Author Archives: danielgabriel

FLASHBACK: “Jumping Off”

11 March 2015

The protagonists en route

The protagonists en route

Saturday in the rain, with heavy sluices of water running off my feet and the tired clop of four sodden shoes squishing along the sidewalk. Grandfather silent. Grandfather bundled inside his squeaking raincoat, bent under a brown cloth cap. Grandfather’s hand tucked inside my arm. Mottled skin and thin curling hairs along the knuckle where he grips, firm and trusting. Even in the rain he wears the sunglasses.

Squish, slop, squish, slop. Up another set of steps, onto the watersoaked welcome mat, ring the bell and wait. Smiling. Fixed, tight smiles. Me to say hello ma’am or hello is the lady of the house at home. Grandfather to start the pitch.

In the rain no one asks us in.

My box grows heavy. Cardboard wettening even under wraps and seeping like an infection down into the tight-packed goods. Christmas wrapping already in August. Some buy early, says Grandfather. Some wait just for me.

Down the steps, along the boulevard. Squish, slop, squish. My arm going numb. Baseball hat dripping rain off the bill and tightening along my forehead. Grandfather tall, but stooping. Faint smell of cheese clinging to his shirt, but covered now under the raincoat and the soft hiss of water sliding over the grass.

Gutters run with waste and leaves. A car splashes past. Up another set of steps. Ring the bell. Smiling.

Is the lady of the house at home?

The pitch.

Two dish cloths and a pot holder.

Are you really blind? she says.

Down the steps, along the street. Grandfather calculating in his head. Soft mutters and faint sucking of teeth. Turning the corner into a slash of wind. My eyes sting with rain. Grandfather grunts.

 

I think of him at night in the speckled brown chair worn smooth on the arms, with his feet up in tired slippers and the talking book on the phonograph. White hair in thinning strands. Shoulders slumped. Me crouching behind the sofa soft-tuning the radio to forbidden rock ‘n’ roll. Dead nights in Swedish parlors, with the clock ticking and Mormor in the kitchen. For treats, a glass of egg nog.

Mormor reading out evening news and sharing the parlor silence. Mormor packing the cardboard boxes and toting up the day’s receipts. Driving the Chevrolet—perched up high and peering so she can see out over the hood. A tiny woman, stooped and hunched with age and aggravated injuries.

Grandfather silent. Sucking on his teeth. Dreaming back the years before the darkness fell.

Me vowing never to go blind. Never to tramp the streets of an indifferent city, begging the attention of gaping strangers. Never to sell or have to try to sell. Vowing aloofness. Vowing a better way.

The smell of Swedish meatballs and cooking potatoes hanging over the kitchen.

The clock ticking.

 

But now it is Saturday in the rain and my shoes squish on the grassy verge.

Up the steps, ring the bell. Smiling.

Nothing.

Down the steps, up the next. Smiling.

A box of birthday cards. A decorative spoon.

Down the steps. . . .

Grandfather stumbling and coming aright. Grandfather leaning heavy on my shoulder as I see him on his days alone, cane tapping along the sidewalk like a metronome beating out a rhythm of need.

Down the steps.

Up another. No thank you.

Down the steps. . . .

How do I know you’re blind? she says.

Grandfather silent, but holding the smile.

Streets repeat. The wind shifts. Rain at our back pushing us forward. Grandfather’s hand tucked inside my arm. Mottled skin and thin curling hairs along the knuckle where he grips, tight, with a firmness that bonds like glue.

The box at my side is dragging. Evening is miles away. Grandfather sighs.

Up . . . down . . . smiling. Make the pitch. Never pressure.

 

Afterwards, in the car on the way home, Grandfather sucks on his teeth and counts the money. Does the calculations in his head, muttering softly as he counts, and then at the end, with every penny accounted for, he leans back to where I sit in the back seat and stretches his hand out toward mine.

Eighty-five, he says. Shows his teeth in that tight, fixed smile. Like something remembered from a distant past.

I take the coins held between his thumb and forefinger. Three quarters and a dime.

Then I sit way back on the old cloth seat and send my mind off on its fancies, willing it away from the gutter-slick streets. Away from the plain black Chevrolet. Away from Mormor, my tiny Swedish grandmother, perched on pillows so she can see out over the top of the steering wheel. Away from the repeating avenues of bungalows and back alleys. Away to wherever I can find to jump. . . .

Originally published in Studio (Australia), Issue 72, Spring 1998, and (as “The Country of the Blind”) in Wellspring, Summer/Fall 1993. This story will also appear in my forthcoming short story collection, Wrestling with Angels, to be released by New Rivers Press, Fall 2015.

Excelsior in the 60s: Epicenter of Twin Cities Teen Life

18 February 2015

Great beer! Great event!

Great beer (especially the Mr. Jimmy Baltic Porter), great crowd, great event!

That title above is how we described my recent talk for the “Tapping History” series with the Excelsior/Lake Minnetonka Historical Society. Held on a monthly basis in the welcoming confines of the craft-beer Excelsior Brewing Company, Tapping History brings to life forgotten aspects of this key piece of territory on the Twin Cities scene.

The crowd was already buzzing when I arrived, and grew so large that not only were all available seats taken, but the standing room got so crowded that late arrivals were housed somewhere near St. Alban’s Bay. These folks were pumped up to revisit local life in the 60s—and they knew their stuff!

The crowd was ripe for any anecdotes I might care to share—and quite interested in both the Excelsior-based articles I’d written (“Still Spinning in a Summer Wind” and “Dance Hall Days” for Mpls/St. Paul magazine; “Land of 10,000 Dances” for Goldmine and Sweet Potato, plus other secondary articles) and my unpublished novel of the era, Paradiso. The enthusiastic response to passages I read from Paradiso has given me new hope that a publisher will soon recognize the value of the tales within.

