Mickey DeSadist, 1978

With the release, in practically every format imaginable, of some TOO-long-awaited Forgotten Rebels tribute albums, not to mention an accompanying eBook even, I couldn’t help but cast what remains of my memory back to that good ol’ Summer of Hate, and…

TEN REASONS WHY

I CAN NEVER FORGET THE REBELS

1.  The very first time I ever laid eyes upon The Artist Soon To Be Known As DeSadist, at Simply Saucer’s Hamilton, Ontario band house in very late October 1977, he was meticulously dressed head to foot as an ersatz yet somehow uniquely eclectic Johnny Rotten …and it wasn’t even Halloween yet!

2.  The very first thing Mickey ever shouted at me that night (over the din of Saucer’s four turntables simultaneously spinning a side each of Metal Machine Music) was “If I get a band together, can you give us a gig?” I promised that I would not only do that, but I’d put him within the hallowed pages of my Pig Paper to boot. Yes, in a word, I was intrigued.

3.  Amazingly, within a week (!) Mickey had not only assembled the very first Rebels – and photographed them beating up some bearded hippie in a local alleyway – he duly supplied me as well with enough biographical background (and I quote, “Influences: Sex Pistols, Iggy Pop, James Williamson, Ace Frehley; Ambition: to get my hands on Sally Cato”) to warrant a place of pride right there in Pig Paper # 8. In my own word then I was, yes, impressed.

4.  So, keeping my promise, I invited Mickey, Chriss Suicide, Mister Madness and Les Ripper to warm up the crowd at the very next Simply Saucer soiree I held in the local YWCA. And warm up they certainly did, setting fire to a Canadian flag at the end of their set and causing The Hamilton Downtown Young Men’s Christian Association to sue me for $400 in damages (including $25.00 over harm inflicted upon carrots and lettuces). “I would also like to inform you that at no time in the future your group will be allowed to use the YMCA facilities,” Y manager George [last name still blacked out on paperwork] informed us. Point taken.

5.  Typically and totally undaunted however, Mickey proceeded to canvas the town (meaning not only Saucer House, but the local Tim Hortons doughnut shop as well) for all the ten dollar bills he could cadge, beg, borrow and steal, rented a genuine Radio Shack mixer and some stray microphones, and soon produced the obviously titled Burn The Flag demo-slash-cassette. Upon hearing the abundant raw power therein, I immediately insisted he corral all the Rebels he could and meet me over on the nearby McMaster University campus for the band’s very first radio interview. Well! Mickey was, as always, a wizard; a true star, part J. Rotten, part D. Rickles. The telephone lines lit up, orders for over a dozen Burn The Flag’s poured in, and most impressive yet fortuitous of all? Immensely respected concert promoter Gary Topp asked that The Forgotten Rebels perform as soon as possible …all the way over there in Toronto!

6.  Interestingly, but not that surprisingly, Mickey quickly assumed the focal point for all things Rebel …just as he had all those months ago whilst holding court at Saucer’s. Gary Topp tried to convince me to convince Mickey to start appearing on stage alone, as in solo – sans FLQ guitar even! – as a monologuist. But, rather than become Henry Rollins years before the fact, Mickey then and forever after remained stubbornly and resolutely loyal to his vision, his ideals, and to his beloved Rebels. Why, he wouldn’t even let me produce An Evening with Mickey DeSadist spoken-word album for him …and if that ain’t Hollywood, I’m not sure what is!

7.  Meanwhile, thanks to my run-in with George at the YMCA, not to mention pouring all the money I didn’t have into Simply Saucer’s first record, the Rebels’ “National Unity” b/w “Angry” never did appear as planned on Pig Record # 2. But, most happily, their career on vinyl turned out more than alright …I mean, who else but M. DeSadist could take one listen to the Dutch single “We’re So Glad Elvis Is Dead” by Tits I was distributing and morph it most effortlessly into that more-than-anthemic “Elvis Is Dead”?!

8.  And speaking of iconic socio-musical figures, who else but Mickey could conceive of, and then convince (though I’m sure he knew nothing about it) no less than Prime Minister Pierre Elliott Trudeau – fresh from a run-in with those semi-Rolling Stones – to help promote the Rebels’ inaugural Tomorrow Belongs To Us release? Hopefully you’ve heard the tales; luckier still, you’ve seen the photographic evidence. And the Liberal Party of Canada? Believe me, they’ve never been quite the same since.

9.  May I just mention at this point that it has not always been simply Mickey’s wholly P.T. Barnum M.O. that has impressed me and those all around his show-bizzy circles. The man’s taste in music quite possibly equals even his flair for the hautest in haberdashery. To wit: Who the heck else, at the very height of Never Mind The Bollocks and Road To Ruin, would have the unmitigated cahones to strut around Hamilton with Sensational Alex Harvey Band platters? Come to think of it, I believe Mickey was even the town’s most unapologetic ABBA fan back then too …or maybe that was Steve from Teenage Head…

10.  Suffice to say though, when all is said and sung, The Forgotten Rebels have made it through punk, new wave, no wave, new romantic, neo-rockabilly, (hair-) metal, garage, grunge, and just about every other audio pigeonhole imaginable with their audience, not to mention values, firmly and entirely intact. No small feat indeed in these dear dead days of Green Day, for starters. And I credit that all, as should you, to the one and only Mickey DeSadist, Rebel without pause. And you know what? He did it all without ever giving up his day job!

Long may he burn.

Mickey DeSadist, 2008

http://www.forgottenrebels.com

www.GaryPigGold.com

…even after watching Louise Palanker’s absolutely riveting Family Band documentary

·  Susan Claire Cowsill is the youngest human being ever to score a genuine Billboard Top Ten hit.

·  John Patrick Cowsill, still the youngest male of the original family band, retains fond memories indeed of drumming four sets a night inside Rhode Island bars and wine cellars as a seven-and-a-half-year-old (“I remember the cops coming and shutting it down. We needed to get special permission from the mayor”).

·  A detailed survey of “16” Magazines between January of 1968 and March of 1971 reveals John appeared on the cover the most times – 12, compared with Barry (9), Paul and Susan (tied at 6 apiece) and Bob with only one.

·  Today, John is married to an actual Bangle.

·  It’s true: Cowsills father/manager William “Bud” Cowsill, a former Naval Chief Petty Officer, stymied his brood’s big move to network television back in the day. Yep, The Partridge Family was supposed to be about, and star, The Cowsills …except Bud didn’t want his wife’s Mini-mom’ing role to go to Shirley Jones, as the project’s producers were insisting.

( · perhaps not at all surprisingly then, when the real Mother Partridge took that final colored-bus ride to the hereafter, Susan had a dream she was adopted by Ms. Jones! )

·  Another big break Bud apparently scotched was a Cowsills appearance in none other than Elvis’ The Trouble With Girls movie.

·  They did, however, get to sing the Love, American Style TV theme. But only for one season.

·  And then there was their iconic four-year promotional affiliation with the American Dairy Association:  Milk. The Big Lift that Lasts, remember.

·  On much the other hand, Bill Cowsill was hired to play guitar on Ike Turner’s single of “Right On.”

·  Even so, Bud made, in Bob Cowsill’s words, “his most fatal of fatal errors: he fired Bill. From the group, and subsequently from the family.” And all after a late-night, blackjack and vodka gimlet-fueled confrontation in the Las Vegas Flamingo Hotel. Over marijuana and Waddy Wachtel. Sort of. Well, whatever the cases may have been it was, in Bob’s wise retrospective words, the beginning of the end of the First Family of Music’s Golden Era. “I’m a harsh taskmaster. I wouldn’t want me for a father,” Bud told People magazine in 1990.

·  Probably not coincidentally in the least, on Thursday, August 21, 1975, The Cowsills filed for bankruptcy, claiming a debt of $445,339 and assets of $4,873 (plus $50 in Egyptian pounds found in Bud’s pockets). “I ain’t show business,” Dad later admitted. “With a passion, I hated it. But I made it work. For a time there, we were on top.”

·  As proof, “Little Susie,” the self-confessed “Hayley Mills of the pop-rock music scene,” can still be spotted, all over YouTube and elsewhere, fruggin’ up her usual storm alongside such vintage luminaries as Buddy Ebsen, Dick Clark, Dick Cavett, Mike Douglas, Ed Sullivan, Jonathan Winters (RIP), Johnny Carson, Barbara McNair, Jack Wild (singing the “I’d Do Anything” duet from Oliver!), Dean Martin (singing a Dino duet on “Shine On, Harvest Moon”!), Eddy Arnold, Johnny Cash, Curtis Mayfield, Don Ho, Wayne Newton, Hugh Hefner (and Barbi Benton) and, of course, with her jingle-jangle tambourine mentor-slash-crush Davy Jones.

