October Music

MINI Power!

Office Life

The Bloody Goof

"Of course they're all bloody twits. That's the point. It'd be such a bloody goof! And it'll be a grand," she said. "Just imagine those Catholic kids trying to dance! They'll expect some nice little band, but it'll be us! It'll be such a bloody g-o-o-f, man!" 

So it came to pass, Andy & The Ampersands occupied the stage for St. David's Catholic High School 1967 senior prom. Chalk it up to Andy's salesmanship, and some clever sleight of hand.

The Amps were rich kids from Chicago's posh suburbs, high school dropouts who spent their days getting stoned and listening to imported 45's, EPs, and LPs of their fave-rave UK bands: The Pretty Things, The King Bees, The Animals, Them, The Lower Third, The Yardbirds, The Mojos, et al. 

Much time and energy was invested in The Amps' image. Onstage, a uniform: knee-high black suede boots, black jodhpurs, long-sleeve orange safari shirts buttoned to the neck, wraparound shades, and Brian Jones-style bowl cuts, dyed silver. The only variation, was drummer Andy's top hat. Even their instruments were art-directed: the guitar and bass were Mosrite Ventures models, repainted metalflake orange, with black pickguards. True to form, the Ludwig drums were orange metalflake.

The effect was Halloween on Carnaby Street with a twist of stormtrooper chic. 

Long on image, yet short on aptitude and practice. Practice time? Perish! Forbid! No fun! Better to get high and listen to records. 

Even less time and energy was expended on writing songs. They tried once, but, man, that was work! Less resistance to stick to other people's songs, the ones painted in three primary chords - five, tops - and let it go at that. Thus, psychedelic versions of "Gloria," "Tobacco Road," "In The Midnight Hour," "Wild Thing," etc. The Amps could squawk their way through a blues, even if their blues were learnt via UK vinyl, not South Side clubs a stone's throw away, so to speak.

Inspired by the Warhol Factory, they renamed themselves: Lincoln Davis became Link Raye Vupp (guitar). The rest were, Jan American (bass), Andy Anti (drums) and Vera Loverly (vocals).

They hung out together every single day, mostly in Andy's room, it wallpapered in silver foil, a Personality Poster of Theda Bara push-pinned over his unmade bed. "Keith is just so bloody cool, man," said Vera while listening to "December's Children," staring at the LP jacket in her hand, "but Brian's cooler..." She nodded slowly, agreeing with herself, stubbed out her Marlboro in an overflowing ashtray, shoved a fistful of potato chips into her face, took a long swig of Tab.

Andy said, "Hey! Watch what you're doin', ya maroon! Don't get no greasy crumbs or fingerprints on my record cover!" From a corner, Jan grunted. (Opining or just passed out? Passed out.)

Offstage they dressed in mod civvies, but always wore the shades, even at the movies. Once when they were leaving a Hammer double-feature, an old man with a cane who'd been in the audience approached them and said, "I don't mean to pry, but I couldn't help but notice, you young people wearing sunglasses while viewing a motion picture. Do you have optical problems? I don't mean to be a busybody, but to think that youngsters could have serious…"

They cracked up. "No, Gramps, we wear 'em 'cause it's cool to wear sunglasses in the movies! Haven't you heard the word, bird? It's cool, man... real cool..." They strolled away, laughing, leaving the geezer baffled.

The Amps' amps, two Vox Super Beatles, had been customized in a fashion, an icepick used to punch tiny holes in all of the 12" speakers, so every song, without fail, was totally fuzzed-out, guitar and bass. Jan just picked root notes, and Link slammed out barre chords. His leads consisted of grasping the strings all way up the fretboard, while havin' at it with the whammy bar, creating unearthly noise. Sometimes he'd zero in on a single note, bend and strangle it, throttle it in and out of tonal range. His technique rested volume and distortion, allowing the amp do the heavy lifting.

Andy was every inch as primitive. His kit was limited to a bass drum, a snare and a single cymbal. He kept a one-two bass-snare beat going, punctuated with an occasional martial roll. Once in a blue moon he'd smirk and hit the cymbal, just for the fuckin' hell of it, man.

