Rock and Roll - Velvet Underground 1970

In the winter of 1970 I was a seventeen year old senior on the South Shore of Boston. I had been accepted to a local university in my junior year. I didn’t want to go to college, but the Draft was press ganging young men from all over America to fight the communists in Vietnam. As much as I wanted to leave my hometown, I was in love with Janet, a beautiful brunette, who was the head cheerleader at the local high school She loved me too.

Her mother was divorced and saw a Chilean jazz pianist. They went out often to dances, concerts, and soccer games and most weekend nights I came over after track practice with her mother’s permission to study. One Friday evening after Janet put her younger brother to bed, we made out on her living room couch never going beyond third base. As a good Catholic girl, Janet was saving herself for marriage. I was an atheist and told myself I could wait. I was in love and marriage to Janet was a dream of a folk, and future togetherI was okay with that, since we had come close to the edge often enough to dream that our fall was at hand.

Never naked, but on the edge of a fixed tomorrow

No draft. No Vietnam. College. Work. Marriage, children, a house with a lawn. It all seemed possible lost in the passion of youth. Then one night we were listening to WBCN, the radio of the American Revolution. JJ Jackson, the late night DJ, spun the LPs of the Ultimate Spinach, Grateful Dead, Ike and Tina Turner, and anything considered unplayable by the AM channels. and this night he went deep, as our desire crossed boundaries set by the Church.

Janet and I were into the Jefferson Airplane, although she was more SURREALISTIC PILLOW, while I loved the uncommercialism of AFTER BATHING AT BAXTER’S.

She turned off the lights. The couch was draped with darkness and we explored the mysteries of the human body paced by Jack Cassady’s bass on SPARE CHAYNGE. Janet fought off my hands’s missions below her waist, but we surrendered our bodies to the ancient tradition of dry humping. While we might not have had sex in its purest form, on several occasions we had come close enough to have achieved the Second Immaculate Conception.

I touched her. She touched me. Places we never touched thanks to innocent inhibitions. We were in the Garden of Eden. Our future was predicted by our fevered panting, our blood aboil with lust, this was not sin, this was heaven___

Then JJ Jackson spoke___

“This is a live recording from the Velvet Underground. ROCK AND ROLL. This is us, dig it.”____

At first I ignored his advice in favor of listening to Janet's shortening pants, until Lou Reed sang, “Jennie said when she was just five years old. There was nothin’ happenin’ at all
Every time she puts on a radio
There was nothin’ goin’ down at all
Not at all
Then one fine mornin’ she puts on a New York station
You know she don’t believe what she heard at all
She started shakin’ to that fine, fine music
You know her life was saved by rock ‘n’ roll.” Janet asked, “ What’s wrong?” I had stopped fondling her breasts and grinding my pelvis into hers. Suddenly I understood that she and I were not over, but I was destined to leave my hometown with its three streetlights, no bars, Catholic Churches, temples, the suburban desolation and an abandoned chocolate mill. I was leaving it all and whispered the Janet, “I love this song “ “I do too.” We kissed and embraced and joined Lou Reed on the chorus.

“It was alright (it was alright)
"Hey baby, you know it was alright (it was alright)”

We were no longer together forever only locked in eternity for the now and “It was alright (it was alright), Hey baby, you know it was alright (it was alright).” because the Velvet’s lead singer had answered my questions on the future. I wanted more from lfie and that more was to live in New York and that spring I broke up with Janet right before her senior prom. That song echoed in my ears every day since.

My move to New York took six years.

I spent my first years at CBGBs, Max’s, Hurrah, Studio 54, the Mudd Club, and the Jefferson.

Lou Reed was in hiding as were the other members of the Velvet Underground. The band had abandoned fame for anonymity and infighting between the members. I gave up on ever meeting them, then New Year's Eve 1987 I was drinking industrial strength cough syrup and snorting cocaine with a bunch of friends on West 10th Street.

David Russell, Vickie, Barney and I were having a lovely time, but we weren't inviting any other guests, since only the innocent can handle the light of day and this was the deepest of night, which was blacker than a teenage girl's living room. David's Christmas tree was burning in the fireplace. It was very cold outside. 14 degrees only.

The TV was tuned to Dick Clark in Times Square.