·  Susan, however, has deftly filled the four-decades-plus since with an ear-bending assortment of accomplishments both vocal (Dwight Twilley, Smithereens, Carlene Carter and of course those Swiss orphans the Psycho Sisters) and instrumental (the Continental Drifters, not to mention playing Lil’ Sis to them Hobart Brothers).

·  She also wrote a song, with Psycho Sis-in-law Vicki Peterson, which was recorded by both Hootie and the Blowfish.

·  which reminds me: John Cowsill can be heard singing and/or keeping the non-digital beat behind such classics as “867-5309” (Tommy Tutone), “You’re My Favorite Waste Of Time” (Marshall Crenshaw), “Surf City” (Legendary Masked Surfers version, that is), Living Room Suite (Harry Chapin), No Frills (Bette Midler), “Trouble” (Bob Dylan) and, right on up to the present, “That’s Why God Made The Radio” by those one and only Beach Boys.

·  P.S.: The Christmastime 1968 Sears “Wish Book” catalog featured a genuine $9.89 Cowsill Drum Set, upon which one could, and I quote, “Play along with your favorite band! Big sound 21-inch diameter bass drum, 9 and 6-inch side drums (all steel frames), two brass-color cymbals (each sounds different). Accessories include drum pedal, woodblock, two cowbells, and one pair of 10-inch sticks. High bursting-strength plastic drum heads secured by metal spring clips. Shipping weight, 10 lbs.”

·  Mattel Toys also included miniature facsimiles of both The Cowsills and We Can Fly albums as part of their Barbie doll house accessories.

·  Interestingly, “Mini-mom” Barbara suffered from acute stage fright throughout her career as an on-stage and in-studio Cowsill. Officer Bud used to “bribe” her with the promise of a new dress for every song she successfully recorded. That, and an appearance on To Tell the Truth.

·  Bob Cowsill had to settle for being Bachelor # 2 on The Dating Game. (Bachelor # 3 won the date with bachelorette Linda though)

·  There was also a Fifth Beatle in the story …or an Eighth Cowsill, that is: Bob’s twin brother Richard. But unlike Pete Best, Richard didn’t even get a chance to perform once with the group. After, in his own words, “a 30-second audition,” Bud announced “You can’t play the drums. I’ve got enough people in the group, and you’re not in it.” Richard ended up in Vietnam instead …and not at a desk job either, as Bud assured his brothers and sister he was.

·  The first record The Cowsills were ever allowed to arrange, produce, and solely perform (after 52 takes) all by themselves – on no less than Carl Reiner’s suggestion, most appropriately (he wanted to see what would happen if they “dropped their family image”) – was also their most successful record ever: a multi-million-selling version of the theme from Broadway’s iconic alt. musical Hair. So, among their many other accomplishments then, The Cowsills must duly be credited for first bringing the hippie ethos into countless pre-teen bedrooms the world over.

·  And another first? The initial release in Harvey Comics’ vaunted Harvey Giant Teen Pop series starred… The Cowsills.

·  Oh yeah: and the first rock ‘n’ roll group to ever perform on NBC Television’s Today show? The Cowsills.

·  The band’s very first release “All I Really Wanta Be Is Me,” on none other than Johnny Nash’s JODA Records label, roundly crushed Simon and Garfunkel’s “Sounds Of Silence” in a Battle of the New Record on WPRO Radio Newport back in the fall of ‘65.

·  More impressive still, “The Rain, The Park and Other Things” bumped The Who’s “I Can See For Miles” off the tip-top of Toronto’s mighty 1050 CHUM-AM’s Chart two years later.

·  And speaking of Keith Moon’s old band, another well-known UK pop/rock combo, Vanity Fare (“Hitchin’ a Ride,” anyone?) brazenly titled their debut album The Sun, The Wind and Other Things …but maybe that was because it contained their version of The Sunray’s “I Live For The Sun,” not to mention Ian & Sylvia’s “Four Strong Winds.” Maybe.

·  Michael Jackson once made a characteristically top-secret, very-late-night trip to a Haight Ashbury record store – “He smelled kind of like a Catholic priest” in the words of one employee – in search of records by “the band that does his favorite song”: The Cowsills.

·  “Indian Lake” is one of Brian Wilson’s all-time favorite songs …next to “Be My Baby,” of course.

( · P.S.: The Ramones were particularly partial to “Gray Sunny Day” as well. “We didn’t find that out until we did Howard Stern’s TV show in 1990,” reports Bob. “And the Ramones were pulling up in their limo and “Gray Sunny Day” was playing in it. They thought the vocal arrangement on that in particular was great. That was a big deal to us.” )   

·  Whilst taking a break from being one of Paul Revere’s Raiders, Freddy Weller took his version of “Indian Lake” all the way up to # 3 on the Hot Country best-sellers lists in 1971.

·  At the same time, Bill was actually asked to join the Beach Boys. “Oh, Billy, don’t do it!” the head Boy warned. “It’ll drive you crazy. It’ll get you nuts.” Billy took Brian’s advice.

·  However, John Cowsill has spent the 21st Century as none other than a bona-fide Beach Boy …of the Love/Johnston touring revue variety, that is. Fellow faux Boy Christian Love – yes, a son of Mike – is repeatedly on record as claiming John is, in fact, “the funniest Beach Boy.”

·  All those years ago though, both John and Paul Cowsill were part of the road crew for Three Dog Night. Paul later went on to work in a similar capacity for Helen Reddy, Mac Davis, Neil Diamond and John Denver.

·  The Cowsills’ 1968 hit “We Can Fly” has since been adapted by Muzak™ for elevator use within some of the world’s trendiest office high-rises.

·  Fact: Probably the coolest double-bill ever was The Cowsills opening for – ready? – the Mothers of Invention in Barbados (“That was wild. My mom wouldn’t let me watch them” – John).

·  Conversely, The Cowsills spent an entire week during the Summer of ’69 playing the Steel Pier in Atlantic City with Duke Ellington.

·  In the extremely early Seventies, Bill took what remained of his Cowsills earnings and bought a bar in Austin constructed from a converted railway station.

·  Bill later ended up in O Canada, where he formed the magnificent Blue Shadows band. “Hank Williams goes to the Cavern Club” is how they were described at the time, and their 1993 debut album, On the Floor of Heaven, is newly available once again. You should listen to this band immediately, and often.

·  Billy Cowsill’s last commercially-released recording during his lifetime was he and Randell Kirsch’s “It Hurts To Be In Love,” my personal favorite on a little tribute project I put together called He’s A Rebel: The Gene Pitney Story Retold (…and John plays drums, by the way).

·  Producer Chuck Plotkin, for some unfathomable reason, abandoned the Cowsills’ legendary 1978 Cocaine Drain album sessions and went to work for Bruce Springsteen instead …speaking of darkness on the edge.

·  Marc Nathan, A&R at Atlantic Records, got fired in 1991 for trying to sign The Cowsills.

·  The record he tried in vain to issue was The Cowsills’ utterly INCREDIBLE Global album.

·  The Burrito Bar on Staten Island, NY features to this day a specialty 12-inch beef-in-red-sauce burrito called “By The Cowsills.” It’s right there on the menu between the “For The Byrds” chicken in red sauce and the “Light My Fire” grilled steak.

·  On April 28th, 2013, The Cowsills were inducted into The Rhode Island Music Hall Of Fame. “The fact that we are being inducted into RIMHOF and not the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is more special to us. There is a little bit more meaning to us because we are Rhode Islanders, to be recognized by our own. It is very cool to go to Pawtucket rather than Cleveland!”  (Bob Cowsill)

·  “It is with deep sadness that we report that the search for Barry has ended. No longer is Barry missing. His body was found under a wharf in New Orleans in late December 2005 and identified via dental records on January 4th, 2006. The coroner has determined the cause of death to be drowning in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. Barry is survived by his siblings, two daughters, one son and two grandsons as well as a step-daughter and two step-granddaughters.”  (Cowsill family statement)

·  “It’s never been about stardom; about making millions. I’ve done that and it made me miserable, man. For me it’s just about getting the harmonies right; it’s about getting the sound down. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. It’s about the music; that’s all there is. I’d rather die a pauper having put a sweet tune on people’s lips than have the world in the bank.”  
(William Joseph “Billy” Cowsill, Jr.  January 9, 1948 – February 18, 2006)

Much information and assistance in the compiling of this material is due to Becky Presley and her remarkable http://bapresley.com/silverthreads site.