When I moved to Excelsior as a 10 year-old, the Amusement Park was a vast, everchanging playground.

When I moved to Excelsior as a 10 year-old, the Amusement Park was a vast, ever changing playground.

Excelsior in the 60s had Big Reggie’s Danceland (the premier metro dance hall of the day), the Excelsior Amusement Park (renowned across Minneapolis-St. Paul and beyond), the Commons (still going strong, and still a fine piece of sprawling greenery bending along Lake Minnetonka’s shoreline) and a picnic area featuring two swimming beaches and a basketball court. Each and every one of these places gave rise to local legends that are still in circulation. I was able to toss out just about any question and find an audience member with personal insight.

Did anybody see The Stones the time they played Danceland back in mid-1964, when only 283 people showed up, because they hadn’t yet hit the US charts? Yes, 2-3 people present had been there and had definite memories to share. “I told my buddy, that singer’s got to be the ugliest guy I’ve ever seen.”

How about when The Beach Boys played in 1962, touring behind their first nationwide single, “Surfin’ Safari”? There was a guy in the crowd who’d been called up and told “Mr. Wilson requires a white Fender for his concert tonight. Would you be willing to rent him yours?” And he did.

Which Amusement Park rides did people remember best? For many, of course, it was the infamous roller coaster (DO NOT STAND UP), but I was stunned to be reminded about a ride I didn’t even recall myself!—motor boats that set off from the shore and took Park visitors on a brief spin around a couple of adjacent bays. A man piped up: “Hey, I used to work as driver of those boats. If we had girls on board we’d take the long route, behind Big Island. Otherwise, we’d just circle Gale’s Island and come back.”

Folks always said that several people had died by standing up and falling out and that the roller coaster had been condemned. I loved it.

Folks always said that several people had died by standing up and falling out and that the roller coaster had been condemned. I loved it.

Anybody remember the wonderful run to the State Basketball Championship by Minnetonka High in 1965? (I brought this up because of all the pick-up games we used to play with a couple of the starters on that team.) Lo and behold, one of the former players I mentioned was there—”Thanks for a great flashback!” he told me afterwards.

Then we fell to talking about Twin Cities gangs of the era, including Excelsior’s local toughs, the X-Boys. The wife of one of their former leaders was present, and nearly destroyed my (second-hand) memories of the great 1966 rumble between the X-Boys and the toughest gang in Minneapolis, the Suprees. The battle was over colors (both gangs wore the same bottle green-and-black Prima jackets) and it has always been a point of pride that Excelsior’s boys had at least held their own. Now somebody with a more direct connection was saying that the X-Boys “hid,” rather than fight. I felt my world beginning to shatter—then another attendee recounted some specifics from the fight that, at least in my mind, salvaged our local honor.

Finally, we swung full bore into talking about Mr. Jimmy Hutmaker, who features in Paradiso under another name. Mr. Jimmy, as everyone in town knows, was sitting in his regular spot in the local drugstore when the pasty-faced lead singer of that Rolling Stones band wandered in. Jimmy, who talked to everybody, mentioned his frustration that his usual order of cherry coke couldn’t be filled. “You can’t always get what you want,” he told Mick Jagger. But that is only one of many, many stories about the late, lamented Mr. Jimmy. A unique individual, to be sure.

Afterwards, the conversations kept on coming. Seemed like everybody had their own take on each of the topics we’d covered. Best encounter for me was with an old baseball-playing buddy. We had way too much ground to cover, but what a delight to talk the details of a Babe Ruth League tournament game from nearly fifty years ago, or remember the various games we invented.

As they say in the official motto of New York state: Excelsior! (Onwards and upwards.)

 

Does God Exist?

28 January 2015

Written some years ago in response to a question posed for an annual philosophical contest called The Great American Think-off:

Yes, without a doubt. I say that not just because the greatest sages in the world—and virtually all cultures, everywhere, across time—would concur, but because I have the pleasure, and great privilege, of speaking with Him on a daily basis.

What’s more, anybody has this same opportunity: through prayer. God is there, waiting for us, calling to us, reaching out to us; loving us whether we acknowledge him or not. The wonder is not that anyone would believe in a transcendent being, but that we humans are so resistant to the call of our Creator.

He is a Mystery, yes, but because of the depth and complexity of His being, not because He is hiding or indeterminately existent. The living God has shaped me, comforted me, guided me through dark passages. I could no more deny his constant, caring presence that I could deny my own, constant, caring concerns for my children. The signs of God’s presence lie all around us, in details as large as the star-filled sky and as small as the worlds inside a raindrop.

The presence of life itself on this planet speaks of a divine imperative, an ordering of the labyrinthine possibilities of chaos into natural laws and intersecting spheres of compatible habitats.

To deny the existence of God bears the same futility as a deaf person denying the existence of music, or a blind man scoffing at the notion of color. God lies both within and beyond our senses, but if we limit him to what we can interpret through our blinkered scientific constructs, we risk missing the entire purpose and meaning of life.

Does Mount Everest exist? How does one know? Some fortunate few have seen it for themselves or walked upon it, but most of us accept its existence based on the reports of others who have had more direct experience.

Do germs exist? No one has seen one with the naked eye. Or heard one, or touched, smelt or tasted one. We know them by their actions and, again, by the reports of a few who say they have a special tool which enables them to see . . . something, and to interpret meaning from it.