1987 had ten minutes left on the clock.

We weren't expecting anyone else, but two minutes before 1988 the door opened for a familiar face and John Cale from the Velvet Underground entered the apartment fucked up as only a demi-rock god can be fucked up.

The legendary musician said nothing, as he walked across the room to pick up the codeine bottle. In one go he chugged half the cough syrup and then puked into a trash can.

"And it was alright." The line came from SWEET JANE. I liked it even better than BEGINNING TO SEE THE LIGHT. I missed Janet. She was married with two kids. Her husband was a town cop. They made a nice couple.

The pianist wiped his mouth and gave us each a monster line of cocaine.

Real cocaine.

"Merry New Year." John Cale walked to the fireplace to warm his hands in the blaze, then pissed on the Christmas tree fire. he left without a word. We said nothing.

Once the blow burned out, the cough syrup took over us.

We nodded out to the aroma of Cale's pee.

It smelled like rock and roll, which was why first I had come to New York.

"And it was all right."

And I hope it was all right with Janet too.

I still rock to ROCK AND ROLL and occasionally dream of life without it, but never on New Year's Eve.

NEW YEAR'S EVE ALL RIGHT

In the Spring of 1969 my teenage sweetheart's mother was dating a Chilean pianist. One Friday evening the two adults left the brunette cheerleader in charge of the house and after she put her younger brother to bed, I came over for a study session. An hour at the books was our passport to a heavy petting session, while listening to WBCN, Boston's hip FM station playing the Ultimate Spinach, Grateful Dead, Ike and Tina Turner, and anything considered unplayable by the AM channels.

Janet and I were into the Jefferson Airplane, although she was more SURREALISTIC PILLOW, while I loved the uncommercialism of AFTER BATHING AT BAXTER'S, whihc was the only rock LP in our town library.

She turned off the lights. The couch was draped with the folds of vaarying darkness and we explored the mysteries of the human body to Jack Cassady's bass on SPARE CHAYNGE. Janet fought off my hands's roaming below her waist and we surrendered our bodies to the ancient tradition of dry humping to presserve our virginities. While we might not have had sex in its purest form, on several occasions we had come close enough to have achieved the Second Immaculate Conception.

Lying on her couch in the afterglow of our ardor, we lay tight in a loving embrace. Janet planned on a career in nursing. My father was pushing for me to be a doctor like his father, but I had my doubts. I told them to nobody. In truth I just wanted to lay with Janet and listen to rock and roll.

JJ Johnson was spinning records on the pre-midnight shift.

Teenagers around Boston depended on the black DJ's taste to determine our cool and JJ Johnson cued up Velvet Underground's ROCK AND ROLL with an intro monologue, "Here's BEGINNING TO SEE THE LIGHT by Andy Warhol's darlings, the Velvet Underground, and nothing says New York City like them."

The song opened with a strumming guitar riff and Lou Reed singing the title twice. I stiffened with delight, because the Velvet's lead singer was addressing my questions on life.

"Well I'm beginning to see the light.
Well I'm beginning to see the light.
Some people work very hard,
But still they never get it right.
Well I'm beginning to see the light.
Well I'm beginning to see the light.
Now I'm beginning to see the light."

I had no idea what the light was.

"What's wrong?" Janet nuzzled my neck

"Nothing." It was a lie.

Just like saying I was going to be a doctor. I wanted more and that more was to live in New York. and a year later I broke up with Janet right before her senior prom. That song echoed in my ears every day.

"Beginning to see the light."

My move to New York took until 1976 and I spent my first years at CBGBs, Max's, Hurrah, Studio 54, the Mudd Club, and the Jefferson, an afterhour club on East 14th Street. I had run into Lou Reed, who was in hiding as were the other members of the Velvet Underground, for they had abandoned fame for anonymity and I gave up on ever meeting them, then New Year's Eve 1987 I was drinking industrial strength cough syrup with a bunch of friends on West 10th Street. THe small Christmas tree was burning in the fireplace. It was 14 degrees outside. The blaze wasn't much worked to stave off the draughts from the windows.

The TV was tuned to Dick Clark in Times Square.

1987 had ten minutes left on the clock.