“Family Band: The Cowsills Story” should be considered Mandatory Required Viewing as well. Here’s where to go:  http://cowsills.thinkingbee.tv

www.GaryPigGold.com

“Yeah, right,” I can hear some of you foreigners already sneering right about now: “What the hell good ever come out of Canada?!!”

Well, besides the (very early) Guess Who, SCTV, and of course Young Neil, for seventy-seven years there roamed across the Great Wide Northlands a man, a myth – dare I say, a LEGEND who cast a long, black, yet somehow barely perceptible shadow over every guitar lasher who means a half hoot on either side of the dreaded U.S. / Canada border. A man who possessed a wicked tongue, beaver-sharp mind, commanding left leg and, above all, a wit and wisdom before which few others dare even stand, let alone deserve to approach.

That man, that myth, and/or that legend was, and forever shall be…

Stompin’ Tom Connors.

WHO?

OK, look: He wrote over three hundred songs, his thirty-four original (Canadian) albums sold over three million copies, and his autobiographies soared high up the (Canadian) best sellers lists. He was the subject of at least one Masters thesis, was awarded an honorary Doctorate of Laws degree, received a citation from Queen Elizabeth II as well as the prestigious Order of Canada …why, he even got married live on (Canadian) national television! But yes, chances are many of you most likely have never heard of, much less even heard, Stompin’ Tom Connors. Probably because all of the above achievements took place north of the 49th Parallel and because Stompin’ Tom Connors was an entertainer who never once performed outside of Canada – and never had a single record released outside of Canada – throughout his tempestuous fifty-some-odd-year career.

Most ironically though that fervent, heartfelt nationalism seldom helped Connors’ own career in his Home and Native Land one iota it seems, as he rarely placed a solitary song upon a Canadian country music chart (“They told me in 1964 I didn’t fit the format. They told me that in 1974. In 1984, they told me that again,” Tom once tried to explain. “I guess the format hasn’t changed that much”). That Stompin’ Tom not only survived, but actually thrived under such adverse conditions is a testament not only to the man’s rig-load of talent, but his self-described, never-fail “to-it-and-at-it-iveness.”

Born unto an unwed teen, raised in an orphanage, he began conjuring songs at eleven and spent his Wonder years on the run – and on the high seas (illegally working as an under-age merchant seaman). Once back on dry land, he indulged his Woody Guthrie fantasies and hitch-hiked the length and breadth of Canada, guitar in hand, til in 1964 he surfaced at the mangy old Maple Leaf Hotel in Timmins, Ontario …a nickel short of a forty-cent beer. Agreeing to sing for his alleged supper, Connors ended up on stage at the Maple Leaf for the next fourteen months straight (where a bartender nicknamed him “Stompin’ Tom” after his habit of keeping time pounding one gigantic booted leg against the nearest floor).

He cut his first self-manufactured single the following year, signed to the tiny Dominion label in 1969, formed his own label, Boot, two years after that, starred in a cool low-budget movie and television series, and duly won a heap of Juno (Canadian Grammy) awards …every one of which he eventually, defiantly returned in protest of those damned, ingrateful, good-for-nothin’ “border jumpers.” As in Canadian talent who forsake their homeland in favor of high-falutin’ American record deals and low-price Yankee BBQ. You see, Tom absolutely despised all those Canuckleheads routinely heading south with their songs and their stompin’ boards:  In fact, during the late Seventies he actually went on “strike” against the Canadian recording industry for not only allowing, but actually encouraging such unpatriotic practices, and so ornery was Tom over this sticky matter that his planned one-year “retirement” ended up lasting TEN.

Nevertheless, between ’68 and ’73 the man released six albums which are still rightly considered the Holy Grail of Canadian Country: On Tragedy Trail, Bud The Spud, Stompin’ Tom Meets Big Joe Mufferaw, My Stompin’ Grounds, Stompin’ Tom And The Hockey Song and the landmark To It And At It. Rich in character studies as vivid as those of Hank Williams’, but etched as always with Connors’ staunch sense of Canadiana, the classic tone poems which fill these records stand today as nothing less than national totems, part of the Canadian cultural lexicon …yet still perversely receive precious little airplay outside of underscoring altercations during NHL broadcasts.

At long last, Tom finally ended his border-jump-protesting exile in 1988 (singing a tribute to his most high-profile progeny, “Lady k.d. lang,” by way of reintroduction), and to the bittersweet end continued touring and recording proud and unbowed, remaining fiercely, stubbornly loyal to his beliefs and ideals …and still without ever stooping to sign a single record contract south of the border. No sir. All one had to do was give him a case or twelve of room temperature Moosehead, a stage to throw his trusty stompin’ board onto, and ideally enough room to play an after-show round of full-contact lawn croquet with his bandmates and Tom was yours.

But then, on March 6, 2013, as it must to all men, death came to Charles Thomas Connors. He will, to say the very least, never be replaced.

His own final words, as always, said it all:

I want all my fans, past, present, or future, to know that without you, there would have not been any Stompin’ Tom.

It was a long hard bumpy road, but this great country kept me inspired with its beauty, character, and spirit, driving me to keep marching on and devoted to sing about its people and places that make Canada the greatest country in the world.

I must now pass the torch, to all of you, to help keep the Maple Leaf flying high, and be the patriot Canada needs now and in the future.

I humbly thank you all, one last time, for allowing me in your homes. I hope I continue to bring a little bit of cheer into your lives from the work I have done.

Sincerely,

Your Friend always,

Stompin’ Tom Connors

www.StompinTom.com

www.GaryPigGold.com

I first became aware of the man in 1970, as composer of what to this very day remains my absolute favorite Three Dog Night tune, “Out In The Country.”

Then, in the years to follow, that same man would somehow become downright ubiquitous upon the 25 living-color inches of the family RCA XL-100. On variety and game shows galore, on The Tonight Show of course (forty-eight times!), even trying to murder Police Woman Angie Dickinson. All as some form of mutant, leisure-suited hybrid of David Cassidy and adorable Cousin Oliver.

Then, as did most pre-punk cultural icons in the immediate wake of that first Ramones album, Paul Williams seemed to vanish overnight from the audio/visual airwaves; a figment, perhaps, of our Top Forty, prime time past; an aberration, beloved as it may have been, from antiquated, tube-powered memory.

What defiantly remained however, losing not one single iota of their insidious appeal in all these decades since, was his string of perfectly crafted, instantly and forever recognized pure pop chestnuts – “We’ve Only Just Begun,” “Evergreen,” “Rainy Days and Mondays,” the Love Boat and Boy in the Plastic Bubble themes for example; need I cite any more? – which still have the innate power to bore deep within our craniums and keep us shimmying, boogieing, or at least grinning into infinity. Why, he even constructed the, um, “so close to terrible and yet somehow believable” songs for Ishtar’s dynamic Beatty and Hoffman duo: “It was one of the best jobs I’ve ever had in my life. I’ve never had more fun on a picture, but I’ve never worked harder.”

Fun and bubble boys aside though, it looked, and certainly sounded as if this wealth of utterly brilliant four-minute, five-chord monuments to the middle of the road were all that would remain of Paul Williams’ legacy; perhaps even his epitaph.

Until, that is, a man named Stephen Kessler arose.

A through-and-through true child of the Seventies (“I still get excited when I see the words Hungry Man TV Dinner!”) who was raised in the cathode shadow of Danny Partridge twenty-six feet from the Long Island Rail Road – and to this day unabashedly claims he always wanted to be Paul Williams – Stephen decided to go one giant step further than simply wondering where his idol went. He picked up a camera, assembled a film crew, and hit the asphalt in search of his “friend from the television.”

The result is a truly touching, yet at times emotionally gut-wrenching documentary that really could only be called Paul Williams: Still Alive, newly available on DVD from Virgil Films. In oh so many ways it is a story of fame from a “morning after” perspective, yes, but with a (gasp) happy ending. I mean, after all, we are talking about the man who taught Kermit how to find the Rainbow Connection.

