So What's the Words? How 'bout WHERE are the words?

Think of the Internet as a great junkyard littered with the detritus of people's discarded blogs, a vast wasteland of ideas that seemed good to someone...at sometime. I remember the energy and excitement with which I approached this place so long ago, the noble plan to leave a footprint for my then very young offspring to return to at that point in his life where his dad (aka one time super hero) becomes invisible. back then that seemed a long way away. Today that time draws ever closer. Alas, I don't need to reiterate what has already been written. If you, dear reader choose to delve back into the archives try not to think of it as digging deeply through the garbage. Is it garbage? Admittedly, sometimes I feel that way. Often I wonder if any of it was worth it, yet then I find myself moving back in time, actually reading some of the posts and musings in this blogging past and finding that HELL YES!, some of it was indeed worth it.

Everyone has stories to tell. I still have stories to tell. What's missing however is the passion, the desire, the inspiration to write. I keep telling myself that there is a book in me somewhere. Once it was about a campground, a place that still resides in my soul; a place that frankly I am convinced is the only place that I have ever known true happiness. That project fell through the cracks. A book has actually been written already, based on interviews that I had conducted over a two year span. I haven't read it yet, nor seen it. Perhaps one day. For now, it's just a stark reminder of...failure. I remember how proud I was, how energized I felt telling folks that I was going to write a book. I also remember the near immediate misgivings I had as the project got underway and I wondered if I could actually pull it off.

Call it a crisis of confidence.

I can make excuses for why the project never reached fruition, death in the family, untimely passing of a close friend, unemployment. Oh the list goes on. Life is full of unexpected twists, turns and pitfalls. There is a story there undoubtedly, but a book? Obviously a book. It's published.

A family member recently penned a book that she got published. It's a memoir. I won't mention the name of the book nor its author, nor my very preliminary review in reading a few select sections. Suffice it to say I am wholly impressed that she pulled the feat off, and found the words so easily to publish a book over 200 pages in length. It is truly an impressive feat and when I held that book in my hand, I was jealous. Here was someone with zero writing experience that was able to turn something out in a relatively short period of time.

Kudos.

That said, there is also the matter of reality. We are living in an age now where anyone can get published. it's similar to the direction that music has taken. Anybody can put out an album now and find distribution easily. Kudos to those folks as well. As I mentioned earlier, everyone has a story to tell. Whether or not all of these stories should be told be via the written page or out there in cyberspace? I can't answer that.

I'm not jealous, nor am I envious. I'm more disappointed in that I have reached a low point where words that were once so in abundance now seem non existent.
Lost.

When I started here in 2006, I promised to make this place a happy one. For the most part I pulled that off. I remain cautiously hopeful that it may one day happen again. Yes, there is a book inside me someplace. Hopefully, I will one day find the discipline to return here in a more timely fashion. It's a low level, more attainable goal I have set for myself.

I've stopped reaching for the stars for now.

Free Form, Freewheeling Bluegrass Mashup

Pop superstar Bruce Hornsby and country legend Ricky Skaggs, two artists with more hit singles, awards, accolades and nods from fans and contemporaries alike are set to descend upon the stage of the Paramount in Huntington on the 20^th and while it may seem at first to be a most unusual pairing, It is not as far fetched as it appears.

In the 1980’s, Ricky Skaggs set the bar early on with an impressive string of #1 hits including the iconic Country Boy, while on the pop charts Bruce Hornsby’s The Way It Is became the most played record of 1987 and sent his debut album multi-platinum.

“Bruce and I met while he was at the top of his game in the pop field and I was at the top of mine in the country field,” recalls Skaggs. “We were on the same bill at a festival in upstate New York and at the end of my show he introduced himself and asked me to sit in for a couple of songs during his set. Fast forward a few years, I find this CD that Bruce had done called Hothouse, and on the cover was a caricature of Bill Monroe and Charlie Parker. I just thought, man, what a funny mind to put together this kind of dream band that you know he would have loved to have played with.”

Skaggs was busily gathering artists at that time to perform on a tribute album to the great father of bluegrass, Bill Monroe.

“Bruce was the first guy to say yes. He showed up in the studio and jumped right in with me and my band and it was effortless. I remember listening to the playback in the control room and I turned to him and said, ‘hey, if you’re ever up for doing a whole record like this, I sure would be as well.’”

That dream reached fruition with the 2007 CD release, Bruce Hornsby & Ricky Skaggs, which led to a subsequent tour.

“A while ago I went back and listened to a number of shows that we had recorded during that time,” Hornsby remembers. “I was so excited by the quality and energy of the performances that I sent some roughs to Ricky, who was equally excited and together we decided to put it out.”

            In August, the duo released Cluck Ol’ Hen, a compilation of twenty-one live cuts from their 2007-2008 tour. Skaggs talks about the process involved in choosing the tunes for the new album.

            “Obviously we wanted the best performances that we could find from the whole band, but we also wanted performances that weren’t on the original studio record.  If you listen to that record it’s really more Hornsbyesque than it is bluegrass. It was our first time in the studio to really put this thing together and we didn’t know exactly what we were going to be doing, but when it got to the live show we started adding more Bill Monroe music, more hard driving bluegrass, so we kind of just made our decisions based on what we felt like would really make good listening.”

Hornsby and Skaggs have taken to the road once again and while the evening set lists may remain more or less intact, the musical arrangements are in a constant state of flux, offering a new and very different experience at every show.

