Some years back, an *extremely* attractive female friend was sitting
in a S.F. bar, waiting for her dinner date when a guy sat next to
to her, struck up a conversation, bought her a drink and
then invited her up to his room.  Turned out it was one of the
well-respected Kinks, though I'm not going to say which one.
(My friend, not exactly a rock aficionada, didn't have the faintest
idea which group this was.)  Though extremely flattered by the
insistent attentions of the very charming Brit, my friend turned him
down.  But when the woman, a divorcee, told her teenage daughter
about the episode, the daughter was upset that her mom hadn't
rocked 'n rolled with the mighty Kink!

                   DAD & DYLAN

My dad, Carlos, (a professor of literature, novelist and
something of a major talent), is not always good with names.
During a lecture some twenty plus years ago on Twentieth Century
Spanish poetry, a student asked him to
mention some of his favorite contemporary English language poets.
After reeling off the names of the usual suspects, he authoritatively
concluded "and of course one must never forget Bob Dylan!"
Well, this just blew the students' minds
as they had never imagined their professor to be so utterly hip.
After class a persistent undergrad asked him
if he really thought that Dylan was a good poet.  My dad, in dis-
belief answered, "did I really say that?
I meant to say Dylan Thomas."

                   DAD & FLAMENCO

Quick, call central casting and get a professional
Spaniard!  Enters my dad.  While somewhat absent-minded, my dad is
a man of strong convictions and excellent likes and appetites.
In fact, there's nothing like a heady combination of proletarian ideals
and bourgeois tastes -- all of it tightly wound in the
irrepressible identity of a card-carrying Spaniard.
One night in Madrid, my dad, always the Spanish gentleman,
was most unhappy that a flamenco performance
he was hugely enjoying in a nightclub had ended
so early (2 a.m.), and just when things were beginning to hop.
So he persuaded, charmed and paid some of the _conjunto's_
members to come to *our* house to continue the party.
Keep in mind that these were among the best _flamenquistas_; it's
as if you were able to entice some major blues talent to your house
to perform in your living room!
I'm not sure how well the neighbors took it,
but the liquor flowed freely in a hot summer night, and some
of the singers bellowed political songs and many risque one they
weren't allowed to perform publicly.
And the dancing!  Statuesque Carmela -- who brought along her
ever watchful waiter-husband from the club -- twirling until
the wee hours of the morning.  What an evening!  Massive headaches
all around next day.

                     STUDENT DAZE: MOZART

While a student, for my birthday, my parents took me out to dinner
and then to an all-Mozart performance by a Russian String Quartet
(possibly the Moscow), but I was so tired from studying that
I fell soundly asleep right after intermission,
and awoke near concert's end when my mom, Iris,
started to nudge me after I had begun to snore loudly.  I believe
it was last such affair we attended together.

                       BILL DAVIS & BACH

My college room-mate in Baltimore, Bill Davis III,
an excellent violin player, sometimes regaled me in late afternoons
with gorgeous renditions of Bach.  What an incredible treat!
Ever the well-connected man-about-town, Bill always seemed to have
tickets for important symphonic events.  I recall in particular an
inspired performance by Ormandy and the Philadelphia of Brahms and Barber.

                      RICHTER

Listening to Sviatoslav Richter during a wonderful concert of
Russian music, the fellow in front of me turned to his wife and in a
fairly loud voice said, "This guy can really pound the keyboard,
can't he, honey?"

                    ROCK LYRICS

When the Flestones' truly astonishing _Hexbreaker_ came out in 1983
I was totally infatuated by its punky garagey 60s feel
-- most particularly by the outstanding keyboard and quirky sounds --
and I played it over and over again -- drove my wife nuts.
But I couldn't make out some of the lyrics,
so I wrote the record company (I.R.S.) to see if they had them and
could send them to me.  Lo and behold, instead I received a hand-
written gem of a note from Peter Zaremba, one of the band members,
which says in part, and I quote verbatim,
"Gee I allways figured that lyric sheets for
rock & roll records were kinda dumb. (or) Maybe if you really want
to know what the guy is saying. I allways would just listen about
a million times, and still not get it!! But I'm glad to see you
care."  Love this album but still cannot descipher all the words.

            ALICIA DE LA ROCHA & THE WORLD SERIES

About 15 yrs ago someone who couldn't make it gave me two tickets
at the very last moment to attend an Alicia de la Rocha all-Mozart
concert.  However, the seats turned out to be so
bad (i.e., so far) here at Orchestra Hall and the night so warm and
and beautiful that I insisted that we leave and go
watch a World Series game instead. We left at intermission.
(I almost lost my SO at the time. Fortunately, she likes baseball.)