So too the prophets. So too the Word of God, and signs and wonders still occurring. So too that most essential of all “God-seeking tools,” the rite of prayer. It comes back to this: there is a God-shaped void in the human heart. Those who haven’t had it filled either struggle to fill it themselves with their own vain musings and cobbled-together philosophies, or try to deny the existence of that void altogether. Yet once it is filled—by a Presence so overwhelming that terror would be our only response, were it not for the tender paradigm of love—how can one ever again be expected to deny the reality of its existence?

When my brother broke his neck, and the doctors gave up, saying nothing could be done, who responded to the prayer chain’s specific requests (“Today the thumb, Lord. Let him move his thumb.”) in such care and detail? Who was it that healed him so quickly that he was backpacking only a few months later?

When my wife and I slept on through what would become a record high tide on the Sligo shore in Donegal, who was it that sent those lights bobbing in from sea—car and priest emerging on the beach from a momentary dry passage between islands—to warn us we would soon be swept away?

And, darkest of all times, the night among the English witch coven, when my best friend and I fought sky battles inside our heads—each under separate, yet identical attack from forces so malevolent my mouth goes dry at their mention—whose angels came bringing the light? Whose power slid inside our heads and wrested two sinking souls from a deep and despondent sea of palpable waves of terror?

Theorems can be argued forever. Philosophies change with the times. The cynic and the post-modernist may even manage to hedge their bets till the graveside. But when the storm comes crashing, you need to know where to find the solid rock.

FLASHBACK: “The Way of the Road”

7 January 2015

Few people understand traveling. To most, it means a two week holiday of fun in the sun or a hectic guided tour of pre-arranged “sights” (if not just the car trip to Aunt Mildred’s). They can see neither point nor purpose to extending such an outing indefinitely. Traveling, they believe, is an interruption, a temporary shrinking from the responsibilities of real life.

Indeed, within the confines of their experience they are correct. A vacation (by which they mean traveling) is an interruption of normal life: a brief opportunity to let off the head of steam that’s been building up in the workaday world. It can be no more than that, for the end is always clearly in sight. Momentary thoughts of errands and unfinished plans come to mind involuntarily. Flashes of being “at home” occur. The scenes one views may change, but not the pattern of viewing.

It takes time to break patterns. There are patterns of sleep and of speech; patterns of worship, patterns of response, of caloric intake. All these persist, even in foreign lands.

Most persistent are patterns or habits of thought. The mind does not leave its ruts overnight, even though on a different road they may be less evident. It takes weeks and months to wear through those ruts.

New habits must be formed, new perspectives slowly and painfully arrived at. One critical feature in the establishment of a new perspective is the ability to travel with no fixed return in mind. This does not mean to travel aimlessly, but rather to let go the lifeline that pulls one ever “homewards.”

There is nothing easy about it. It means becoming a pilgrim, a sojourner. It means estrangement, physical and psychological, from the land of your birth. It means the slow realization that your destiny lies not in a particular piece of land, but around the next bend in the road.

It means isolation. It means painful knowledge that people of fixed abode can never share. It means risks surmounted, paradises gained and lost. It means uncertainty, insight and worn-out shoes.

It means vague impressions, half-formed conclusions, tentative theorems. It means infrequent showers, lumpy mattresses and periodic diarrhea. It means a bottle of wine in a hayloft. It means the cold wind howl of midnight on a cobblestone street. It means a shroud of dust gone to sweat in midday heat, the call of a loon in the gathering dusk, a rocky beach by firelight. It means all night train rides and intense conversations with someone you met yesterday and will bid goodbye tomorrow. It means loneliness, fear and exhilaration so pure it makes your hands shake.

It means discarding much that you’ve been taught. It means discovering what is true forever.

It means becoming someone new.

On the edge of the Sahara's Great Eastern Erg, Alex & Evan Gabriel battle a sandstorm.

On the edge of the Sahara’s Great Eastern Erg, Alex & Evan Gabriel battle a sandstorm.

Only then does the realization finally permeate that THIS IS LIFE. Right here and now, life is being lived. There is no hiding in routine. No blind acceptance of societal mores. There is life in all its starkness, all its multiplicity and conflict, all its uncharted illogical byways. And yes, there is life in all its unity.

Perhaps for many it’s easier not to look so closely, not to question quite so probingly, for without doubt, the voyage is uncertain and the risk is great.

Yet to travel is to explore the full circumference of life: to tread in the routes of the conquerors; to seek out the bypassed remnants of pre-industrial life; to sing the nomad’s song.

 

The traveler finds life in places of pilgrimage and profanation. He finds it among the energetic and the lethargic. She finds it in the change of seasons, in encounters in markets and cafes, in friendships formed and dissolved, crises faced, adventures survived.

In the process, the mind is freed from habit, from petty local concerns and the insistent demands of communication media. There is time (and great need) for reflective thought. Cultures can be examined and evaluated. Society’s lies and blind spots reveal themselves. It becomes impossible to evade the questions that workaday hustle and bustle strives so hard to evade: Have the generations lived and died in vain? What have the sages taught? What has God revealed? Who makes history? Why are we given life?

To travel is to question. Sometimes the questions are answered. Sometimes not. But never to ask, never to wonder . . . surely that is death itself.

This article was previously published in Great Expeditions (Canada), May/June 1983, and in Independent Travel Made Easy (Canada), 1989.

How to “Punch at the Wild Tornado”

When the world comes at you hard, fight back! Words can be a powerful weapon.

When the world comes at you hard, fight back! Words can be a powerful weapon—and COMPAS artist Dennis Lo depicts this brilliantly.