And therein’s not only the rub, but the proverbial key to Still Alive’s impact and success as a film. Forgoing the typical confrontational guerilla style of a Michael Moore or TMZ, Kessler approaches his subject first with wonderment – at the 2006 “Phantompalooza” Festival in Winnipeg, one of only two cities in the world, the other bring Paris, where the Brian De Palma / Paul Williams epic Phantom Of The Paradise was a box office smashapalooza. But then we watch that wonder turn to curiosity, soon enough respect, and ultimately not so much empathy or even sympathy as an understanding with and obvious kinship for his subject matter.

Equally as curious was Paul Williams’ sudden decision, after filming had already begun, to go ALL the way, cinematically and otherwise and bring Steve, with lens, totally into his life and world for nigh on five entire years. A world which in many ways, good and bad – mainly good, though – is much, much different today than it was back in those glory years spent collaborating with De Palma and The Muppets …or mired deep within the Battle for the Planet of the Apes for that matter.

“We’ll make it The Paulie and Steve Show!” the former, in true Little Enos Burdette bravado, insisted after bonding with Kessler one day over garlic pepper squid at Thai House Express. In a “keep your enemies closer” mode, perhaps? Whatever the cases may be, there goes a newly emboldened Steve, following his leading man backstage, eavesdropping on him checking e-mails and doing throat exercises from hotel hallways, and ultimately becoming a quite unwilling participant on Paul’s especially harrowing post-9/11 tour of the Philippines, which is indeed every bit as Apocalypse Now as it is “An Old Fashioned Love Song.” “Safe and scenic, safe and scenic,” the local promoter continually insists upon packing all involved onto a six-hour bus haul through the treacherous – especially according to U.S. State Department warnings – Mindanao jungle between gigs. But once securely back on a California golf course a few weeks later, for all his terror-fuelled troubles, Stephen is rewarded with an actual sleep-over chez Williams! That includes bed and breakfast.

Then, later, the motherlode: Paul actually lets his chronicler loose in a storage locker filled with memorabilia including over 600 hours of VHS tape. Then lets him take home, and USE, anything he wants.

Stretching all the way back to Paul’s on-screen debut in 1965 as a twenty-four-year-old child actor alongside Jonathan Winters in The Loved One, that exhumed footage, as fascinating and kitschily coated as much of it may be, honestly never once manages to overwhelm or even upstage the sight of the renewed, revitalized 21st Century Williams. No, The Paulie and Steve Show more than holds its own against vintage clips from Bugsy Malone or even Baretta, such is the unmistakable, undeniable buddy-charm which “director” and “star” grow between them as Still Alive spins out its rollercoasting eighty-four minutes.

Cue “You and Me Against The World,” and fade to Bonus Footage.

P.S.: And if you haven’t gathered as much already, I’m most pleased to report our unflappable hero remains happy, healthy, and ultra-productive to this very day. Since 2009 Paul has guilelessly served as President and Chairman of the Board of ASCAP, keeps his own songwriting chops sharp (on the Scissor Sisters and Richard Barone, for example) while proudly keeping his goldies alive on stage (with Craig Ferguson just the other week), is at this moment co-writing a book based on, in his own careful words, “gratitude and trust” (“the two rails my choo-choo runs on”), continues the good fight to get Phantom Of The Paradise mounted at long last upon the Broadway stage, and graciously savors each and every sincere and loving “heart payment” he receives back from folks both known and unknown the world over – yes, even deep within the Filipino jungle – in recognition of his beautifully sculpted, musical lyrical body of work.

See? I told you this story has a happy ending!

Or, as the man himself explains, “I didn’t have the best childhood, but I had the longest.” Words to remain Still Alive to, yessir, for lovers, dreamers, you and me.

www.GaryPigGold.com

Those Beach Boys and Rolling Stones weren’t the only septuagenarian rockers celebrating 50th (give or take) Anniversaries over the past twelve-or-so months, absolutely not. Just about each and every singer/songwriter/guitarist still standing – well, those with lucratively deep catalogues ripe and ready for recycling, that is – had multiple multi-media packages (and, in the Stones’ case, four-figure-plus concert tickets) competing for what remained of a loyal boomer’s nest egg throughout 2012.

So should you feel so inclined, unless you’re still busy searching for the real Bob Dylan via David Dalton’s Book Of The Year “Who Is That Man?” that is, may I wholeheartedly suggest investing in:

The – and this is no hype, either! – “Definitive Collector’s Edition” of our beloved Harry Nilsson’s The Point, which may indeed have begun life as a humble 1971 animated ABC Television Movie of the Week yet remains today, four decades later, one of the most, yes, pointed socio-pop parables ever produced any where, at any time. Narrated by everyone’s favorite cartoon Beatle, Ringo Starr, and of course written, scored and sung by his bosom pal Harry, this newly deluxe package comes complete with four bonus featurettes just to ensure you, well, get the whole point. Which you really, really should.

Also well worth grabbing is a rock ‘n’ roll comic of an entirely different color. Namely the truly tall tale (ending in his murder, I most definitely kid you not) of Revolutionary Comics domo Todd Loren’s The Story Of Rock ‘N’ Roll Comics. Publishing over 300 wholly unauthorized – “And Proud Of It!” – comic-book biographies on the likes of Metallica, KISS, Sex Pistols and New Kids during the very early Nineties, Todd survived lawsuits from Axl Rose and Bon Jovi, made pals with Frank Zappa and Mojo Nixon, successfully protected his right to draw via a landmark First Amendment battle in the California District Court, only to die beneath an assailant’s knife in a case which to this day remains unsolved. Gene Simmons, notably, could not be reached for comment …though Cynthia Plaster Caster was.

Other notoriously controversial rock comics such as Jim Morrison, The Replacements, and the redoubtable Ike Turner can now be viewed and reviewed anew via The Doors: Live At The Bowl ’68 (the landmark, vividly restored Hollywood performance Robby Krieger insists is the only gig those guys ever rehearsed for!), Color Me Obsessed: A Film About The Replacements (no longer young; still quite bastardly though) and Nadya and Bob Gruen’s utterly asphalt-worthy Ike & Tina: On The Road 1971-72, which goes a long, long way to supplement – and, whenever possible, CORRECT – the myriad misconceptions we’ve had to live with regarding this remarkable couple over the past couple of decades. Finally.

Also absolutely live for all to hear and see now are New Jersey’s rightfully legendary The Grip Weeds: Live Vibes, candidly captured right at home inside their House of Vibes studio (the “Hitsville of Highland Park”!) and the still-legendary – and THEN some – Bob Dylan and The Band: Down In The Flood, documenting that peculiarly thin wild relationship between The Voice of His Generation [sic!] and those formerly all-Canadian (well, almost) Hawks. Any chance one gets to watch Garth Hudson talk, let alone play, should be taken the utmost advantage of; say no more.

In retrospect especially, it’s more than obvious that one of the Zimmerman’s most impactful of all achievements was introducing four young amphetamine ‘n’ scotch enthusiasts from the north of England to the joys of all-American herbal jazz cigarettes. The result was, of course, no less than The Beatles: Their Golden Age, and all that those sixty or so iconic months entailed …and produced. Speaking of which, roll up as well with the grand new Magical Mystery Tour Collectors’ Edition. For starters.

Meanwhile, those cunningly anti-Beatles are typically well represented on this, their 49th – or is it 51st? – Anniversary with an even bigger than usual bevy of re-issues and re-masters. The long-thought-kinda-lost Charlie Is My Darling: Ireland 1965 should, of course, be considered Unarguable Required Viewing. Period. But then there’s those post-Brian Stones (…I suppose) fully on view too in The Rolling Stones Under Review 1975-1983: The Ronnie Wood Years and their reverently root-licking Muddy Waters and The Rolling Stones Live at the Checkerboard Lounge Chicago 1981, wherein even the above-mentioned Mr. Wood manages to, as he should, behave himself.

Lots more Stones to come throughout 2013 and well beyond as well, of course. Not to mention even more Beatles (50th Anniversary Commemorative Boxed Editions of each of their original albums, mono and stereo, complete with attendant single releases, out-takes, session sequences, documentary booklets and DVD’s starting momentarily with Please Please Me, you think? Don’t hold my breath) plus fresh Bob Bootleg Series entries (Basement Tapes, fingers crossed) and maybe even a 51st (!) Anniversary Beach Boys reunion, if certain Wilsons and/or Loves can bury some more hatchets.