David Russell, Vickie, Barney and I were having a lovely time. We weren't expecting any other guests, since only the wicked can handle the deepest of night, which was blacker than a teenage girl's living room an hour. Everyone was where they were supposed to be on New Year's Eve, but not everyone.

Two minutes before the door opened for a familiar face. John Cale, the Velvet Underground's exiled organist entered the apartment fucked up as only a demi-rock god can be fucked up. The legendary musician said nothing, as he walked across the room to pick up the codeine bottle. In one go he chugged half the cough syrup and then puked into a trash can.

"And it was alright." The line came from SWEET JANE. I liked it even better than BEGINNING TO SEE THE LIGHT. I missed Janet. She was married with two kids. Her husband was a town cop. They made a nice couple.

The pianist wiped his mouth and gave us each a monster line of cocaine.

Real cocaine.

"Merry New Year." John Cale walked to the fireplace and pissed on the ashes of a Christmas fire before leaving without saying goodbye.

Once the blow burned out, the cough syrup took over us.

We nodded out to the aroma of Cale's pee.

It smelled like rock and roll, which was why first I had come to New York.

"And it was all right."

And I hope it was all right with Janet too.

To listen to ROCK AND ROLL

Fly Me to The Moon plus 49

July 20, 1969. The eyes of the world broke away from this mortal coil. Our vision was fixed on the Moon. TVs and radios around the globe reported the lunar landing of Apollo 11 to every continent. This space mission had been inspired by the late-President Kennedy and Neil Armstrong immortalized the epic moment with the words. "One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind."

July 20 1969 was a Sunday. I was 17. I have no recollection of watching his first steps on the surface of the moon. It was something that monumental should have been as indelibly etched into my memory as the JFK assassination and losing my virginity. This memory lapse lends credence to those conspiracy theorists claiming that Man never landed on the Moon.

Maybe it wasn't on TV after all.

Let's face the facts. The Lunar Landing supposedly was televised by every channel; ABC, CBS, NBC and PBS. Teenagers watched almost 30 hours of TV on the 1960s. I was a teenager, therefore if the Lunar Landings had been on TV, then I should remember seeing them, instead I can't recall anything.

Ergo no Lunar Landing.

NASA has yet to refute my analysis, but for further research into the Moon Hoax, here's a video from Neil DeGrasse Tyson.

One theory is that I could have been making out with my girlfriend. Her mother let us stay at their house unchaperoned and Janet Stetson was certainly more important to me than a silly moon landing.

Super Bowl III 1969

The Baltimore Colts had entered Superbowl III as 18-point favorites over the AFL’s New York Jets. The underdogs were quarterbacked by the flashy Joe Namath and the brash Alabama native boasted in Miami, “We’re gonna win the game. I guarantee it.”

The Colts were infuriated by this brash statement and quashed the first drive by the Jets, however big games are won on injuries as much as luck and after the bruising fullback Matt Snell knocked out the Colts’ safety and the secondary was open for Don Maynard, who scored two TDs.

The NFL champs never really challenged the upstarts, as their all-star OB missed several opportunities to hit receivers in the end-zone. The victory acted as a turbo-charged boost for the AFL, however the Jets have never come as close to the Super Bowl as today’s game against an historic rival.

Betters lost millions on this game. No one ever questioned the outcome. The Jets simply seemed to have outplayed the NFL juggernaut.

In 1984 I ran into Bubba Smith at the Deauville Film Festival. I was attending the event for the French magazine ACTUEL. The Colt defensive lineman was in France to promote the comedy film POLICE ACADEMY.

Not #2 or #3.

The original.

Most reporters were huddled around Steve Guttman, the star of the comedy. Bubba sulked off to the side. He wasn't on my list of interviewees. ACTUEL was more interested in my speaking with Rock Hudson about acting with James Dean in GIANT.

That rendezvous wasn't until after tomorrow's screening of George Stevens' western epic, and I introduced myself to 6-7 280 pound ex-NFL All Star as a longtime admirer. His fearsome tackling at Michigan State had earned the enormous lineman the motto 'Kill Bubba Kill'. I half-expected him to crush my hand, but he smiled when I told him how much I liked his acting.

"Just playing myself."