            “We’re having a ball,” Skaggs laughs. “Bruce loves to mix stuff up. Just the other night I was a little out of tune and kind of touching up some strings on the mandolin and it sounded almost like this exotic riff. Well, that’s all it took. We just started jamming on something and made this weird kind of a Middle Eastern -- it actually came out more Middle Eastern Kentucky I guess than anything else -- but we loved it and that’s the thing about playing with Bruce. He loves music, he loves to experiment with music and he’s always pushing the boundaries for himself.”

            Hornsby concurs that as this journey they began so long ago continues to evolve, the respect the two have found in each other as artists follows along the very same path.

            “Ricky is a very open-minded musician, interested in a broad range of music. It was never a challenge collaborating with him. I don't do just one thing, and neither does he, so it's easy to explore a lot of musical areas together.  He also generates some of the best mandolin chops I’ve ever heard.”

            Currently in its second month, the tour has traversed a large expanse of the country with dates being added that will see Skaggs and Hornsby performing together well into 2014.

“We’re taking Bluegrass to places it hasn’t been before," Skaggs says elatedly. "When we’re on stage there is nowhere else that either of us would rather be. The music that we’re making now is music that I honestly believe people will be listening to 50 years from now, and thinking that it was cool enough that they’ll draw some inspiration from it.”

A Long Island Slave to Rock And Roll Homecoming

In an era when fewer musical acts have any degree of staying power, it is nearly inconceivable to imagine Long Island’s incomparable Mazarin returning home this weekend not to reunite, but to continue a journey that began nearly four decades ago while simultaneously celebrating the long awaited release of their first album, Live Forever.

            “The entire recording process took more than two years to complete,” recounted bass player Scott Duryea who produced the record. “In April of 2011, we laid down the first four rhythm tracks and it was a truly magical feeling. Here we were members of this family we always knew we had, but were only now rediscovering.”

The road to Live Forever began in the 1970’s when brothers Doug and Marc Hochlerin followed a dream like so many others before them and decided to form a band. The title of the record can be taken almost literally as Mazarin seems to be doing just that, having far outlived most of their contemporaries that played the same circuit.

“I wanted every song on the album to be different,” explained Doug, who penned eleven of the fifteen cuts and co-wrote the title track. Covering a broad spectrum of different styles including country, calypso, a traditional Irish folk tune and the straight ahead rock and roll sound the Rockers have long been known for, Live Forever profiles the scope and emotion of the songwriter, who in the mid 1990’s suffered a major blow when he was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis.

“He never complained. On nights when he could barely garner the strength, he would get up on that stage and rock the house, treating every show as if it might be the last,” Duryea recalled.

During the 80’s, Mazarin was featured alongside such notables as Twisted Sister and Bon Jovi on three major market FM radio compilation records. They were the only band voted number one by Good Times Magazine for an unprecedented four years running. Legendary producer Roger Nichols (Steely Dan, Crosby Stills & Nash) lent his expertise on a number of Mazarin originals. Recently, their first single, The Only One was cited number one in a Huffington Post article entitled 10 Amazing Pop Songs and Ballads You May Have Missed.

“We touched a lot of lives,” drummer Marc Hochlerin humbly stated. “When you think about how many people supported us in the past and how many are still here today, that means a lot!”

Over the last few years, the band has sold out numerous shows in several venues including New York City’s renowned Supper Club and The Cutting Room, but the debilitating disease began to take hold on its founding member.

            “Doug said to me one night, ‘I have all of these great songs I’ve written that nobody has ever heard and that no one will ever hear.’”

            That sentiment resonated with Duryea. He reached out to fellow bass player and skilled recording engineer Joey Perez of Broken Arrow; another iconic Long Island band.

            “Step by step, Joey painstakingly taught me the recording process. Too many dollars later, I purchased everything I needed to make this happen and then approached Doug. Immediately, he started rattling off the names and histories of these songs he wanted to record.”

            Since its release in June, Live Forever has been in regular rotation on radio stations across Long Island and upstate New York.

            ’This is a band of friends. A band is so much more than just a bunch of musicians standing on a stage playing music,’ Doug once said in a 1983 college radio interview. That fact holds as true today as it did over thirty years ago. The album features far more than just the core of the band. Friends and former members were not enlisted, but rather lined up to appear both on the recording and onstage.

“This is what Mazarin has always been about. The response to the record has been just overwhelming and thanks to the extended Mazarin family, my songs have found a home.”

Mazarin celebrates their Long Island homecoming this Saturday night October 19^th at Mulcahy’s of Wantagh. For further information and directions visit www.muls.com or call 516-783-7500.

I Never Knew Their Names

Store Closing, Everything Must Go, Lost Our Lease. We’ve all seen these garish posters declaring the pronouncement not as a stroke of ill fated luck or unfortunate news, but appearing as more of a party invite.

“Hurry, hurry, come one, come all, get it while you can at unbelievably low prices. Take advantage of our misfortune and help pay back the vendors who selflessly plied us with these goods you see here.”

Businesses come and go everyday, even more so in an economic climate that remains in recovery mode with little sign of showing improvement in the near future. It’s always big news, sensationalism at its best when one of the larger corporations suddenly owns up to its financial nosedive and is forced to cease operations or undertake some type of reorganization to remain in business.