Whatever the cases may be, it all just goes to show there still remain some after-tax profits to be made by what remains of the music industry, so long as there’s eyes and ears alive to consume said second-and-third-go-round goods.

Meanwhile though, don’t forget there’s lots of great NEW music being made and played out there too. Just thought I’d let any of you still interested know,

www.GaryPigGold.com

( in no particular order )…

BOB DYLAN  Tempest
www.bobdylan.com

Well, it certainly provides the Perfect soundtrack to the Man/the Legend’s latest Rolling Stone interview, for starters. Neat “Duquesne Whistle” video, too.

NEIL YOUNG  Psychedelic Pill
www.neilyoung.com

2012 was an admittedly slow year for forever-young Neil: only two albums, one film, one autobiography, one death scare (this one c/o NBC News!) and one ear-boggling audio format. Still.

EDGAR BREAU  Patches Of Blue
www.edgarbreau.com

Another veteran, long-lasting Canucklehead, Edgar spent his own Zuma years flying the proto-legendary Simply Saucer, landing today with precisely the kind of funk blue folk amalgam which continues to elude, for one, Robbie Robertson. Instead, Edgar’s textural Patches swirl steadily up and down the roadways and railways of North America via Michael J. Birthelmer’s nuanced yet nutty production/arrangement, managing even to take 3:17 out for a reasonably alt. bossa nova along the way.

DAVID GRAHAME AND LANE STEINBERG  Grahame Steinberg
www.davidgrahame.com
www.lanesteinberg.com

David Grahame = was Paul in the Broadway production of “Beatlemania”
Lane Steinberg = was one of “three teenage Jews attempting to remake With The Beatles in Miami in 1982” with his band The Wind (according to Victim Of Time dot com)

David = has opened for Elvis Costello and The Pretenders
Lane = has covered Henry Mancini and The Mothers of Invention

David = co-wrote “To Be With You” with Mister Big
Lane = co-wrote – and recorded! – an entire album with R. Stevie Moore

David = some of his songs have been on “Party of Five,” “Ed,” “Providence” and “Dawson’s Creek”
Lane = some of his songs have been on Maria Bartiromo, Condoleezza Rice, Lindsey Buckingham’s beard and Puffy’s handgun

David = once turned down a deal with Atlantic Records (who wanted to make him “another David Cassidy”)
Lane = once recorded the definitive version of “I Think I Love You”

Grahame Steinberg = one of the undoubtedly twelve best of 2012 I have heard …and the same will go for you.

THE BEACH BOYS  That’s Why God Made The Radio   
www.thebeachboys.com

Wherein the Universe’s oldest boys reunite atop an old Bond theme (and some state-of-the-audio/visual slight-of-ear)

…which reminds me,

Be Sure to check out These guys as well: http://surfschooldropouts.bandcamp.com

CHRIS RICHARDS AND THE SUBTRACTIONS  Get Yer La La’s Out
www.chrisrichardsandthesubtractions.com

And speaking of Brian’s Boys, two of those other much-revered retro-“B” icons (as in Big Star via Badfinger) are instantly conjured as Chris’ latest and greatest kicks straight up into a solid half-hour of beaty, BIG, and bouncy P-pop. A special Gary Pig tip-o-the-virtual-snout must go as well to GYLLsO producer David Feeny, who records the Subtractions’ six-strings with a raw stinging power unheard since the storied days of Tim Boykin’s Lolas …not to mention Steve Jones’ Bollock-ing of yore.

BIG BOY PETE  Cold Turkey
www.bigboypete.com

Of the song “Cold Turkey” (no, not the fine Plastic Ono 45) (or even the Dick Van Dyke movie), may I quote this disc’s liner notes: “Cold Turkey was recorded in 1968 at Pete Miller’s home-studio on Margetson Avenue in Norwich, England on a Bang & Olufsen Beocord 2000 tape-recorder running at a tape speed of 3 3/4 i.p.s. The dominating snare reverb came from the reverb unit for a Farfisa organ. Vocals were sung through a Shure 726 ‘Elvis mic’ and also a Reslo ribbon mic. The WW2 air-raid shelter in Pete’s garden served as the echo chamber” …and that’s just ONE of the dozen vintage Big Boy beauts you should hear herein!

RICK HARPER  Turn It Down, Richard Lee!
www.rickenharper.com

Meanwhile, bravely home-recording on the other side of the planet, here’s yet another slyly sonic, all-singing, sometimes stinging self-confessional from the One and Only Rickenharper; a friendly Ghost on the Canvas …along with a thin wild “We’re In The Money” that even hearing isn’t quite believing!

ALAN CLAYSON  One Dover Soul
www.alanclayson.com

One terrific sonic stew of Syd, Eric’s SanFran Animals, indelible String Band, eclectic Prunes, prehistoric Unit Four + 2, Love ‘n’ Fugs, Gainsbourg and Hazlewood, some Varèse even, all beautifully buoyed by Alan’s never-fearing lyrical-slash-melodic munificence.  P.S.: and guitarist/engineer/producer Wreckless Eric herein has never sounded so… well, wreckless!

THE DOUGHBOYS  Shakin’ Our Souls
www.thedoughboysnj.com

The don’t-ever-be-fooled-by-imitations New Jersey Doughboys resolutely enter their second half-century making the kind of utterly joyous noise even Raider rough-houser Mark Lindsay can’t help but contribute liner notes (not to mention sax!) to.

BILL LLOYD  Boy King Of Tokyo
www.billlloydmusic.net

Honestly, after an entire year spent listening – and listening – to this latest Best Record Ever by Nashville’s greatest, the only thing I could possibly fault, if pressed, would be the misspelling of Marcia Brady’s given name on the enclosed press sheet. But, by 2013, I’ll be ready to forgive even that.

PETE TOWNSHEND  Who I Am   (the audio book) (unabridged, I’ll have you know)
www.petetownshend.com

Yes, All 15 ( ! ) discs; all 19 ( !! ) hours of it

…no, Really!!!

www.GaryPigGold.com

Just in case you haven’t already been listening over the past sixty-some-odd years, Eagle Rock Entertainment’s grand new Produced by George Martin documentary demonstrates once again, via a wealth of vintage clips and contemporary interviews with clients past (Paul McCartney, Cilla Black, Jeff Beck, Bernard Cribbins even) and protégés present-day (Rick Rubin, T-Bone Burnett) the sheer magnitude of the man’s sonic innovations on, and indelible contributions to, the music industry. Or what remains of it, I should say.

All of which got this lifelong record buff thinking, for not the first time mind you, what exactly our aural lives would have, could have been like in, dare I even imagine it…

A WORLD WITHOUT GEORGE

1953:  Already well known to radio enthusiasts throughout Britain as “the funniest man this side of Lord Mountbatten,” Peter Sellers of the rightfully legendary Goon Show is urged by both his mother and others in command to expand his talents and notoriety into the world of spoken word recording. He naturally approaches all-powerful EMI’s comedy division, Parlophone Records, in search of a contract but, despite a riveting audition which apparently included a 20-minute rendition of his trademark “My Old Man’s a Dustbin,” Sellers is turned down.

Dejected and despondent, the man inexplicably soon after retires from the Goons at the very height of their renown, only to troll about the nether regions of the UK music hall circuit performing tired ventriloquist routines (“Birdie Num Num” being the most, um, notable) before bottoming out altogether, touring American Air Force bases in North Africa as part of a Wee Willie Winkie tribute act then perishing, penniless, beneath a Clacton-on-Sea fun fair helter skelter.

“If only a producer of rare insight and courage had been there in 1953 to offer the man a long-term recording contract,” lifetime Sellers acolyte Stanley Kubrick once said, “the world of comedy records, not to mention World War III movie satires, would have been completely different.”

1962:  Agreeing only after a flood of pleading telegrams and phone calls to finally take a meeting with northern England’s most powerful record retailer, Brian Epstein of NEMS, the EMI Studios on Abbey Road NW8 is visited by an unruly quartet of Liverpool “beat musicians” who proceed to audition for Parlophone brass with a bewildering repertoire of Fats Waller and Ethel Merman numbers. Although the band’s drummist impresses all with not only his percussive prowess but a smoldering mean, moody magnificence, staff producer Ron Richards nevertheless declines to offer the group a recording contract.