                     BROTHER-IN-LAW

My wife's older brother, Rick, a fine and funky keyboardist, played in
in countless local bands in the late 60s-early 70s.  One of his bands,
Spoiled Pudding (great name or what?) opened for some of the better
known groups of the Dunwich label (Shadows of Knight, Saturday's
Children, etc). Rick got to know a lot of the guys in those bands.
He tells great stories about those bands
(stoned most of the time,
like "where are we tonight, man?")
I owe some of my finest (and rarest) 60s posters to
him.  Just don't get him started.  He'll ask, "what do you want to
hear, '96 Tears?' You got it!," and he'll plunge into a giant freak
out, weaving in other famous organ tunes a la Procol Harum's
"Whiter Shade of Pale."  I eat this stuff up with a spoon.

                  NEW YORK, NEW YORK

Before I decided on an area of specialization, I spent a summer in
NYC working in a laboratory at Albert Einstein School of Medicine,
more than anything else, I believe, to get away from my family.
On week-ends I often had to lie about my age to get into night-clubs.
But it was certainly worth the hassle and I heard much wonderful
jazz.  One time I vividly recall being seated close to Monk
-- at the Bluenote I believe, though I can't say for sure.

                     HOROWITZ

Another time I just chose the wrong week-end to be away from the
city.  My lab director, Sasha (always love the way it sounds), was
married to a painter who frequented the Big Apple's artistic haut
monde.  Turns out that fortuitous circumstances had placed Sasha
and in wife -- after a reception to which I'd been invited but
didn't attend because I had gone back to Baltimore -- at the house
of Vladimir Horowitz, then in one of his many self-imposed
retirements.  In a surprisingly good mood, Horowitz played several
hours for this guests.  To this day, I cannot remember for the life
of me what possessed to go to Baltimore that week-end.


                      JOAQUIN RODRIGO

On another occasion, I was proudly seated at dinner next to
Joaquin Rodrigo, b. 1901, (_Concierto de Aranjuez_), but he was so
frail and hard of hearing that I don't believe he heard a word I
said all night.  Good thing, too, as I was a very brash and
opinionated youth.


                      RUSSIAN DANCERS

When I arrived in Paris -- presumably to do graduate work --
before finding permanent housing I lived in a
flea-bag hotel on the Left Bank.  While not the Ritz,
the place had undeniable charms and advantages: half a
a block from the Odeon metro, a block and halk from the university
restaurant.  Then there was that marvelous exhibitionist
couple across from me on the other side of the courtyard.  Mon dieu,
with drawn curtains, they were at it (or so it seemed) morning, day
and night! (And things I never thought could be done; gee, can one
actually do *that* one?)
I remember thinking to myself, I'm really going to like
this city.  But more importantly, Abdul lived in the same hotel.
An Iranian, he was a weightlifter and star athlete at an American
university.  Abdul, a really kind soul, was primarily
earning his keep as a bouncer in a discotheque.
His friendship proved invaluable: not only did he often sneak me
in for free, but he also had a knack for getting his hands on the
best hash imaginable. (BTW, we often didn't inhale;
instead we dropped little chunks into boiling hot mint tea glasses
and drank it.  Slower but equally effective and pleasant.)  Hanging
out at the disco was great, and such unexpected
company: one night a large contingent of Russians from either the
Kirov or Bolshoi -- time dulls certainties -- literally took over
the entire dancing floor.  Some of them wore the trademark fur hats
and never took them off, even while doing some of the most amazing
and athletic dancing I have *ever* seen.
Why, there were bodies flying all over the place.  Another night,
however, a group of drunken U.S. servicemen nearly tore the place
apart.  Having barely escaped with his life, Abdul quit shortly
thereafter.  As for me, I decided to start to pay
some attention to my studies.  Moved away from the paradisiac Latin
Quarter to an affordable proletarian neighborhood. But I never forgot
the couple with the inexhaustible libido.

              FRENCH GOVERNMENT & CULTURE

Heard lots of good music in Paris at very cheap rates.  As a student
I benefitted from the French government's largesse, which, unlike
the U.S., takes the arts and culture very seriously as part
of France's "civilizing mission."  Chauvinistic and elitist perhaps
but I was able to attend concert by the likes of Leonid Kogan (sp?),
Emil Gilels, Max Roach and others at dirt cheap (subsidized) student
prices.  (And also attended tons of excellent plays during matinee
hours at the Comedie Francaise, which often meant skipping class.)

P.S. Imagine this 21 year-old's astonishment when on one of his
first visits to the august Bibliotheque Nationale, he found himself
seated in the main reading room a couple of places from Simone de
Beauvoir.  I don't think I got much done that morning, as I believe
I stared at her the whole time, expecting as well for Sartre
to turn up at any moment.  No such luck, though another time, I
stood in line near both of them as we were waiting to buy tickets to
see a movie.  Can't remember which film it was though.