19 December 2014

Last Saturday I had the privilege of gathering at Landmark Center in St. Paul to celebrate the publication of the 36th COMPAS Anthology of Student Writing, entitled Punch at the Wild Tornado. As both Arts Program Director for COMPAS and, for the first time, Editor of the Anthology, I had a particularly high stake in the game. What a delight to hear the young people loose their hopes, fears and imaginative speculations into the resounding confines of Landmark’s classical Cortile. A grand time was had by all!

Student authors gather at the start of the Publication Celebration in Landmark Center.

Student authors gather at the start of the Publication Celebration in Landmark Center.

It’s easy to dismiss the rising generation as self-obsessed or clueless about how the world really works, but the young voices in this book belie those stereotypes. We hear from new immigrants describing the treacherous paths they took to reach Minnesota and rural kids embedded in nature and alert to the details of the changing environment around them. We encounter tender poetry and profound insights from kids who have not yet reached double digits in age. (“Poetry is . . . a lake deeper than you can think” says third grader Leo Fridley in the very first piece in the book.) There are glorious tales of adventure (check out “Pendrick and the Serum” or “A Letter I’ll Never Forget”) and poignant insights into lives that stutter and stumble forward.

Perhaps nothing is more affecting than the series of voices from Rochester STEM Academy, a heavily-Somali charter school that worked extensively with Hip Hop spoken word artist Frank Sentwali. Listening to the young women (and one young man) sound forth on the dis-junction they see between their lives and media reports reminds us both of the complexity of race relations in this country and the global links we all share, regardless of country of origin.

A handful of the pieces were selected by judge Joyce Sidman (a COMPAS Roster Artist with a national reputation in children’s literature) as winners of a Lillian Wright Award for Creative Writing. Of the six winners, two that jumped out at me both came from middle schoolers—a vigorous spoken word piece by Sophia Rapacz that said everything I wish I’d had the wisdom to say back in junior high days, and an affecting, wistful memoir by Kira Greenfield that was written as part of a unit on watersheds, but took the topic in a completely unexpected direction.

Wright Award winners gather with judge and author Joyce Sidman.

Wright Award winners gather with judge and author Joyce Sidman.

The modern world may be infatuated with the digital realm, but there’s nothing like a solid, printed book to provide a direct link to the past 5,000 years of writers at work. The finest repositories of human cultural heritage are these simple paper rectangles that reveal so much of our highest and deepest aspirations. It comforts me to know that a new generation of writers stands ready to fill those pages.

Garland Jeffreys Cools It Down

12 November 2014

After seeing Garland do a sweeping, soulful set at the Dakota last weekend, I felt the need to exhume this never-published piece, from way back in the day (1981) . . .

This LP was blistering back in '81.

This LP was blistering “back in ’80—in ’80, ’81.”

It’s Thanksgiving Eve in Los Angeles, nearing midnight. Garland Jeffreys has just finished an MTV video shoot of an explosive, cinematically-oriented set of classic rockers at The Country Club. He’s given his all, and normally that would be enough. But tonight the show’s not over. The video crew wants one more number—out in the streets.

Backstage in his dressing room, Garland towels off, acknowledging well-wishers and strumming an acoustic guitar. His adrenalin is still on the run and even the ladies-in-waiting take side saddle to the ballad he’s humming along in tune to the guitar. His red satin shoes tap time to the beat.

A head pops through the door to announce “Time.” Garland flips on an army combat fatigue jacket and heads out the door, still strumming.

Outside, the crew has set up shop on the curb. They stand in a huddle of slick shoes and New York accents, shivering against the unexpected chill. Mixed in with them are LA promo people, photographers and various hangers-on. The potency of Garland’s onstage performance still has the group abuzz with energy and an exhilarating “over-but-not-yet-over” post-concert high.

Across the street is a grotty dead-end bar whose neon lights spell out RUMBLE IN. Parked along the front curb is a cold, metallic line of Harleys, chopped to the bone. In the shadows of the bar’s entrance lurk brooding bikers, bearded hulks half-savage with drink and glowering darkly at what they take to be an invasion of their turf.

Garland stands out alone in the street, five foot five and looking his age, under a single streetlamp, tucked up inside his fatigue jacket, strumming a ballad to the night.

“What can I say

it happened that way

I’m the freak of the family . . .”

One of the bikers—so drunk he’s almost harmless—totters across the street and into camera range, spoiling the take. Everybody gets reset.

Take 2 is spoiled by motors in the distance.

The drunk—who gives off a considerable odor—is stumbling in and out of the video crew, who sneak nervous glances at his compatriots across the street and pray that they don’t decide to join him.

The onlookers huddle protectively closer, as if the coldness itself were coming from the dark massed bodies reflected in the neon gleaming off the line of Harleys.

Take 3 . . . the drunk gives a throaty laugh and lunges for the camera, falling to one knee before he can do any damage. He starts singing a maudlin, off-key song of his own.

Garland thrums his guitar abruptly and says, “Get this guy out of here before he pukes on my shoes.”

The drunk is cajoled back onto his feet and diplomatically detoured away. Filming recommences. The cold is ever more noticeable.

“What can I say . . .”

Garland starts up again, and this time something catches hold. It’s a special moment, a freeze frame of rock ‘n’ roll life that holds its meaning within itself: Garland Jeffreys, a blood mix of us all, a ghostwriter of years’ and more years’ standing, is singing hot clouds of steamy breath out into the cold night air. Alone in the streets he sings, under-sized inside his army fatigues, age lines etched across his face: a street poet all ready for combat.

“Here I stand black and white as can be . . .”

Just like the album cover.

The single “Matador” went Top 5 across Europe.

Alone in the streets he sings, the bright lights of show biz and welcoming faces in front of him—but at his back, like the chill wind that runs across his neck, he can feel something else, something harsh and cold as the neon that says without speaking: RUMBLE IN. Behind him skulk the brooding bikers, midnight sentinels of America’s dark edge of violence. They pace and mutter and watch.