And then there’s the little guy, the small business, the mom and pop shop. In this case I draw attention to the nondescript storefront with the hastily written sign on a piece of green oak tag simply stating, Closing. All groceries 30% off, written not in shame or disgust, but with a true sense of disappointment and sadness.  I’m not sure how long Metropolitan Fruit & Vegetables on Metropolitan Avenue at 69^th Avenue has been around. There was nothing dynamic about the façade that would leave an everlasting memory behind. In fact, it was no different in overall appearance or presentation than so many other produce stores, corner groceries or dare I say it, bodega’s that dot the Queens landscape. This small area in the extreme southwest corner of Forest Hills has grown rapidly in the past years, seeing the addition of superstores including Staples, Home Depot and Sports Authority. Trader Joe’s, while not in the same strata as the aforementioned businesses has undoubtedly become the hottest neighborhood commodity providing food and groceries with a nod to small-town America, albeit in a quasi-generic corporate nature. Living just outside of the largest city in the nation, our frenetic urban lifestyle belies anything that could even be considered as small-town America, yet even within our borough of Queens there still remains a sense of community. Fruit & Vegetables changed direction several years ago depleting their wider array of produce in lieu of providing more sundries and small food items, which filled a hole left behind locally when the Key Food across the street had closed down. While the selection of groceries was not as wide ranging as the nearby Stop and Shop or Trader Joe’s, there was always the convenience of stopping in to pick up last minute or forgotten items without having to deal with the crowds. Sadly, it was the lack of crowds that has spelled the demise of this local convenience store. Sadder still, with the closing of Fruit & Vegetables, we lose yet another piece of our identity probably due to the open arms with which we over zealously welcome the larger more recognizable conglomerates. Frankly, I never knew the name of the business and simply referred to it as the pretty lady store due mostly in part to the…well, pretty lady that worked behind the counter and always delivered service with such a genuine smile. It was more than just the smile though. She watched my son grow up during his youngest years and on days when we would drop in to say hello it was hard to gauge whose smile was wider, hers or his. When she moved on some time ago to pursue other interests, my son was left wondering, what happened to the pretty lady? The owner; a gentle, kind man treated everyone with not just professionalism and customer service, but with a large degree of warmth and familiarity, paying testament to the fact that even if we do live in a fast-paced metropolitan society, there really is a bit of Americana here; a feeling not generated by a corporate office in a fancy skyscraper someplace, but one that comes directly from the heart. He understood the needs of this community and often went far beyond the extra mile. When the Christmas blizzard of 2010 roared in, the store remained open until late that evening and then reopened the following morning much to the relief of this writer who was able to procure toothbrushes and assorted supplies for the small number of unexpected house guests that were trapped here for two days. When Super Storm Sandy forced the early closing of the local superstores last October, the proprietor remained open and accessible to serve his neighbors. On his last day of business, almost like a fairy tale, the pretty lady returned. I received a call in my office late that afternoon.

“Daddy, Guess WHAT? I saw the pretty lady today and she remembered me. She gave me such a big hug,” my son gushed with excitement. After a short pause, almost as an afterthought he added, “I think she was crying a little bit.”

I think we all are, I thought hollowly.

When I returned home a couple of hours later, I witnessed the last minutes of the business in operation, silently cursing the multitude of vultures who swooped in to take advantage of the last minute savings like it was a party.

Groceries were now 50% off.

Ultimately, I could not be too judgmental. It’s still a tough economy. The voice of my son’s excitement still echoed within my head, a 10 year olds proclamation of amazement.

“She remembered me, and she gave me such a hug.”

Of course she did, I thought wistfully. That’s exactly the type of people they were. Scenes like that are far less likely to take place in the big box stores where most of the help begrudgingly works for little better than minimum wage and getting to know the customer is not nearly as important as getting more money and bigger sales. It’s just not a great business model, but then I don’t think the pretty lady and kindly owner considered us as customers. We were more like friends.

Maybe family.

When the crowd thinned out, I stepped inside to say hello once more to the pretty lady and then goodbye. The owner took my hand in a firm handshake and said thank you. I could see the anguished tears welling up in his eyes. I simply nodded and said, “No! I’m the one that should be thanking you.”

“I’ll miss you,” he answered, looking around at the near empty shelves. He wasn’t just talking about me in that sentiment. He was talking about all of us.

I never knew their names.

But will never forget their faces.

 Letter to the Owner:

More than likely you will never see what I have written, but if these pages somehow find their way to you, know that what you leave behind is not an empty storefront, but a legacy. You were everything that we should all be, everything that our children should aspire to be. You have touched the lives of so many in this community and while a lot of us may never know your name, we will never forget your sense of caring and loyalty. On behalf of everyone in this little piece of Forest Hills, our own small town, I wish you health, luck and prosperity.

Say, New York Whadda Ya Say?

Can I come back to the Opry,
Come back to Music Row?
Hang with some ol' buddies,
Write some tunes with some young guns I'm gettin' to know?...
      - Say, Nashville Whadda Ya Say
         Larry Gatlin and the Gatlin Brothers
         from the album Pilgrimage
         (2009)


             “What in the world are a bunch of country singers from West Texas by way of the Grand Ole Opry doing at 54 Below; the posh, hip, new nightclub in New York City?”

   The question posed comes not from the reporter whose job it is to pursue such matters, but rather from veteran singer songwriter, country superstar, Broadway performer and frequent Fox News Channel contributor Larry Gatlin who returns with brothers Steve and Rudy this Saturday for a rare Manhattan appearance.

“My friend Jamie DeRoy is well known in the Broadway and cabaret circles. I’ve been a part of several of her shows and did one a few weeks ago.  Well, you wouldn’t think that these very sophisticated New York patrons of the old nightclub, cabaret scene, would take to Larry Gatlin, but I walked up there, sat down on the stool, sang ‘em a couple of songs and they loved it.  I figured, ‘Good, why don’t we try it again with the brothers?’”