However, such was the severity of manager Epstein’s insistence (not to mention caterwauling upon the studio floor) that EMI bowed to audition the following month another band from the man’s talent stable. This group too was a quartet fresh from Liverpool’s Cavern Club, yet possessed such an overwhelmingly obvious charm and mastery of their craft that they were immediately signed to a generous, life-clad contract with EMI’s prestigious Columbia label. Within a year, after making history topping the charts with their first three British releases, Gerry Marsden and crew carried on to America where their February, 1964 appearance on the Soupy Sales Show drew a record-breaking audience of 7300, launching what we now know as the Pacemaker Invasion of the world’s radio, television and movie screens.

Richards went on to supervise the band’s landmark Our World performance of “Ferry Cross the Mersey” in 1967, part of the first-ever live, globally-televised satellite bingo competition. Tragically however, a year later Gerry met and married a well-to-do Canadian optometrist and emigrated to picturesque Port Credit, Ontario, where to this day he runs a profitable pet supply boutique. Nevertheless, the revolutionary effect and impact the Pacemakers had upon the entertainment industry during the 1960s will be felt for as long as people have ears and, of course, disposable cash to spend collecting vintage Merseybeat records.

1964:  Prior to the release of the third film in their box-office-busting James Bond series, producers Harry Saltzman and Albert R. Broccoli approach EMI with a demo for its title song, “Goldfinger,” in search of a producer and suitable singer for the theme. Norrie Paramor, already having scored impressive chart action with Cliff Richard and the Shadows, agreed to supervise the “Goldfinger” project and duly enlisted singer Tessie O’Shea to be featured vocalist.

Often cited as one of the, in music scribe Rock Serling’s words, “most unlikely and ill-conceived matches between song and singer since Phil Collins slaughtered the Supremes,” the Paramor-produced “Goldfinger” was quickly, and wisely, excised from the film. Nevertheless, a decade later Broccoli again returned to the scene of the crime with a Paul McCartney-composed theme for the Live and Let Die film. This time, EMI turned the project over to staff producer Norman “Hurricane” Smith, fresh off worldwide success with his own “Oh Babe, What Would You Say?” Yet the resultant John Davidson-sung “Live and Let Die” was considered such a musical and cinematic misstep that some believe releasing even the McCartney and Wings version instead would have been less disastrous for all concerned.

1975:  Increasingly desperate to reclaim the prestige of their previous acclaim, both former Yardbird Jeff Beck and noted Crosby, Stills, Nash and/or Young impersonators America found themselves fully, fatefully floundering ’round the rock ‘n’ roll Babylon which was mid-Seventies Los Angeles, in search of a producer they could call their own. At least for a while.

Beck for some reason was advised to cover the iconoclastic Frank Zappa’s Hot Rats album in full. But, such was the man’s propensity for playing seventeen notes where one would suffice, the project soon spread across two full very-long-playing records, the aptly-named Blow by Blow and its multi-trillion-dollar, John Belushi-fuelled follow-up Wired. Despite the latter being successfully adapted into both book and film form during the equally empty Eighties, Beck was never again to taste the heights he once did, and was last seen filling in for Terry Sylvester at a “Hollies vs. Hermits” Cirque du Soleil / WFTDA fundraiser in Las Vegas.

America similarly lost the plot, both musically and mentally, with their alliterally cute (but little else) Holiday, Hearts, Hideaway and Harbor trilogy [sic!] before embarking upon their mammoth Hasbeen record/book/holographic revue in 1977, which instantly lost heaps more money than even Heaven’s Gate. Naturally, “thank God for the Ramones” was happily hereafter the harmonious hum of hip, highnote hearsay heard at this most harrowing hour in human history.

1982:  Even then already widely regarded as The Man Who Just Wouldn’t Go Away, Paul McCartney resurfaced in the wake of his former partner’s assassination with a wry ditty extolling the virtues of both race relations and piano keyboards. Originally envisioning no less than Stevie Wonder as his duet partner, McCartney’s producers recommended he align himself instead with the burgeoning Celtic/trance pigeonhole in an attempt to move tons more 12-inch slabs of polyvinyl.

The resultant “Ebony and Dexedrine,” recorded alongside British anti-soul band Dexys Midnight Runners, naturally turned out to be amongst Macca’s prodigious bevy of worst-received, worst-ever-selling records. “If only a producer of rare insight and courage had been there to slap me upside the noggin,” master pop purveyor McCartney later said, “the world of race relations, not to mention my musical legacy, would have been completely different.”

http://www.eagle-rock.com/product/EV305259/Produced+by+George+Martin

www.GaryPigGold.com

Yes indeed, it goes without saying that Brian Wilson and his familial band full of brothers, cousins and friends have enjoyed a career quite unlike any other across the cuckoo annals of show business.

Scoring a local hit in 1961 straight off the mark with their very first little indie single, then soon after placing a sophomore release into no less than the hallowed Billboard Hot 100 – and all at a time when the majority of the band still had to be home in time to attend class the next morning – The Beach Boys, it could be argued, really started their marathon run at the very tip-top, suicidally crash-dove towards oblivion a few short years later, and only then slowly but surely began their struggle up the ladder of ever-lasting fame, fortune and, ultimately, all-American glory …and just finished touring the globe promoting a new (!!) hit album, need I remind anyone.

Which just all goes to show, I suppose, that blood surely runs thicker than any critic’s ink, what gets around (from town to town) comes around and that, most obviously, Brian Wilson near single-in-handedly created a body of work which can surely withstand the most brutal scourges of both time and fashion.

That’s why it’s sometimes hard to fathom during the band’s gala 50th Anniversary festivities that there was indeed a hole, roughly between 1966 and 1974, down which The Beach Boys truly hit rock ‘n’ roll bottom and were forced to really, really hustle their sunkist butts to keep everyone’s musical and financial heads above water. Bleak, sorry years when this once Beatle-calibre combo were reduced to hauling their act out on the road and into midwestern VFW halls alongside that Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. A pitiful period when their latest brave creations were routinely being scorned in favor of those from The Archies and even Grand Funk Railroad.

This was, in fact, a harrowing era when, as no less a numbers man as Bruce Johnston Himself continues to recall, America’s Band could scarcely draw two hundred paying patrons to a series of gala performances within the very heart of New York City.

In a word then? Yikes!

Of course any other band with half its wits intact would’ve called it quits right about then – or at least ditched the “Surfin’ Safari” stagewear for starters. But the Beach Boys were more than just another pop group, weren’t they? They were a FAMILY, first and foremost. And rather than remain one-upped by their musical neighbours so to speak, this musical household doggedly set about getting their affairs back in order, persisting along this rugged path for year after endless year …even when all around seemed hapless, hopeless, and far, far from harmonious. On any level.

Actually finding themselves without a homeland recording contract at the dawn of the Seventies, and with their guiding musical light apparently more interested in laying (low) than writing, arranging, singing and/or producing, Carl and Dennis Wilson, Al Jardine, Mike Love and even that Bruce guy had no logical choice but to settle down to some good old-fashioned, decorum-be-damned hard hard work, lest they find themselves forever tossed upon the scrap-heap of Sixteen-Hit Wonderdom. So, first of all, every Boy still awake and mobile began by moving the audio mountain to Mohammed, constructing a working studio directly beneath Brian’s Bel Air bedroom (not that that helped motivate their big brother much in the long run; nice try, though). Then they boldly formed their own record company and, crazier still, set about writing and recording a string of albums which form not only the mythical, mystical candy core of the Beach Boys’ vast sea of tunes, but in retrospect actually hold much more than their own against such bally-hoo’d, Nixon-vintage contemporaries as the Eagles, Doobies, and even that Buckingham/Nicks-model Big Mac.

Yes, these hallowed yet too-often ignored releases from the Beach Boys’ “lost years” on their very own Brother Records imprint are literally jam-packed with dozens upon dozens of gems you probably haven’t been able to hear of in years …not to mention while Capitol this month enters its second half-century of re-issuing the band’s seminal hit Sixties albums. For example, the once mega-maligned So Tough album from ’72 now sounds like no less than Carl and his Passions tackling Big Pink Band by way of Paul Buckmaster! And then there’s 1977’s The Beach Boys Love You, which dared to croon about roller skating, shampoo, and our favourite solar system smack dab in the middle of that Pistol ‘n’ Ramone-fuelled Summer of Hate.