The crew is still and silent. Garland sings from somewhere deep inside himself, no band behind him, no electricity, just heart.

“Here I stand black and white as can be . . .

And I give you this ballad of me.”

There is a silence when he stops. People stare at their feet and think private thoughts.

Garland takes off his guitar. The moment is over. Now it’s just another night on the road.

A visionary even then . . .

A visionary even then . . .

And the beat goes on. The man is still kickin' it.

. . . and the man is still kickin’ it.

 

 

FLASHBACK: “Why Put the Bomp?”

22 October 2014

“Sha la la doo bee wah bum bum bum yip yip bum”

—background vocals on Roy Orbison’s “Blue Angel”

Roy Orbison contemplates how to tell the Teen Kings that he's replacing them with a set of female singers who can actually get their lips around that tricky "Blue Angel" chant.

Roy Orbison contemplates how to tell the Teen Kings that he’s replacing them with a set of female singers who can actually get their lips around that tricky “Blue Angel” chant.

Say what?

How many times have you asked yourself, “What are those guys singing in the background?” I’m not just talking about supposed messages buried in the mix, though I’ve seen entire parties break up in an argument over whether or not the muffled sounds on “Revolution #9” heralded Paul’s death or the directions to the backstage area at the Isle of Wight Festival. I’m thinking of the secret thrill of suddenly catching the counter rhythm of The Who’s relentless fade-out chorus on “I Can See For Miles” and riding it across the airwaves like a steam train pounding through oblivion. I’m thinking of pre-teen nights in my grandparents’ parlor, soft-tuning the radio to forbidden rock ‘n’ roll and coming on the sweet, slick onomatopoeia of the backing singers on Bobby Day’s “Rockin Robin” going tweet, tweet, tweedileedeelee . . . tweedily deedily dee . . .

I know I wasn’t the only one out there earballing transistors for mumbled jive either. Phil Spector took a good close listen to the Shirelles’ “I Met Him on a Sunday” with its chorus of:

Do ronde ronde ronde

boppa do ronde ronde ronde

boppa doo . . . ooohhh

and found a way to play off those lines in his classic “Da Doo Ron Ron.” The Tokens must have huddled around many a jukebox pumping early East Coast group harmonies before they learned to use them for the A-wim a-away chant on “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.”

So what, you say? It still sounds like nonsense—and what’s that got to do with rock ‘n’ roll? Well, sometimes it’s nonsense. Sometimes it’s not. Since backing vocals never seem to get included on the lyric sheet the temptation is great to overlook them, but whether it’s the Cadillacs mouthing whop wah diddle it on “Speedo” or The Clash singing “I don’t want to die, I don’t want to kill” underneath “The Call Up,” those voices in the background are as important a part of the song’s effect as the bass patterns or the sax riffs.

For one thing, they provide vocal texture. And to the extent that rock ‘n’ roll embraces black music forms, it has always been built around vocal texture. You didn’t think the Beach Boys sold all those records because people fancied Mike Love’s whine, did you? Or think of the haunting background on Dr. John’s voodooized “Gris-Gris” (gris gris gumbo ya ya, hey now bumbo ya ya). The mood darkens, the fog rolls in, and spirits walk the night. Be it work songs, gospel choirs or Caribbean rhyming games, Afro-American music finds its deepest expression in the interweaving of human voices.

The appearance of background mouthings in rock ‘n’ roll springs from the close harmony “barbershop” style of singing that developed on New York street corners in the late forties and early fifties. Known to rock ‘n’ roll fans as Doo Wop, the style was popularized by groups who featured a wailing wordless melody behind the lead singer. The so-called “bird groups”—Orioles, Ravens, Robins, and the like—all used it well, but one of the most effective is the simple ba-dah-dah repetition on the Moonglows’ “Sincerely.” The Five Satins fueled many a curbside cuddle by taking this approach to extremes in the droning, moaning harmony chant behind “(I’ll Remember) In the Still of the Night.”

While backing vocals’ main contribution is often as a re-emphasis of a song’s immediate thrust, their role doesn’t need to be limited to that. On Ray Charles’ “Hit the Road, Jack,” the Raelettes break out of their presumed backing role to all but overwhelm poor Ray (an incisive parallel to the song’s theme). In similar fashion, I have yet to listen to Ike and Tina Turner’s “I Think It’s Gonna Work Out Fine” without getting goosebumps over the sly, sexy interchange between Tina baiting the hook and Ike dodging the lure (TINA: “They used to call you the Thriller . . .”; IKE: “The Killer, baby, the Killer . . .”)

Ike and Tina work that old-time washboard sound.

Ike and Tina work that old-time washboard sound.

And in Ike and Tina’s “A Fool in Love,” African call-and-response patterns are used in a moving dialogue between singer and chorus:

TINA: “Oh, there’s something on my mind; won’t somebody please, please tell me what’s wrong?”

IKETTES: “You’re just a fool, you know you’re in love.”

TINA: “What you say?”

IKETTES: “You got to make it to live by yourself . . .”

This passing on of an underlying message may be the most important role played by backing vocals. Outsiders can be mocked with impunity and insiders can giggle over retorts that sometimes undercut a song with hidden irony. Check out the mid-sixties Equals’ tune “Baby, Come Back.” (“Please don’t!” shouts someone in the background.)

This sly solidarity of in-the-know rockers can be found underlying many a song, but sometimes the implied joke doesn’t even reach insiders. The Beatles have been accused of hiding messages backwards and forwards in their songs, but the only one Paul McCartney admits to never even gets mentioned (the tit tit tit behind the verses of “Girl.”)