Larry Gatlin and the Gatlin Brothers were a driving force in country music playing sold out shows in major venues across the country and spawning more than a dozen top 40 hits through the 70’s and 80’s. In the early 1990’s when country music inexplicably became an overnight worldwide phenomenon, the trio nobly gave up their share of the spotlight to make room for the sudden influx of rising young talent. Following the culmination of their Adios tour in 1992, the singer songwriter found himself once again center stage on an altogether different stage playing the lead in the hit Broadway musical, The Will Rogers Follies. While the play may not have made the record books for its production run, the singer may yet set a record of his own (if statistics are kept for such things). You see, the idea of retirement did not seem as comfortable as it should have been which ultimately resulted in The Gatlin Brothers Never-Ending Reunion World Tour. In 2009 the band released Pilgrimage; their first CD of brand new studio recordings in nearly two decades, but radio airplay remained elusive as stations chose to stick close to the more non-traditional mainstream sound of today’s country, something the songwriter cited on the album’s first single.

“The song Johnny Cash is Dead and His House Burned Down is of course a tribute to the late great Johnny Cash, but it’s also about the changing of the guard a little bit. ‘I got nothin’ against the young country stars, I could use more fiddle or steel guitars,’ it says. That’s just a metaphor to tell the new generation, let’s not forget where we came from and upon whose shoulders we stand.”

Currently Gatlin resides in Nashville again where he is spending some time writing and mentoring new talent, giving back in much the same way that legendary superstars like Dottie West and Johnny Cash had done for him when he first started out.

‘He’s everything a singer, everything a writer, everything a picker ought to want to be,’ Cash stated in the liner notes of Larry Gatlin’s 1974 debut release, The Pilgrim. Larry Gatlin may not go down in history with the same reverence as The Man In Black, but there is no denying his integral role in country music history.

“When the brothers and I started out, we did it the way the Gatlin Brothers felt it. We wanted to be true to our calling and true to our fans.  I told people back then, ‘I might not be the greatest songwriter in the world but I’m the greatest songwriter in the world to write songs for me and my brothers to sing’ and I still believe that.”

If I come home to my home away from home ,
Will there be any open arms for me?...
Can I come home to good ol' Music City, USA...
Say, Nashville Whadda Ya Say?
      - Larry Gatlin
           (2009)

HOW CAN I SLOW DOWN?

1.

Long Island

Autumn 1989

          “Slow down!”
          Her harried request had gone quickly ignored. Slowing down was the last thing on the mind of this particular driver who had Taken to the Highway at a now excessive rate of speed in an effort to catch up to a tour bus in a simulated chase scene resembling something straight out of Smokey and the Bandit.
“You don’t even know if it’s their bus,” she continued desperately.
Mine was not to reason with a white knuckled, soon to be ex-girlfriend in the passenger seat, but let’s face it. How many other tour buses bearing the mural of a runaway stagecoach could possibly be traveling this same stretch of highway headed in the direction of a venue slated to host a Marshall Tucker Band concert later that same evening? I put the pedal to the metal and tailed the bus to a motel parking lot. Listening to the dull rumble of its engine now idling only a few feet in front of me, I waited patiently for someone to emerge.
          “They’re probably trying to reach the police on their CB radio right now, I’ll bet. Maybe they think you’re a stalker,” she chastised. “Or some type of crazed fan.”
      I ignored her and watched the bus with an eagle eye. The silence and inactivity were broken after several minutes when a non-descript grey Chevy pulled up alongside. A relatively clean cut individual wearing glasses and dressed in a black polo shirt and jeans stepped out and approached the car.
          “Can I help you?” He offered in an accent that clearly said he was not from around here.
          As I began to relate a rather long winded tale of my very tenuous third party connection with the band in question and my hope to briefly introduce myself to its lead singer, he quickly interrupted.
          “I’m Doug Gray,” he said laughing.
          I was humiliated. How could this average guy, wearing glasses no less be the same one that had helped to propel the Marshall Tucker Band to unimaginable heights for nearly two decades? Why wasn’t he on the bus partying like a rock star? It was an unsettling realization when I quickly came to understand that that part of his life was likely long behind him. Mentally doing the math in my head, I figured he had crested the big 4-0 by now, which could likely account for the glasses as well. In a showing of true southern hospitality right there on Long Island’s North Fork, he quickly waived away any embarrassment with a genial handshake and an invitation to the sound check later that afternoon.

2.

New York City

March 2013

          Sitting in my Midtown office awaiting a phone call from the very same individual who was instrumental in shaping the soundtrack of my life, I thought back to that first awkward meeting almost 25 years in my past and realized that it was not merely an act of kindness on his part, but a philosophy, an attitude that continues today and is a true contributing factor to the longevity and staying power of a band that began its journey in Spartanburg, South Carolina in 1972. Now celebrating their 40^th anniversary, Marshall Tucker founding member Doug Gray admits, “It is truly strange. Being an original member and knowing where we came from… I know the guys; some of whom are no longer on this earth would be extremely happy that all of it is still going on.”

Perhaps the pinnacle of that excitement was recently reached when the band was invited to appear on the stage of Nashville’s historic Grand Ole Opry.

          “There’s actually no words. These people welcomed us with open arms. Here I was walking into a place that Hank Williams Sr. had played and had to beg to get on there!”

          The Opry may seem an odd venue for a band that falls more into the category of classic rock, but it’s tough to pin just one label on their music. The Marshall Tucker Band were forerunners during the great southern rock era of the 1970’s, but unlike many of their counterparts offering up lengthy jams and blistering guitar solos, their music also infused a blend of blues, jazz, country and pop. One of the songs the band is most known for is the monster 1977 hit, Heard It in a Love Song. Gray remembers the tune being in the vault for nearly a year before putting his vocal stamp on it.