Neither of us had anything scheduled for the afternoon and I suggested that we retire to the Bar of the Hotel Atlantique. It had a great view of the beach,

I told him about being a Boston Patriots fan.

"Tough luck."

The Pats were my team. Their 1983 season had been 8 wins versus 8 losses. The Baltimore Colts had beaten them twice. Both games had been close I was more interested in the past and Bubba told me how it was to play with Johnny Unitas. He said great without any reservation, but I had dodged the real question and after my fourth glass of wine I leaned over to ask Bubba Smith, “The Colts were such a favorite in Super Bowl 3, how did you lose to the Jets?”

“They got to the quarterback.” Bubba answered without caring who heard that accusation. Most everyone in the bar was French. Few of them had ever heard about Joe Namath's boast about winning against the Colts. They were frogs and they worshiped soccer. Not football.

“The game was fixed?”

A shrug indicated that the answer was mine to decide and I remembered Unitas throwing the ball to the Jets defender and Morall’s three interceptions.

“Who fixed the game?”

It was a stupid question undeserving of an answer and Bubba stood away from the bar. A few of the froggies gawked at him. They had never seen a man or woman that huge.

"Excuse me. I gotta get back to work." Bubba Smith went over to watch Michael Winslow delight the reporters with his imitations of a helicopter. I laughed too.

The retired footballer avoided me the rest of the festival, especially after spotting me dining with Rock Hudson. But I didn’t mention Bubba's confession to the editorial staff of Actuel. None of them were interested in a rumor about a football game in 1969. The editors were having trouble with my article with Rock Hudson. My typing was atrocious.

While I've never seen a replay of Super Bowl III, several bookie friends of mine had listened to my story and mumbled under their breath about how the Mob had threatened the lives of Earl Morall’s and Unitas’ families. Bubba had said nothing, but the opposing quarterback had a big mouth.

“We’re gonna win the game. I guarantee it.” Joe Namath's words were carved in stone thanks to strong-arm gangsters. Sometimes there is such a thing as a sure thing. although these days games are never fixed by players. They make too money.

On the other hand the refs control the game from start to finish.

Not that I'm pointing any fingers.

In truth I don't know nothing and I'm happier that way.

Knowing even less would only make me happier.

ps Anita Bryant sang the National Anthem in 1969 whose later anti-gay campaign was immortalized by David Allan Coe’s 1978 song “Fuck Anita Bryant”.

TIME HAS COME TODAY by the Chambers Brothers

In the late-60s I attended Xaverian Brothers south of Boston ten miles away from my house underneah the Blue Hills. No buses or trains ran between the suburbs on the outskirts of Boston to the all boys Catholic high school and only connection between these bedroom communities was Route 128 orbiting Boston from the Quincy Quarries on the South Shore to the North Shore fishing port of Gloucester.

Boys from my high school had three choices of transportation from my high school. Freshmen and sophomore were stuck on expensive private buses, while upper-class students organized car pools sharing gas and driving. The final option was hitchhiking, which required walking from the school to 128. For some reason townspeople never picked up Catholic schoolboys, but getting a ride from the East Street exit was easy, since sex predators cruised the highway for teenage boys.

"You ever seen a naked man in the shower." They loved that line.

Car pools avoided that sexual confrontation and mine was divided between my VW Beetle, Chuckie Manzi's Plymouth, Frank Monaco's Comet, and Tommy Dangree's Mercury Cougar. Every afternoon we hit 128 to race the other teenagers on the three-lane east-bound highway. My daredevil driving skills in the VW beat out more timorous drivers behind the wheel of muscle cars, except for Tommy's Cougar GT powered by a 390 FE V8.

Tommy's specialty was the speed record between East Street to Rte. 138 beneath Big Blue Hill. The distance was three miles. His best time for the autumn of 1968 had been 2 minutes and 21 seconds, until one spring afternoon WMEX played the Chambers Brothers TIME HAS COME TODAY upon our reaching East Street.

"How long is this song?" Tommy shouted back over the salt-marsh grit of the 50,000 transmission.

His car's sound system had one volume.

Loud.

"The AM single is 2:37," I answered knowing that WMEX's format never allowed the 11-minute-plus version.