Chronologically speaking then, the initial Brother albums Sunflower and Surf’s Up remain among the most universally cherished records on the planet, and both contain their fair share of Brian Wilson treasures for the ages – “This Whole World” and “Til I Die” most particularly – which rank easily amongst the very best Our Hero has yet to offer us all. Meaning, believe every word I say, they’re some of the greatest musical works ever created by man or beast.

The two junior Wilsons blossom forth on these albums as well (“Long Promised Road” and “Feel Flows” prove Carl learned his lessons well whilst attending all those Pet Sounds and SMiLE sessions; Dennis, conversely – as always – forged his own musical identity within Sunflower somewhere between the cock-rockin’ “Got To Know The Woman” and the sweetly rhapsodic “Forever,” John Stamos be forever damned). Meanwhile, that then-new 16-track technology the Boys toiled upon under Brian’s bed allowed the band to layer on those heavenly, heavenly harmonies as never before. Or, in truth, since. “Cool, Cool Water,” to mention just one, contains chorale cascades which will continue to astound the ear today, four decades (and countless attempts at recreation) since they were first meticulously piled onto tape.

Suffice to say, the music The Beach Boys made in the very early Seventies remains amongst their very, very best. No listener out there, discriminating or otherwise, should let these sounds slip on through unheard a single minute longer beneath the retail din of yet another Greatest Hits collection or twelve.

Despite the odd (in more ways than one) moment thereafter however – and again, I cite such B. Wilson concoctions as Holland’s notorious Fairy Tale “Mt. Vernon And Fairway” plus the above-mentioned proto-punk Love You album – the band’s post-1972 output is, well, spotted indeed. Still, works of total wonder are to be found even on such universally poo-poohed efforts as 15 Big Ones (just listen to the slap-happy vocal counterpoint which ends “It’s O.K.”), Keepin’ The Summer Alive (with its BTO-on-the-beach title track co-written by none other than Randy Bachman) and even the lowly MIU Album (…awrite awrite, so I for one believe “Hey Little Tomboy” to be a hunka hunka fluff of near Jonathan Richman pedigree).

Nevertheless, with a band as diverse and musically all-encompassing as The Beach Boys, one just has to take the good with the not-quite-so-good; after all, these characters have always been, if nothing else, totally fearless in the way they conduct themselves both inside and outside of the recording studio. Besides, one must also remember that this music was being created and released back in the glorious days when rock ‘n’ roll bands were not only allowed to be adventurous, but could even get such fits of fancy released and often promoted to the public at large (…um, expecting a Fairy Tale to magically appear upon the next Mumford & Sons album? Don’t hold my breath!)

Proving once again that still waters do indeed run so, so deep, The Beach Boys’ Brother Years sonically document a band – and a family – in quite desperate creative and emotional upheaval, yet producing some of its best if least-known work despite (or is it because?) of such all-around adversities.

So, as the song still goes, Listen, listen, listen …not only to the newly-re-available Surfin’ USA, Surfer Girl, Little Deuce Coupe, Shut Down Volume 2, All Summer Long, Beach Boys Today!, Summer Days (And Summer Nights!!), Smiley Smile (NOT to be confused with you-know-what), Pet Sounds (yes, Again) and almighty Beach Boys Party! albums, but to the 2012-vintage Sunflower and Surf’s Up as well. And stay tuned, absolutely, over the next few months for refurbished Carl and the Passions: So Tough, Holland, The Beach Boys In Concert, 15 Big Ones, the even bigger Beach Boys Love You, and maybe even those MIU, Light, and Keepin’ the Summer Alive albums as well. We shall, of course, draw the line at The Beach Boys 1985, Still Cruisin’, Summer in Paradise [sic!] and Stars and Stripes efforts; trust me on that one.

www.GaryPigGold.com

It may have taken me over forty years, but on June 16, 2011 I finally got to see one of my all-time favorite rock ‘n’ roll bands in concert.

Sure, at the highly tender age of eight-and-a-half I was undoubtedly, along with at least 73 million others, the ideal candidate to contract a terminal case of Beatlemania when Paul, George, Ringo and “Sorry girls, He’s Married” Britishly invaded The Ed Sullivan Show all those years ago. Instantly, I will admit, all aspirations of becoming an archaeologist and/or Formula One racer forever vanished beneath a monophonic haze of swirling seven-inch Capitol 45’s upon my parents’ hitherto genteel hi-fi console …that is, when I wasn’t Lennon’ing around the basement strumming one of dad’s old tennis racquets attached via kite string to an upturned cardboard washing machine Vox – I mean box.

No, life for me and my immediate family out in the suburbs of Toronto was just not going to be quite the same, not to mention sane, ever again.

But when I look back with what I’d like to think is at least a measure of retrospective perspective and perhaps even maturity regarding my own personal Swinging Sixties, I now realize that while various Beatles, Pacemakers, Hermits and DC-Fifths provided the initial cultural Great Big Bang to my existence, it was actually another fab combo altogether who put into razor-sharp focus my very socio-musical destiny. Who provided the indelible epiphany which fused my innermost dreams and desires. And who, yes, set me forever down that path of life, liberty, and the pursuit of not finishing school.

“We were never really a rock and roll band,” Micky Dolenz continues to insist whenever the opportunity arises. “We were a television show about a rock and roll band.” To which follows the drummist’s inevitable, yet quite ridiculous comparisons to the Cartwrights never living on a ranch in real life, or the Enterprise crew not beaming themselves away from one another off set …though I’d bet sometimes the latter at least wish it were possible.

Nevertheless, with the premiere airing of The Monkees series over the living-room Admiral 23-inch one fateful September of ’66 dinner hour, I was first shown precisely how a (sorry, Micky) rock and roll band was put together, how they dressed, how they chowed down communal Kellogg’s every morning, how they rehearsed, how they (didn’t) work, how they tricked the landlord out of paying their rent on time… in short, downright essential life lessons which in the not-too-distant-at-all future would prove extremely handy as I embarked upon my own role playing an r ‘n’ r singer/guitarist. Indeed, these Monkees were in fact providing the kind of career tools a scheming youngster such as I simply couldn’t acquire from even repeated viewings of Help! or even Having a Wild Weekend, truth be told.

So, although I’ve filled many a backpage already declaring it, let me just say, once again: THANK YOU. Thank You SO Much, Davy, Peter, Mike and even Micky.

P.S.: and No, it wasn’t always easy being a Monkees fan(atic). Especially during those dank, dark years circa early Seventies when all of one’s most regarded peers were forsaking their old Headquarters albums for the latest Carole King or slabs of Sabbath. Why, even the presence of no less than “(I’m Not Your) Steppin’ Stone” on the Sex Pistols’ early demo tapes failed to fully redeem the Prefabs in the eyes or ears of those self-anointed hipsters later to be found bathing beneath the supposed new wave.

Nor do I fully absolve myself of such flagrante crimes against pop either:  While standing on my local transit platform one hot August afternoon in 1969, I shamelessly mocked my oldest friend who was awaiting the same train so he could go see the Monkees perform at the Canadian National Exhibition. Did I want to join him, dear Doug graciously asked? After all, he had an extra ticket (which he’d spent weeks trying in vain to give to someone …anyone). “The Monkees? No way!” I undoubtedly sneered. For you see, I had much more important things to do that day. As in head downtown to get in line to buy a copy of the just-released Abbey Road, sheesh!

Forty-two years later I’d, of course, come to my senses and jammed into New York’s gorgeous Beacon Theatre alongside a couple of thousand other Monkeemaniacs both old and new to watch Davy, Peter and Micky (no Mike) (of course) perform for over two hours – yes, on their own instruments – in one of the absolute finest, funnest, most fulfilling concert experiences of my entire music-saturated life. And I was so glad I did, as a mere eight months later Davy was gone… and with him an extremely large portion of my musical soul, I must confess.

Truly, his sudden and totally unexpected passing threw me for a loop: It’s “funny” how we never really ever imagined a Monkee dying, right? Because, and perhaps Micky knew of what he spoke after all, they always did seem more like a television show than a “real” band. And as such could and would easily, endlessly, well, re-run for us out on the road again. And again.

No such luck. And now comes word that the three surviving Monkees – yep, including Mike, believe it or not, it has been assured – are about to embark upon a dozen American concerts come November in honor of our dearly departed Manchester cowboy, David Thomas Jones.