          “I had some kind of mental block with that song and came up with every excuse not to do it. There were so many other great songs that Toy Caldwell had written and personally I just did not like this one. I’m an old rhythm and Blues singer and now I’m gonna sing this pop tune?”

Four minutes and one take later a hit record was born; something that the singer still finds bewildering.

          “All of a sudden it was being played all over the country and now I have Toy joking around telling me, ‘well buddy, I guess you’ll be singing that for the rest of your life.’ It’s not a bad song, but for me it just never had the impact of something like Take the Highway or Can’t You See.”

          In 1972 the band entered Macon Georgia’s Capricorn Recording Studio to lay down tracks for their first album and unknowingly made rock and roll history.

          “Toy came up one day and said, ‘write this down for me real quick.’ He used to do that all the time and I would find a piece of paper and scribble on it. He starts singing this song to me, ‘Can’t You See, Can’t You See, what that woman,’ He wanted me to sing the song originally, but that wasn’t my voice. It’s too smooth. His was gruff and it was like he was testifying, almost like the little old man at the gospel church that just all of a sudden belted something out that shook the world.”

          Not far from the truth, Can’t You See became iconic and has been covered countless times by artists including Waylon Jennings, Alabama, The Zac Brown Band and Kid Rock. The song has made its mark in multiple films and was recently penned the number one Southern Rock tune of all-time by Ultimate Classic Rock magazine; an honor that Gray is respectfully grateful for.

          “It was wonderful to have that happen, but I still find it hard to believe. I mean look at Lynyrd Skynyrd,” he says laughing. “They got all the songs, all the hits.”

          For More than four decades now, Doug Gray has been blessed with the opportunity to continue a dream that began with him and five boyhood friends, and while he makes it a point at each and every performance to publicly thank fans for that honor, his gratitude runs far deeper. Recently the band mounted a major relief effort to aid many of the victims of Super Storm Sandy. Collecting clothing, supplies and more than 1500 blankets, several trucks were dispatched to our area from their Spartanburg, South Carolina home.

          “You know the Northeast has given us so much right from the very beginning. Had this been the original band we would have done exactly the same thing. I mean think about it. How many times in our lives are we ever gonna be able to appreciate and give something back?”

          Today the Marshall Tucker Band tours relentlessly, playing to standing ovations and sold-out shows not just around the country, but in many places around the world. On several occasions they have journeyed to Iraq to show their support and play for the troops. Things seem to be coming back around full circle for Gray and fans as well. In 1976 the original members toured Europe for the first time. Several shows were recorded and plans had been set in motion to release a live album shortly afterwards. Their contract with Capricorn Records was due to expire however, causing a 27 year delay in seeing those tracks released. Stompin’ Room Only finally saw the light of day in 2003, allowing fans of yesterday and today a true glimpse into the peak of their career. This month the current incarnation will travel to Switzerland to play the International Country Music Festival in Zurich where tape will roll yet again.

“It was always about the music, always about the songs and always about the fans. Right now things are really meshing again and I’ve got some of the greatest musicians in the world in this band. Our personality as a group continues to touch people now as it did when we first started out. Every night I go out there and know the audience still feels the music as much as I do because they’ve shared so much with us. What a tribute that is to the writing and career that we put together.”         

With no thought of slowing down the band continues to work on new music as well, which will undoubtedly be released somewhere down the road. Marshall Tucker returns here in March playing shows in the tri-state area, Pennsylvania and Maryland with plans to double back in the summer sharing the stage with good friends the Charlie Daniels Band.

“And how can I slow down,

When I can’t stop running…”

How Can I Slow Down

From the album Where We All Belong

(1974)

"Morty" The Good Guy

I've always been a victim of something I have come to diagnose as the "Guardian Angel Syndrome." Maybe I was in the wrong place (work) at the wrong time when I picked up the phone and suddenly found myself a week later helping a person I had never met get a DVD produced in time for a 5th Grade graduation celebration. Admittedly, I am taken with the opening number, a tune performed by the graduating class and written by someone I know nothing about (and ultimately have never met either), Reading through some earlier posts on this site, you will find other examples of my good natured will. It's something I am proud of and hope will rub off on my 9 year old son (the then 2 year old pictured above). I don't pat myself enough on the back these days, but I will undoubtedly sleep better for awhile knowing that I have done my part to help someone else.

 - - Morty
     June 2012

Spreading Love, Sunshine and Good Vibrations to a Whole New Generation

 Using “God” in the title of the first studio release by the Beach Boys in over two decades does not make it “God Only Knows,” yet one can almost Smile at the subliminal implication, be it intentional or not. It’s hard not to imagine the worst after surviving band members Brian Wilson, Mike Love, Al Jardine, Bruce Johnston and Dave Marks decide to reunite and record new material just in time (all right maybe a wee bit late) to celebrate their 50^th anniversary. The result however, is a surprisingly credible continuation of days long thought, long gone.

That’s Why God Made the Radio marks The Beach Boys 29^th full length studio recording. From the opening vocals of Think About the Days, there is no question that Brian Wilson is seated comfortably in the Driver’s seat. Beautifully melancholy, this 90 second introduction showcases the band’s relatively unhindered vocal prowess accompanied only by piano. Unfortunately, the title track and alleged radio single immediately follows. Still impressive in the vocal department, That’s Why God Made the Radio is comically cliché. Recalling the days of “tuning in the latest star from the dashboard of my car,” it unjustly feels as if America’s Band have become little more than a sad caricature of what once was.