Some songs take things right over the top and elevate nonsense syllables to lead status, as in the Rivingtons’ “Papa-Oom-Mow-Mow,” which contains almost no real lyrics at all. Even that is taken to further extremes in what I like to think of as the very first “dub” version of a rock ‘n’ roll song—The Trashmen’s “Surfin’ Bird.”

But even nonsense syllables can carry a symbolic content. One fine example of this is the Silhouettes’ “Get a Job”:

Yip yip yip yip yip yip

Sha na na na

Sha na na na na (repeated four times)

(ba doom)

Yip yip yip yip yip yip

Bum bum bum bum

Get a job . . .

The Silhouettes—happy that they've found a job.

The Silhouettes—happy that they’ve found a job.

Here we catch the parent’s nagging through the ears of the kid: just so much jive talking that always focuses on the final line—get a job.

In some ways, the use of nonsense syllables represents a core concept of rock ‘n’ roll: the need to hold on to the jungle; to the non-rational, nonlinear thought forms of an earlier, more gut-wrenching age. When the Showmen sing a repeating chorus (in “It Will Stand”) of “Rock ‘n’ roll will stand, scooby doo be doo,” there is a feeling that these two lines belong together. That so long as this kind of atavistic mindset remains in force (wherein scooby doo be doo is a legitimate response to the world) rock ‘n’ roll will indeed stand.

Perhaps this is something of what Barry Mann had in mind when he sang in “Who Put the Bomp?”:

Who put the bomp

In the bomp shoo bomp shoo bomp?

Who put the ram

in the ram-a-lama ding dong?

Who was that man?

I’d like to shake his hand.

He made my baby 

fall in love with me.

What’s it matter who put the bomp? The important thing is, it’s there.

This article was previously published in One Shot, Vol. 2 Issue 1, Fall 1991 and The Northfield Magazine, Vol. 4 No. 4, 1991.

Jeter Walks Off; Yankee Pantheon Expands

1 October 2014

Right to the end, he rose to the occasion. That last game at Yankee Stadium and the improbably slim chance of coming to the plate again—walk-off base hit. Ending it all at Fenway Park—after years of boos raining down, this time with the crowd chanting his name to mimic the Bleacher Creatures in New York—legging out an RBI single. Twenty years in the limelight and Derek Jeter has always known how to deliver.

What's this? His millionth press conference? Yet he still looks fresh.

What’s this? His millionth press conference? Yet he still looks fresh.

It’s easy for a diehard Yankee fan like myself to eulogize Jeter, but I’ll spare you the gushing praise. That’s easily enough found, particularly from his peers and other baseball insiders. I shall content myself with a handful of statistics and a few pithy statements. But before we get too serious, here’s a sidelong glance at Jeter off the field, where, remarkably, signs of jealousy never reached the press:

Talk about a Murderer's Row lineup . . .

Talk about a Murderer’s Row lineup . . .

 

But here’s where my focus lands: Professional baseball has been played since 1869. In all that time: Only 5 other players collected more hits. Only 8 other players scored more runs. Only 26 other players own more World Series Championship rings. (They’re all Yankees, except for Eddie Collins.) In the post-season, nobody has played more games (158), gotten more hits (200), or scored more runs (111). Dig that—the equivalent of an entire extra season spent against the fiercest competition and Jeter’s production remained at an all-star level.

Jeter and Mariano Rivera savor the reason they play the game.But when the furor dies down, and we all go back to checking court dockets for the next trial involving a star athlete, Yankees Universe will have added a glittering star to its firmament. Playing for the most storied baseball franchise of all time, in the long shadow cast by the Yankees’ Mount Rushmore—Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Joe DiMaggio and Mickey Mantle (to say nothing of the elite second tier of legends who include Yogi Berra, Mariano Rivera and Whitey Ford)—Jeter has become the all-time Yankee leader in these categories: Games (2,747), At-bats (11,195), Hits (3,465), Doubles (544) and Stolen Bases (358). He’s also second to the Babe in Runs, with 1,923.

But maybe these final statements sum it up best from the team’s perspective:
He’s been the longest-serving Captain in Yankee history (2003-14).
Not only will his number be retired, but we can expect a plaque in Yankee Stadium’s Monument Park—and just possibly, a statue.
He was the last of the single-digit Yankees: Billy Martin (1), Jeter (2), Ruth (3), Gehrig (4), DiMaggio (5), Joe Torre (6), Mantle (7), Berra and Bill Dickey (8) . . . and Roger Maris (9). The trophy case is closed.

Mackinac Island: Where the Great Lakes Pivot

10 September 2014

Summer travels were brief this year, but a ferry excursion across Lake Michigan and thence up the lake’s eastern side offered an unexpected dip into history, and some intriguing night excursions.

At five miles long, the Mackinac Bridge is the third-longest suspension bridge in the world.

At five miles long, the Mackinac Bridge is the third-longest suspension bridge in the world.

The three huge “upper” Great Lakes—Superior, Michigan, Huron—all come together near the Straits of Mackinac (Superior is actually a bit north). The Straits separate the Upper and Lower Peninsulas of the state of Michigan, as well as dividing Lakes Michigan and Huron. Until the enormous suspension bridge was built in 1959, ferries connected the peninsulas.

Today, those fleeing Detroit and the other southern Michigan cities can speed over the Straits on a toll road and head for Canada. But a more interesting option is to put in at either St. Ignace (on the UP), or Mackinaw City (yes, the city spells its name that way even though the island and the straits do not) and grab a 20 minute ferry ride out into Lake Huron and lost-in-time Mackinac Island.