"I'm going for the record. Time it." Tommy stamped on the accelerator. His tank was filled with Sunoco's best octane 100 from a musclehead gas station near Wollaston Beach. The tachometer redlined and the speedometer swung right beyond 100.

110.

We had an open road.

120.

The other cars were a blur.

"Time has come today." The four of us sang with the windows shut for aerodynamics.

He hit 126 heading up the incline to 138 and Tommy braked for the exit. The Cougar fishtailed through the cloverleaf followed by the smell of burning tires and us singing the final chorus.

Now the time has come
There are things to realize
Time has come today
Time has come today

"How fast?"

"2:05." According to my Timex.

"I'll break that one day," Tommy boasted with high hopes.

Speed was his drug, however he failed on numerous occasions to better that time. Traffic or weather interfered with his many attempts and twice state troopers stopped him for violating the speed limit.

My efforts in the VW Beetle were pathetic. Its top speed 85 with a tailwind and the 60s ended without any of us bettering Tommy's speed.

The record seemed as safe as Babe Ruth's home run record, then in the Spring of 1973 my favorite cousin dropped off his prom date near my high school. Her name is unimportant. Errol wore a black tux. His shirt had ruffles and his red tie was undone. He might have had a few beers before getting behind the wheel of his father's Sky-Blue Lincoln IV with a white hard-top. A 460 in³ (7.5 L) Ford 385 series V8 engine was under the hood. The twenty-foot long sedan was a monster.

It was 3am.

There was no traffic on Route 128.

Errol tells the story this way.

"I gave the beast the gas and saw the fuel gauge drop a few inches." The Mark IV sucked gas like a black hole. "Zero to 60 in two seconds. I stomped the pedal to the medal and within a few seconds I'm at 100 mph. The speedo went to 160 and I kept both hands on the wheel, as the car hit a small bump on 128. Only at that speed with that car's suspension there are no small bumps. I was launched into the air and the Mark IV hit the highway in acceleration mode. I swear on our grandmother's grave that I made the 93 exit in 35 seconds and 138 in a minute-ten. I must have broken the sound barrier. I was traveling that fast."

Errol loved telling this story and I sort of believed him, since for me all stories are true if interesting and no one is going to break his record.

Not on 128.

Not with all the traffic.

Not in this century for some pleasures have been lost to the 21st Century like driving a Mark IV Lincoln at full speed without worrying about the police. That sensation is lost forever, but not the excitement of hearing TIME HAS COME TODAY and to view the Chambers Brothers classic hit, please go to the following URL

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hIqwzQ7g-Cc

IN DA GADDA VIDA ON SNOW

In winter of 1969 I went skiing in North Conway with a bunch of people. We hit Wildcat hard. The coolest girl and I listened to IN DA GADDA VIDA in my bedroom. Her name was Susan. She smoked weed. I was straight.

At the end of the song she said, "I leaving for San Francisco with some ski bums, you wanna come."

"I wanna ski tomorrow."

"Up to you."

I woke in the morning and she was gone. I can never hear Iron Butterfly without thinking of Susan.

I used to remember her last name.

Tuckerman's Ravine is still crazy this time of year.

I don't ski anymore.

But maybe tomorrow.

To hear IN DA GADDA VIDDA please go to this URL.

A Susan is waiting for you.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UIVe-rZBcm4

Fly Me to The Moon plus 40

July 20, 1969.

The eyes of the world broke away from the Vietnam War, the Paris Uprising, and the Mets challenging the National League. Most people's vision was fixed on the Moon, as TVs and radios reported the lunar landing of Apollo 11 to an anxious planet.

This space mission had been inspired by the late-President Kennedy and Neil Armstrong immortalized the epic moment with the words. "One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind."

July 20 1969 was a Sunday.

I had no school the next day.

The next day I was working at Ma Bell.

A summer job.

I was 17, but have no recollection of watching the astronaut's first steps on the surface of the moon, which should have been as indelibly etched into my memory as the JFK assassination and losing my virginity and this memory lapse lent credence to those conspiracy theorists claiming that Man never landed on the Moon, but let's face the facts.

The Lunar Landing was televised by every channel; ABC, CBS, NBC and PBS.