“The good times never have to end, and now’s the time to let them happen again”, Mike Love sings on Isn’t it Time, a bouncy tune that would have fit seamlessly on an 80’s era Beach Boys release. It’s clearly evident that the lead singer’s agenda in pursuing surf, sun and Fun, Fun, Fun remains hopelessly intact, especially on Spring Vacation. Mr. Love is in great voice here, co-writing a tongue in cheek cut that laudably pokes fun at just how we got here:

           “Some said it wouldn’t last.

All we can say is we’re havin’ a blast…

Easy money, ain’t life funny

Hey, what’s it to ya?”

The cut itself is non-offensive with its laid back adult contemporary feel, but by this point in an album that spans only 39 minutes, the hoped for magic is beginning to wane, taking on more of a tribute band feel. The Private Life of Bill and Sue is simply as ridiculous as its title implies. This one likely remained in the can during Brian Wilson’s Imagination sessions in the mid 90’s when reality television was still a hot commodity. Pseudo Margaritaville fodder, it’s nothing more than reality show Kokomo.

Shelter is another unremarkable middle of the road ballad likely culled from the very same sessions, as co-writing credit goes to Imagination producer Joe Thomas, who collaborated on 11 of the 12 new tunes.

Just about the time you’re getting ready to consider throwing in the towel, something wonderful transpires. Mike Love’s Daybreak Over the Ocean is simply stunning. Originally considered for his unreleased 2^nd solo album in 2005, this track captures the true essence of the original Beach Boys sound so perfectly that it could conceivably have found a home on 1965’s Today.  A perfect complement, the Wilson/Love (and Thomas) penned Beaches in Mind is a solid modern day summertime anthem.

             “Southbay surfin’ again.

Haven’t been this way in I don’t know when

If I have my say, we’ll be back again

Where the good times never end”

How this cut was not chosen to be the single, especially considering the time of year at which this disc was released will forever remain a mystery.

            The album takes a decidedly more poignant turn with Strange World, as Wilson’s more reflective side takes over. It’s a drastic change, similar to the monumental leap taken decades earlier from 1965’s Summer Days (and Summer Nights!!) to the revered Pet Sounds in ’66. Strange World even comes complete with a bicycle bell, quite possibly a second subliminal implication to another introspective tune from that long ago classic LP.

            From There to Back Again is unquestionably, the finest moment here and begins a suite of three songs that brings the album to its foregone conclusion. “Sunlight’s fading and there’s not much left to say,” Wilson mournfully laments on Pacific Coast Highway, a cut that begins with an A cappella intro almost eerily similar to Our Prayer from the legendary Smile sessions, a feeling that carries on to Radio’s swan song, Summer’s Gone. Beginning with the lonely tinkling of wind chimes and a haunting piano that subliminally (hmm) echoes the renowned riff of Wilson’s old nemesis, Heroes and Villains, there is no question that the final message here signifies far more than its title implies.

             “Summer’s gone.

I’m gonna sit and watch the waves.

We laugh, we cry

We live then die

And dream about our yesterday."

            Brian Wilson has finally found closure here. Whether the band follows his lead or decides to continue further is anybody’s guess. Ultimately, the Beach Boys have delivered with minimal disappointment. Should this prove the final bow, they have departed on an admirable note, leaving in their wake nothing less than Good Vibrations.

.         