This classic 50's poster spotlights the island's location in the middle of the Great Lakes.

This classic 50’s poster spotlights (inaccurately) the island’s location in the middle of the Great Lakes.

Most of the island is a National Park and has been since 1875. The remaining section features 19th century vacation cottages, hotels, boarding houses and the like. Automobiles were banned almost as soon as they appeared on the island, back at the dawn of the 20th century. They scared the horses, and one thing that remains evident about Mackinac Island is that a working “horse culture” remains extant. Big-footed drays haul the islanders’ supplies off the ferries, serve as mobile amusement ride for carriages of visitors, thrill novice riders as they tromp along the high woods paths of the island’s interior . . . and offer the UPS man a seat on a hay bale as he delivers his packages.

The only rival to the horses are the masses of rental bikes that visitors use to tool around the backstreets of town, or out on the island byways. It all makes for a delightful pace of life. We rented a tandem and circumnavigated the island, using Highway 185—the only highway in the USA where cars are forbidden.

Highway 185 circles Mackinac Island. The easy 8 mile journey offers access to the tougher roads of the interior as well.

Highway 185 circles Mackinac Island. The easy 8 mile journey offers access to the tougher roads of the interior as well.

The centerpiece of the island, in many people’s minds, is the vast and magnificent Grand Hotel. Given that it costs $10 just to be allowed on the grounds, and even tea runs $30/person, we opted to view its splendor from afar.

Horses are the glue (sorry) that holds the island together, even the Grand Hotel.

Horses are the glue (sorry) that holds the island together, even the Grand Hotel.

To us, the real centerpiece is Fort Mackinac, set on the bluff overlooking the harbor. The fort was built in the 1790’s, which is when the US finally took possession of the island from the British. The gun towers still command the harbor, with views stretching off to the mainland, and the long, gallant line of the Mackinac Bridge. But unlike so many other US forts, this one did see battle. In fact, the very first battle of the War of 1812 was fought over the island. British forces on a nearby island learned of the outbreak of war before any of the American population did. The British sneaked onto the northern end of Mackinac, and advanced on the fort from its rear, less defensible position. Vastly outnumbered, the US garrison surrendered, and the island remained in British possession throughout the war. It was finally returned to the US as part of the peace treaty process.

We stayed east of the Harbor, in the shadow of St. Anne’s church, and one night were treated to hours of vibrant, swaying Pentecostal choir singing. It dawned on us that the singers were part of the hidden population of summer labor. Tucked into sagging boarding houses along side streets are hundreds of young workers from around the globe. We encountered folks from other parts of the US, from Europe, Latin America, Asia—and most of all, Jamaica. It all made for quite a lively scene after dark. Easy to imagine the bonds being built over the course of a summer.

St. Anne's Church by night. The stained glass windows include an eye in a pyramid.

St. Anne’s Church by night. The stained glass windows include an eye in a pyramid.

Similar bonds seemed to exist among many of our fellow visitors. We were struck by how many couples we encountered visit the island on a regular basis, extending their earlier memories and revisiting familiar haunts. That’s hardly our style, but one could do much worse than spend more lazy afternoons sitting on the garden verandah of Haan’s 1830 Inn, watching the cyclists head off to Arch Rock and contemplating the dining options ahead.

Horse carriages wait out the rain beneath the spreading bulk of Fort Mackinac.

Horse carriages wait out the rain beneath the spreading bulk of Fort Mackinac.

FLASHBACK: “Twist At the End”

M&L Yankees try to keep it together for a team photo.

1999 M&L Yankees try to keep it together for a team photo. Front row: , L to R: Olajowun Edmunds, Will Lehman, Robbie Punch, Zak Prauer, Tyler Halva, Jonathon Kretman, Brian Spindler. Back row, L to R: Coach Stephen Lehman, Donovan McCain, Peter Oleson, Jimmy Shoemaker, Cole Woodward, Alex Gabriel, Thomas Van Geldern

13 August 2014

Even a year or two later, when the subject comes up, our left fielder Thomas’ dad is still saying, “Gotta be the wildest play in baseball I’ve ever seen.” And that next winter, when we appear unexpectedly to sign up for the Winter Dome League, the head coach greets us with, “Now we set. I can still see that play, man. Oh yeah—we gonna be fine at catcher.”

For Alex, my son, it marked the end of an era. He’d been playing ball in our local Little League—St. Paul-Midway—since he was seven years old, and the youngest kid in the league. I’d been his coach each year, up through the seasons of “coach-pitch” ball, then Double A with it’s “no stealing” rules and finally, the pinnacle of our league, Triple A ball.

Alex was the catcher, all the way, ever since he’d begged me back in that first year to let him put on the battered, over-sized shin guards and chest protector. I tried to tell him, “Whoever heard of a seven year-old catcher?” but the shine in his eyes made me relent. At first you could hardly see him underneath all the equipment, but bit by bit he fought his way along, handling wild pitches and high heat, balls in the dirt and base stealers gunning for third. By the time he was twelve, he was one of the two best catchers in the league. The other was Josh, whose dad also coached and, as a consequence, the two boys were rivals. Good-natured, respectful of each other, but rivals nonetheless.

Alex was well-satisfied with his Little League career. The only problem was that we’d never made it to the championship game. This was a big deal in our neighborhood. The Double A and Triple A championships were the centerpieces of the all-day Little League Carnival which was our season’s finale. To top it off, the games were televised live by our local cable TV company. Yet each year we found ourselves in the bleachers watching other teams slug it out for glory. Something was clearly missing.

Finally, in Alex’s twelve year-old season—his last year of eligibility—we managed to reach the championship. As the Yankees, we finished third in the league and then fought our way through a tough five game playoffs to come up against the mighty first place Orioles. At last! Our own chance at glory.