Teenagers watched almost 30 hours of TV on the 1960s and being a teenager if the Lunar Landings had been on TV, then I should remember seeing them, instead recalling nothing.

Ergo no Lunar Landing.

NASA has yet to refute my analysis, but for further research into the Moon Hoax, check out this URL

http://www.redzero.demon.co.uk/moonhoax/

One theory is that I could have been making out with my girlfriend.

On the weekends her mother permitted us stay at their house unchaperoned and Janet Stetson was certainly more important to me than a silly moon landing.

Even now.

Gay Pride Day 2012

Yesterday millions of Americans celebrated Gay Pride Day across the country. New York City was the epicenter of the festivities, but the police presence on the streets reminded gays and lesbians and people of color that freedom can be given and freedom can be taken away.

"No amount of disco music, nor number of scantily clad boys can render the juxtaposition of this completely commercialized Pride event within the corralling barricades of a police state "gay." Jorge Socarres posted on Facebook and further excoriated the NYPD by writing, "NYC cops are so stupid - their barricades are creating dangerous bottleneck situations around huge, wide open closed off spaces - for no practical except control. Madrid takes in 2 million people for Pride, and nowhere do you see a barricade - the city becomes one great, unbroken celebration. Leave it to people who've survived fascism to know how to stay free."

The Gay Pride Parade has always been a spectacular out event, as the holiday commemorates the Stonewall Riots of 1969 during which the gay clientele of a Mafia bar resisted a police raid on a Christopher Street dance club in the early hours of June 28. Four undercover officers shouted, "Police! We're taking the place!"

There were about 200 men in the bar. They obeyed the cops for a half-hour before realizing that they had numbers on their side. A handcuffed bull dyke fought four cops singlehandedly, as they forced her into the paddy wagon. All hell broke loose in the next minutes with police cars getting their tires slashed and officers retreating under the hail of hurled bricks and coins. The drag queens fought the hardest. They had old scores to settle with the men in blue. Gays chased the cops for blocks. The streets were theirs.

Gay power came alive those nights and nothing the police, the church, the government, the right, the bible-belters, and all those against gays, lesbians, and drag queens have failed to put the Genie back in the bottle, although that doesn't keep them from trying.

Gay Power.

Now more than ever.

Enjoy, but never forget.

Dead Fish Auction

In the winter of 1969 a foul storm blew an unknown sea creature onto Duxbury Beach south of Boston. The WBZ radio announcer reported it to be a 'sea monster'. My brother, sister, and I jumped into our VW and drove through a hard rain to a forlorn stretch of beach. A crowd was gathered around a massive sea creature. Its extremities were frayed by hungry fish. Everyone was offering their opinion on its identity.

A whale, a shark, a octopus.

No one said it was alien, although the shape was unlike anything we had ever seen on Jacques Cousteau's underwater TV adventures. My brother stepped forward and touched the dead flesh. He put his fingertips to his nose.

"It smells like fish."

After his assessment the gathering started hacking up the creature. Not to eat, but to store in glass jars and show future generations a piece of the Duxbury monster. The next day the radio said it was a Basking Shark. Most people threw out their decaying mementos. Fish stinks after three days and this fish had already been dead a long time. My brother kept his, although he can recollect where.

Several years ago I thought about this episode while at the Metropolitan Museum. They were exhibiting a floating shark of Damien Hirst. It looked as ratted out as the water-logged Duxbury monster. The town had buried its corpse in the sand. Damien Hirst's shark was worth millions. A dead shark in formaldehyde. I certainly don't know shit about art, especially when art collectors around the world shelled out millions on a financial doomsday to purchase recopied original masterpieces of the artist. By the way copies usually means fakes unless they are by the artist themself, then it's an original reproduction.

I still don't know shit about art.

President Nixon 1969 Thailand

After a five and a half hour stop-over in Vietnam President Nixon landed in Thailand on 7/30/69 to speak with the King. The Thai military were a strongest allies in the fight against communism. The president was escorted to the airport by Thailand's King Phumiphol prior to his departure for New Delhi, India. A crowd of about 500 persons gathered at the airport to see off the President of the Free World.

This photo thanks to www.2bangkok.com

Notice Nixon didn't put his wife in the photo.

What red-blooded American would? Bangkok was Bangkok even back then.