Bluey's Gone

Winding along a cobblestone street past old world Tudor style homes, I breathed deep the aromatic scent of freshly burning wood wafting from the chimneys above. I could almost envision Chestnuts roasting on those open, albeit controlled fires within. The holidays nearly upon
us, I hoped for just a dusting of the white stuff to complete this tranquil
picture postcard that danced like visions of sugar plums in my adult head,
which admittedly would not know a sugar plum from the inexplicably revered roasted chestnut.
Deep within the confines of my trouser pocket, the not unpleasant vibration from my cell phone interrupted my blissful state. I contemplated ignoring it with the hope of returning to the traditional Christmas scene unfolding within my overactive imagination, but alas duty called in the guise of my wife. Before I could utter a witty
salutation, two words shattered the peaceful night with the violence of an unexpected thunderclap.
“Bluey’s gone!”
With his exaggerated long nose and a limp tail that never wagged, Bluey had wandered into our lives nearly a year prior during an afternoon shopping excursion. While my significant other merrily scooped up bargains within our tax bracket, I had been left with the task of silencing the incessant sobbing coming from our grumpy bundle of joy. With a frenzied finesse that only an exasperated father can accomplish, I seized a furry blue pup from its comfortable home in a holiday themed display unit and thrust it into the arms of my wailing toddler. He briefly looked up at me in wonder and then instinctually cooed softly to the newly acquired canine. Like Snoopy and Woodstock, or Linus and his iconic security blanket, the two had become inseparable.
Until now.
“All right, calm down,” I said, taking on the
calm demeanor of a 911 dispatcher. “Does he know that Bluey’s missing yet?”
“No.”
“Let’s retrace your steps.”
“We dropped by my mom’s first, then
stopped at Sears before…”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I abruptly interrupted. “Why did you go to Sears?”
“What difference does that make?” she snapped.
I smiled sadistically, knowing full well that she could barely navigate a major
thoroughfare without making an impromptu shopping pit stop.
“Did he have Bluey with him when you went inside?”
“I don’t know, I don’t remember. I think so.”
“He definitely had him when he left your mom’s?”
“I don’t know,” she yelled.
With uncanny timing, call waiting signaled the intention of my mother-in-law to get her two cents in.
“Hello?”
“Bluey’s gone.”
While she droned on, reporting every minute detail of the search they had conducted, my mind wandered, imagining a rigorous Find Bluey campaign that would begin with the liberal plastering of leaflets on telephone poles and the windows of local businesses. How long, I wondered before I could contact the authorities and report the disappearance of our beloved four legged friend? Which civil group should I reach out to first? The Fire Department maintained a sterling reputation for rescuing wayward felines from mighty oaks; yet, the Police Department could quickly canvass the area once I filed the missing blue animal report. Thankfully, call waiting chimed again interrupting the ongoing in-law status report; something that should have been wrapped up in only a sentence or two.
“He ain’t there,” I reported, sullenly accepting the fact that there would be no happy ending in our immediate future while simultaneously questioning our qualifications as responsible parents (my initial non-involvement in this fiasco notwithstanding).
What followed was a near death defying race to the scene of the crime. She drove with reckless abandon. Laws were broken, fists raised in anger, gestures a woman should never be privy to. I’m a white knuckled passenger when the wife commandeers the vehicle, but this was no longer a spouse behind the wheel. This was a frantic mom on a mission.
I was proud.
I was scared.
I yelled.
A LOT!
Junior laughed.
I’m not a child psychologist, nor do I play one in print, but this kid was having the time of his life. His head whipped violently from side to side as we ascended the winding ramp of the parking garage. I rooted through the glove compartment for Dramamine, while simultaneously scanning the asphalt for any sign of furry blue road pizza. Trying to get my sea legs back, I walked unsteadily towards the store entrance, lagging far behind wife with child in stroller who had taken off running at high speed, the little man’s squeals of delight echoing through the eerily quiet cavern.
“We lost a little dog,” she hurriedly informed an uninterested security guard. “He’s blue and has a really long nose and a tail. Has anyone turned in a blue dog?”
“He’s not real,” I offered with a shrug of the shoulders.
We entered the selling floor through the electronics department where I momentarily lost sight of the purpose of our late night expedition. In Women’s, my betrothed had dropped to floor level, slinking beneath a maze of hanging fabric, looking not unlike the Grinch on his famous Christmas Eve foray. Above, the tinkling of electronically enhanced sleigh bells beamed from the ceiling
speakers, signifying the opening of Sleigh Ride, one of the most annoying holiday tunes ever recorded. Without warning she shot up out of nowhere, howling with joy and likely scaring the crap out of nearby consumers.
“I found him,” she squealed!
“It’s a Christmas miracle,” I cheered.
“Look, it’s Bluey,” she gushed, happily handing over the little critter that had looked no worse for the wear.
“Yay, Bluey,” he answered in childlike bemusement.
We marched proudly past the still nonplussed security guard on our way back out.
“Thank you for believing,” I said theatrically and then turned to address the weary, confused looking shoppers.
“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”

"I'm Over here Now"

At first the words would not come at all, just a half-hearted sentiment left on a Facebook page that would soon see more hits in a matter of hours than most people see in a week.

Or more!

We live in a time where the term friends is tossed around so loosely that the very word has lost its true meaning. The sheer number of friends has become almost like a status symbol, yet who am I to hypocritically preach about it? Currently, I boast a total of 349 friends, though not out loud. No one truly has in excess of three hundred plus friends, or a thousand, or several thousand.
Louie Appel had 1,690 when he left us on the evening of October 17th.

We were left speechless, physically and emotionally deflated.

Defeated.

Louie was a super hero with the obnoxious power to make people laugh...whether they wanted to or not.

All we can ask is, why when the world needs more super heroes, we are left with one less?

He was my hero, something I hadn't realized until his untimely passing.

He was loud, he was brash, he was vulgar at times.

All right, he was vulgar pretty much 99% of the time.

He was big.

For obvious reasons, he was the center of attention in every room he entered, but he stood taller than most and not just because of his size. He touched the lives of so many others, most likely without ever knowing it.

The world knows it now.

In a matter of hours, his Facebook page came alive, the outpouring of grief and sentiment reaching from far and wide.

He had a Rolodex as big as his heart and when the recipient on the other end of the phone would pick up, laughter would ensue.

I know.

I had witnessed it many times, often as he shirked the responsibilities of the workplace. I had the pleasure of working twice as hard alongside him, while his laughter reverberated loud enough to speed up the erosion of the walls where so much plaster had already chipped away on its own. Whoever he was speaking to would probably complain of a ringing in that ear for several hours, maybe days afterward. I'm convinced that I will forever experience some degree of hearing loss, most likely in both ears for the very same reason.

And I'm okay with that.

We always had music playing in that office. Going back in my collection to the mid-80's (something I continually do today), I chose a tape one afternoon of a Long Island band I'd had the pleasure of interviewing during my beloved college radio years.

"Who is this?" Louie asked with a keen ear tilted towards the speakers.

"This band that was on the second WBAB album back in '84. The Young Breed."

With the speed of a gunslinger in the wild west, he reached for his trusty black book, small enough to fit in his back pocket, but somehow with an infinite amount of pages contained within.

"Hey buddy, ya listenin' to this?" he addressed the answering machine of Jim Laird, the one time lead singer of The Young Breed and someone I hadn't seen nor heard from in at least a decade. I looked at him in awe, proudly holding the phone in front of the speaker and wondered silently, is there anyone you don't know?!

Louie gave me a second chance at a reckless youth I had longed to recapture, if only for a moment.

"I'm playing with John Eddie now," he told me in 1994.

"The Jungle Boy guy?" I asked incredulously, referring to a 1986 regional radio hit I had never much cared for.

"The band's great. You gotta come to a gig."

Most of the gigs were way down in South Jersey. In my corporate trappings at that time, I had left the bygone days of traveling to club gigs afar long behind. With reckless abandon however, I experienced a brief taste of life on the Rock and Roll road in the back of a maroon colored, beat up van driven by someone called "Ohmboy."