                     KRISTINA & SATIE

After returning to the States to finish my degree, I developed a
brief relationship at school with Kristina, who was doing the same in
French medieval literature.  A trained classical pianist, she had
abandoned a promising musical career for the intricacies of
troubadour poetry, chansons de geste and romans.  I asked her
several times if she wanted to play something for me, but she
usually declined on the grounds that she was rusty and hadn't
practiced in quite a while.  It was only after one of the time hono-
red friday afternoon sherry hours -- I used to make fun of them but
came to realize how *soothing* this tradition was at week's end --
that she temporarily let down her inhibitions and finally played
for me (and I'd like to believe also for herself).  We located a
piano in one of the student lounges -- not the best instrument
in the world, mind you -- and she plunged into some remarkably
delicate and well-played Satie (a favorite composers of hers).
I felt as if in a dream.  A nice moment to remember too,
for shortly threafter  Kristina made up with her
main SO (after all, I had been a mere stand-in), and the two moved
away together at year's end.

                     BLASTERS

A Blasters concert in 1985 is one of the best shows I've ever attended
They played most of their songs from the early albums, and lots
of other tunes not often heard.  Lee Allen, a towering presence on
the sax, was particularly in rare form, along with Steve Berlin (bef
ore he joined Los Lobos) and the entire crew.  Lee Alvin's guitar
was smokin' red-hot.  (To this day I dislike Jon Pareles for his
nasty digs at the Blasters' "curatorial approach" to rock.) You
just had to be there to experience the deep enthusiasm and energy
emanating from this band's every pore.  Naturally, I was sad when
then split up; but at least I got a chance to see Lee Allen play --
a living legend in his spare time. (Recall all his important
contributions to, and associations with, Fats Domino and
Dave Bartholomew.)

                    FIELD WORK IN EUSKADI

While doing research for my dissertation in the Basque province of
Vizcaya (Spain) one summer, I traveled
with friends around the lush green countryside
in a borrowed tiny SEAT (Spanish FIAT), and attend numerous
village festivals where traditional music was played and danced to,
usually with folk instruments.  These often consisted on nothing
more than a _txistu_ (small reedy flute), a _tambor_ (small drum) and
various types of _txalapartas_ (sticks banged on hollow logs).
On a couple occasions I was fortunate to view a type of singing
contest where two (or more) _bertsolaris_ (singers) engage in a kind
of call and response structure/format (in Basque of course,
which I don't speak), with many improvisations and takeoffs on each
other's verses.  Part of the skill lies in outdoing or topping the
previous singer with ever more complex phrasings and rhymes.
Truth compels to confess that I don't know what was more pleasurable,
watching these talented musicians, dancers or singers; or
partaking of what is arguably the best food and drink in Spain that
invariably accompany the festivals.  Which brings me full circle to
the fact that Basques -- especially men -- love to sing in unison
(a cappella?) after large meals.

                   MOM & MAHALIA

While living in Columbus, Ohio, in the mid to late
Fifties, my mother decided to stop attending church.
To compensate and still obtain some religious inspiration,
while cleaning the house sunday
mornings, she would play Mahalia Jackson spirituals really loud.
We were used to listening to classical -- and not just of any
period; my dad disdains the romantics as "ChopinBrahms" -- so all
all of us were forced to broaden our musical horizons, and eventually
learned to accompany Mozart with Mahalia and other gospel music.
Bless my mom, bless Mahalia.

                  WIGGLEWORMS

On Saturday mornings my wife and I take turns taking our son
Ernesto to the Old Town School of Folk Music for a children's
thing called Wiggleworms.  An instructor signs kiddie songs
(Wheels on the Bus, Old McDonald, and other timeless classics),
while the children sing along (or at least try) and march.
This sure beats the New Age shit that he listens to in his tape
recorder, but which seems to put him to sleep at night.
My favorite part, though, comes at the very end, when the teacher
does "Do you love me? (now that I can dance)," and the parents
-- most of us bleary-eyed and tired after long weeks --really get
into it, dancing up a storm with the kids. (BTW, the
school advertises a four-week course to learn the Dead's
songs, which includes the intriguing rubric "Jerryisms.")

                   DAD & BUDDY HOLLY

After seeing _The Buddy Holly Story_ my dad was visibly somber.
Trying to understand why he was saddened by the movie, my mom asked
him if he was upset at the fact that Buddy had died young.  My dad,
with an absolutely straight face, answered that he was saddened
because he didn't know that Buddy Holly was dead.

                     ACETATES

With apologies to Joyce, this might well be titled "Portrait of the
Aspiring Collector as Clueless Young Fool."  Back in the mid-70s I
picked up several Ray Charles acetates at a Salvation Army store.
As I recall, they were on the Atlantic label (though they well have
had factory identification marks on them).  Well, I took them home,
and tried to play them on my old Garrard -- still have it and use it
for 78s -- but I could hardly get any sound out of them.  Disgusted,
I threw them in the garbage.  Sometime shortly thereafter I learned
that many acetates are worth a small fortune, especially those by
important artists.  Just goes to show you that you live and learn
-- often the hard way.
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