The Orioles were built around three players; the three J’s, we called them. Two were their pitchers—a pair of lefties named Justin and Jon. The other was Josh, that rival of Alex’s for best catcher around.

The game came down to the bottom of the 6th and final inning, with us up 2-0. We had our ten year-old phenom, Robbie, on the mound to close, but coming up was the top of the Orioles’ order. To further complicate matters, our right fielder had been hit by a fast ball in the leg in his last at-bat, and as he tried to run out onto the field he realized he couldn’t go. We pulled him in to the bench, sent out for ice packs, and began to scramble our lineup.

We kept ace defender Jimmy at second. Donovan came off the bench to play first, our first baseman Cole moved to short, and our shortstop, Willie, was sent out to a position he had never played—right field. Some people might wonder about this—why stick your shortstop in right, particularly if he’d never played there?—but it was his dad, Steve Lehman, my co-coach, who suggested it. Two of the Orioles’ Big Three were lefties; there might just be a key play in that direction.

M&L Yankees dig in (Cole Woodward at SS; Olajawon Edmunds @ 3B) behind Robbie Punch.

M&L Yankees dig in (Cole Woodward at SS; Olajowun Edmunds at 3B; Thomas Van Geldern in LF) behind Robbie Punch. The white prison bulk of St. Paul Central High—where several team members later starred—looms in the background.

So with this jury-rigged lineup we hit the field. Right off the bat we got a grounder to short—a clean play by Cole and a good stretch by Donovan at first. One away—and already two of our position switches had been tested.

Up came Justin, who hit another hard smash to short. A repeat—except the ump claimed Donovan pulled his foot off the bag at first. Runner safe. Now Josh hit a rocket to left center for a single. Men on first and second, one out, and big Jon coming to the plate. Jon was the top home run hitter in the league and suddenly our 2-0 lead looked very precarious. If he went yard here, the game would be over.

Alex set up on the outside of the plate, away from Jon’s left-handed power, but when the pitch came in, Jon rocked it high and deep to right. That ball seemed to hang up there forever. If it cleared the fence, we’d lost. If Willie could catch it, the runners would be tagging and advancing. . . .

Every eye, every body bent forward, watching. And then—the ball dropped in fair along the far right field foul line, nearly at the fence. The runners exploded off their bases. Surely one run would score and quite possibly two, which would mean a tie game with big Jon still circling the bases.

But Willie picked the ball up and heaved it—an incredible heave—all the way in the air to our pitcher Robbie, who’d correctly moved to the midpoint between third and home, thinking he’d be the back-up if there was a throw to either base.

Amazingly, even Justin, who’d started from second, had to hold at third. Mentally, I was going, Wow! What a throw! And . . . OK, bases loaded, one out, now we’ve got to . . . when the fans erupted. Jon, who’d hit the ball, was racing towards second, sure that he’d get at least a double. But second base was already occupied.

Shouts from the stands—from both benches—from players on the field. Jon threw on the brakes halfway to second and began to retreat to first. Robbie, who’d been making sure the runner at third held, turned, double-pumped, then fired the ball to Donovan at first. Donovan threw down the tag just as Jon slid back in and they both went down in a heap.

The base ump signaled out (OK, I thought, that’s number two) and Donovan, tangled on the ground, held the ball aloft in his glove in triumph.

But the play wasn’t over. As soon as Robbie had fired to first, Josh’s dad, coaching third base for the Orioles, sent the runner in from third. He scored easily (2-1 now), with Alex standing just in front of the plate, screaming for the ball. Donovan didn’t see. He was still tangled up and still thrilled he’d held on and only now, when Josh, who’d started the play at first, and moved to second on the hit, was waved around third and on in to home, did Donovan begin to grasp that events were still transpiring.

Alex was jumping up and down, up and down, waving and yelling for the ball. But in one section of my mind, while I too yelled to Donovan (“Home! Throw home!”) I knew we’d blown it, it was too late, Josh was too fast to catch now.

And then, at last, Donovan struggled to his feet and fired home. Alex was set in perfect position, but I could see that even if he caught the ball cleanly and turned, as catchers always do, counter-clockwise back to the third base line to put down the tag, it would be too late.

The moment of the throw—between Donovan releasing and Alex catching—seemed a near eternity and, always, there was Josh pounding ever closer down the line.

Then, in an exploding instant, Alex pulled in the ball and whirled—not the usual way, but clockwise, twisting himself backwards to plant glove and ball directly on the front edge of the plate where Josh’s foot was just coming in on a slide. Ball down, foot hits, catcher holds on!

Umpire: “Yer outta there!”

Game over, we’re champs. The ballpark explodes and Alex, through it all, is leaping and jumping and twisting some more and holding on to that dang ball. Final play of his Little League career.

“Wildest play in baseball I’ve ever seen,” says Thomas’ dad.

This piece originally appeared in Elysian Fields Quarterly, Vol. 21 No. 4, 2004.

1999 Triple A Champs from M&L Sports. What an array of coaching talent!

1999 Triple A Champs—the M&L Sports Yankees. What an array of coaching talent! (Jeff Prauer, Donovan McCain Sr., Roger Kretman, Stephen Lehman, Daniel Gabriel, Bill Shoemaker) Front row, L to R: Jimmy Shoemaker, Will Lehman, Robbie Punch, Zak Prauer, Olojowun Edmunds, Thomas Van Geldern. Second row, L to R: Alex Gabriel, Cole Woodward, Jonathon Kretman, Dane Nelson, Donovan McCain, Peter Oleson, Brian Spindler.