Peeling out of a Tom's River parking lot at the end of a late night, the three of us screaming "Bang, bang, just like that y'all," I could just make out the face of the former CBS recording artist in the wake of dust and debris left behind likely wondering if he might ever see us again.

The following afternoon, this wayward band of not so road weary travelers arrived in the City of Brotherly Love, far too early for a 10PM show-time. At 3PM we stepped out of the elevator and into the management office of Middle East where we were met with a combined look of fear and confusion from its proprietors; two brothers who I will say in the interest of political correctness were not from around here.
"Who are you guys?"

This, directed at me in a heavily accented voice tinged with angst.
I swear if it wasn't for my clean cut looks and harmless demeanor, one of them would have pulled a gun from the desk.

Instantly springing to action, my hero donned a Fez from a nearby shelf and without missing a beat disarmed the tense situation with a quote from my favorite rock and roll movie of all time.

"Tell 'em Jonetti and the Cruisers are here."

I laughed out loud.

The brothers remained silent.

I told you they weren't from around here.

Philadelphia was like a homecoming of sorts for John Eddie who apparently had spent a lot of time there in his youthful past. Louie felt eminently at home there as well, choosing to play the last set that evening in his underwear.

Then, Louie was comfortable anywhere.

In my mind, his greatest accomplishment was continually breathing life, if not restoring said life to a band that had literally given musical voice to all that is "Morty."

By the mid 1980's. Mazarin had become a local mainstay, poised on the verge of possibly becoming the next Long Island musical success story. When drummer Marc Mazarin chose that inopportune moment to depart for a honeymoon, Louie was called in. Slipping seamlessly into the driver's seat, the band had not missed a beat that summer. Unfortunately, I have no recollection of actually meeting him in those earliest days. Thankfully, I am blessed and lucky enough to vividly recall the last time we saw each other which seems like it was only yesterday. In reality, July really was just yesterday. Twenty-six years following his debut as an official Mazarin drummer, he had slipped right back where he was most comfortable.

I would be remiss in not slipping a small Debbie Gibson tale in here. For most who have known the big guy, it is no mystery that his first taste of success and super-stardom was as the drummer behind the teen pop sensation, something he had been continually reminded about in jest from far too many of his contemporaries. Following a long day in the corporate world, the two of us had ventured out to dinner one night on the company's dime.

"There's a diner around the corner," I suggested as we exited the stuffy confines of then financial powerhouse Paine Webber.

"F**k that," he answered. If it's on the company we're going to the Harley Davidson."

No better than the many tourists who surrounded us, we headed across the street to the overpriced New York City location of the Harley Davidson Cafe. Following an interminable wait before being seated, Louie slipped effortlessly into let's make the waitress uncomfortable mode. Embarrassed, dumbfounded, but used to it, I finally opened my mouth after several minutes of his good natured abuse and told her:

"Don't worry, he's harmless. He's the Debbie Gibson guy."

I don't know if her confusion stemmed from the fact that I had made little sense, or that she was most likely too young to remember who Debbie Gibson was.

"Go ahead," I instructed Louie. "Do that thing from the video."

That thing had been nothing more than ducking party streamers at a mock birthday celebration in the music video for the 80's hit, Out of the Blue.

Right on cue, Louie got real serious for a second.

We're talking dramatic actor serious.

With a few deep breaths for effect and an ounce or two of concentration, he perfectly recreated his award-winning moment with exuberance.

Our waitress was unmoved, unfazed, uninterested.

Or simply confused.

Had the crew who had shot and edited that video over a decade earlier been on hand, I'm convinced they would have used this take instead.

I envied his bravado, his lack of self-consciousness and his ability to make sure that wherever he went, people would be left with a lifelong impression. In recent years I was proud and honored to jokingly introduce him as my lil' brother. Let's face it. He was nobody's little anything.

He was my friend.

We weren't as close friends as so many others who are shedding tears of their own at this moment, but always stayed in touch over the last several decades, sometimes intermittenly as it had been recently, or with the occasional degree of regularity. Whether it had been months, or just a matter of days, whenever we spoke or got together, laughter was always paramount. I don't need to outline the number of incredible people he has worked with throughout his career, to illustrate just how big he was. He played and walked amongst some of the greatest because he was one himself. He wasn't a revered figurehead like the Pope, or the President, or The Boss.

He was simply Louie.

And people loved him.

One close friend started a Louie Appel Facebook fan page.

Just because he was Louie.

On a Facebook page overflowing with grief and sentiments one friend wrote simply: "I'm not crying for you. I'm crying for me."

When Louie passed in his sleep alone in a Las Vegas hotel room while on tour with John Eddie, one close friend vowed that he would not fly home alone.

Mikey Bones purchased a plane ticket and accompanied the big guy across the country.

Lou Appel left this earth with 1,690 friends.

Most likely a lot more than that.

And I am thoroughly convinced he loved each and every one of us.

All he ever wanted to with his life was play the drums and he accomplished that. He followed that dream, held on to it and never let go.

I envied that courage above all else.

He was my hero.

He left us with tears, he left us with smiles, he left us with anger in our hearts.

Anger because he should still be here.

Oddly, in Citizen Kane fashion, he left us with a cryptic Rosebud message displayed on his Facebook cover page.

"I'm over here now."

If Louie were with us right now, he would kick our collective asses for shedding all these tears.

Lil' Brother, wherever you are, I know that you are laughing there. If it's a bit too loud for the locals, don't worry about it. They'll get used to it. In the meantime, could you kick it up a notch or two so we can hear it over here?

We can sure use a little laughter on this side right now.

SEE YA!