Well. In a world that has already had to deal with “Free As A Bird” and “Real Love” in particular, not to mention multiple Moon and even Entwistle-less “Who” [sic!] recordings and tours …and What’s this I hear about a fine new Beach Boys revue and even album with two out of three Wilsons MIA?!!… well, I only hope that Micky, Peter and Mike will do their fallen comrade’s memory, as well as reputation, the courtesy and utmost respect it, he, and lifelong Monkeemen such as myself all deserve.

We’ll see. And hear. Until then, in the fresh-off-Facebook words of Papa Nez himself, That’s really all I’ve got. Going to bed now. I’ll post pictures of the cracker and the gazpacho tomorrow, maybe. Maybe not.

www.GaryPigGold.com

First, there was you-know-who. Or at least up until thirty-five years ago there was.

Then there was Ricky Nelson and Johnny Halliday. Perhaps even Conrad Birdie.

Of course P.J. Proby could often sing “movie Presley” – and much later surely do “Vegas Elvis” – better than the true specimen. Terry Stafford hit U.S. Number 3 with an o.k. “Suspicion” during the very height of Britishmania (personally, I much prefer the 1970 Viv Stanshall / Keith Moon interpretation), and who can even forget Ral “This Is Elvis (sorta)” Donner and possibly even the Dick Clark-approved Ronnie McDowell? There was a real cool guy in Toronto called Subway Elvis too, but he was always getting thrown in jail.

Then the real thing up and died circa 8/16/77, leaving the field extremely wide open indeed for any man, woman or child with access to an empty VFW hall and/or pair of Velcro sideburns with which to pillage ‘n’ plunder the once and forever King’s ample musico-theatrical booty. You surely know who these thousands upon literal thousands of people were, and are. In fact, you may even actually be one yourself. Well, my jumpsuit is off to you in that case …particularly if you operate under the name of El Vez or especially Janice K.

Without a doubt though, the real-gone rockin’ boppin’ daddy-o of all such, uhh, “impersonators” was the one, the only Jimmy Ellis of Pascagoula, Mississippi. But anybody reading this Backpage should already know and love the man much better as, quite simply, ORION.

Although said cat had been sniffing around the showbiz nether-regions since A.D. 1964, it wasn’t until E.P. himself took that one last plunge off his Memphis throne that Jimmy would actually be re-christened “Orion” (possibly from Gail Brewer-Giorgio’s Elvis book impersonation of the same name), duly don the appropriately hideous face masks, and find himself signed to Sun Records (natch), only to soon begin popping up on a slew of bogus “Duet” albums alongside such ex-Sunsters as Charlie Rich and – pause for reverent fawning – Jerry Lee Lewis.

(I won’t get into an aesthetic debate here and now over the merits of Jimmy-slash-Orion allowing his clandestinely dulcet tones to be dubbed atop any ol’ Sun master that Sunmeister Shelby Singleton Himself could get his claws on in the as-immediate-as-possible aftermath of Elvis A(a)ron’s demise. But let’s just say even the sorriest piece of filler off these electronic travesties easily tops any of those lousy answer-machine tapes of Lennon’s that the remaining Beatles tried to sell us awhile back).

Come 1980, this sonic ruse had succeeded to such an extent that Orion was voted as none other than one of Cash Box’s top three male country vocalists in the world – and this a near decade before M. Vanilli, I’ll have you know! That same year, no less than the Conway, Arkansas Log Cabin Democrat was hereby declaring, and I quote, “If you think you’ve heard Elvis sound-alikes, you ain’t heard nothin’ until you’ve heard Orion (pronounced O-Ryan).” As a result, people who actually knew better not only began flocking to his concerts, but were purchasing the man’s newest gold-vinyl long-players in quite alarming numbers. (By the way, duetting no longer, Jimmy was now cutting pretty darn respectable versions of “Ebony Eyes,” “Susie Q,” and even Ray Smith’s immor(t)al “Rockin’ Little Angel” …in fact, Anything and Everything except Elvis songs. Good for him! In fact, check out his loose-goose version of Queen’s “Crazy Little Thing Called Love,” for a true taste of what it really means to bite the hand of the hand of the man what bit Sam Phillips’. Or something like that).

By 1983, like Gorgeous George and possibly even portions of KISS before him, Orion suffered a bitter attack of the conscience, dramatically tore off his glittering Lone-Ranger-meets-Liberace face mask, and in a fit of artistic pique worthy of few others released the more-than-fucked I’m Trying Not To Sound Like Elvis. File this particular career misstep alongside Del Shannon’s The Further Adventures of Charles Westover, Gary Lewis’ I’m On The Right Road Now, and of course any solo recording by Pete Townshend.

It may have been ironic, but it was hardly surprising, that the minute Orion became Jimmy again, the entire necrophilic-friendly Cult of Elvis suddenly became red-hot bizness and then some. Fake Elvii, the large majority of whom weren’t worthy of polishing Orion’s belt buckles, were now reaping untold millions selling tacos on TV and jumping out of airplanes in the movies, while the next-to-real-deal was languishing next-to-unheard-of in someone’s Where Are They Now appendix.

Little is of course known of Jimmy’s subsequent “dark years.” But then, what better an era (roughly speaking, the late Reagan/early first Bush administrations) to seek lonesome refuge beneath the cultural shadows as it were? Strangely enough, while deep within this exile, interest had been somehow sparked anew in Orion’s recordings, original pressings of which were now fetching mighty big bucks on the dreaded collectors’ circuit. Why, the man was even blessed with his very own box-set courtesy of none other than the hallowed folk at Bear Family!   P.S., but for those of us with more sensibly shallow pockets, the 1978-vintage Reborn album, Sun #1012, is just as worthy a grab – if only for the cover photo depicting our hero rising prophetically from a coffin.

Perhaps sensing a faux-revival in the air – or most likely just in dire need of some quick, easy cash to finally call his own – Jimmy got his masks down out of the cupboard in order that he may bravely face the Nineties as, you guessed it, Orion Reborn.

Again.

“I AM Orion,” he told the press in these latter years. “ONLY Orion. NOT Elvis. Never been to no Michigan laundromat either.” Rat on!!

“If you say I sound like Elvis, then I sound like Elvis. To you. To ME, I sound like Orion.” That may be, yet the man was now hiring no less than The Jordanaires to perform back-up duty, had begun touring alongside the likes of his old virtual-duet partner Jerry Lee, and was recording and releasing actual Presley material wherever and whenever the opportunity to do so presented itself. Really, all that seemed to be missing was a Yuletide Comeback on NBC alongside Scotty and D.J.

Alas, twas not to be. For on the fateful afternoon of Saturday, December 12, 1998, three teenagers entered Jimmy’s Pawn And Package Store outside Selma, AL., screamed for the cash register to be opened, then promptly opened all-American fire. Jimmy’s ex-wife Elaine, who happened to be visiting behind the counter that day, was struck in the face by a single blast and instantly killed. But it took three bullets to finally silence Orion, as he frantically tried crawling to safety behind a nearby computer.

He’d just a week before given his final performance at the Nightlife Breakfast and Dinner Theater, in the very town which had long been such a thorn in his artistic side: Nashville, Tennessee.

Some possibly-in-the-know (paging Shelby Singleton?) were immediately insisting Orion, and maybe even Jimmy Ellis, merely faked his/their own death in order that… well… you know. I mean, this exact career move surely worked wonders for Jimbo Morrison, to name but the second-most-obvious example.

Back here on Planet Earth however, Jimmy’s long-time manager and friend Art Thomas insists his pal never did set out to merely “impersonate” Elvis. He just happened to posses a voice that sounded exactly like the guy’s. Of course, this was both a blessing and a curse, and to his supposedly dying day “Orion” must have realized as much. “He was a very easy going person,” Jimmy Ellis Fan Club President Kathy Hoffman recalled, before quickly adding “his career was important to him, and he was sometimes discouraged because he had so many ups and downs.”

“In some ways, I don’t mind being compared to Elvis,” Jimmy confessed in one of his final interviews. “But I always wanted my own identity as an artist. The studios wanted only one Elvis, but if you have a voice that sounds like George Jones or Merle Haggard, that’s OK with them. You hear country singers all day, and they got the Haggard and Jones sound, and they grow into big hat acts.

“But nobody wants another Elvis.”

Odd indeed that, as no less an authority than Ken Blue Moon Boys Burke recently pointed out, both Orion and Elvis both have albums called Sunrise out there.

Orion’s came FIRST though, for what it’s worth.

And it was on Gold Vinyl too.

www.GaryPigGold.com