They'd rolled into the St. David's that evening in the Ampmobile, a black metalflake hearse, their logo in orange enamel. They marched their equipment indoors, set up, then back to the parking lot to get high until showtime. The glove compartment stash included opiated hash, Sandoz, black beauties, and yellow jackets. Getting busted wasn't a fear. Their parents were influential, one dad very chummy with local pols, a mom a famously aggressive attorney. Any cop dumb enough to bust these kiddies would be looking for a brand new job, toot sweet.

(As for neighbors annoyed by the racket coming out of Andy's garage? Tough tarts. Just be glad that practice is more of a rarity than some of their import EPs.)

After stumbling through their first few numbers, Vera said, "This next one wowed 'em at the Vatican... Yeah, real swingin' crowd, they loved us... The dope - AH MEAN - the pope tried to lay some of his birth control jive on me, an' Ah told him, you don't play-a the game, you don't make-a the rules, Paulie baby! Hey... what'd Ah say? Are you tryin' t' tell me you fellas don't have condoms in your wallets for this, THEE BIG NIGHT? Yeah, it might rain - wear your rubbers! Ah think Ah just heard a pin drop..." Andy added a little ba-dump-bump, hit the cymbal, tipped his top hat to the fuming teens and chaperones.

"Anyhooooo, we'd like to send this next one out to all the brave soldiers in Vietnam. Yeah, this one's for the... VIET CONG!"

Crew-cut and pimply Donald Jarzabek made a lunge for the stage, but was restrained by Brother Michael and Father McCoffin. He screeched, "YOU COMMIE PUNKS! MY BROTHER'S OVER THERE! GETTING SHOT AT!" It was an impotent screech,

mercilessly drowned by the bass and drums lurching into "I Can't Explain."

BRAT! BRAT-DAT! BRAT! BRAT-DAT! BRAT! BRAT-DAT! 

The cinderblock walls shook as if a Brontosaurus was waltzing the dance-floor fantastic. 

BRAT! BRAT-DAT! BRAT! BRAT-DAT! BRAT! BRAT-DAT! 

Then Link jumped up, twirled in mid-air (to Vera he seemed to come down in slow motion), landing in front of his amp, holding his guitar flat against the speaker cabinet, creating a high-pitched feedback SQUEAL, a tea-kettle whistle magnified well beyond the threshold of pain:

WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET!!!

BRAT! BRAT-DAT! BRAT! BRAT-DAT! BRAT! BRAT-DAT! 

Vera was pretty toasted, and they'd only practiced this song once, so she ad-libbed some lyrics, a hand on her forehead, elbow jutted out:

"Got a feeling upside...

It's, um, Chunky wide... 

Feelin' hotter 'n hell...

Yeah, whoa, wotta… smell...

"I said ... Can't 'splain!

I'm looooped now, yeah... Can't 'splain!

"Fizzy in the head and I'm feelin' sick...

The things you said, well, they sure sound thick...

I'm gettin' horny dreams again and again...

I snow when it skis, but...

(WAP! WAP! from the snare.)

"Can't 'splain...

I think it's lust...

When I see naked chicks…

I wanna BUST!"

Link's solo, five or six minutes of:

SKREEEEEEEEEEECHvzzrrrt-slpitzzzzzz-BGRRRRTTT!!! FzzzzZZZZittTTT! BreEEEEeeeT4#@TT!!!

"Woozy in the gut and I'm real bad...

The things you said got me psycho mad...

Somethin', somethin', hmm, yeah, real sad...

"Yeah, yeah, yeah... CAN'T 'SPLAIN!!! 

I'm gonna need a trank! 

Woop! I'm a worried skank!"

The Catholic boys - an army in rent-a-tux, reeking stench of English Leather - and the Catholic girls - a sea of satin gowns and shellacked Great Society hair - tried, vainly and desperately, to dance in their stiff manner to this noise. Tried! It was the prom, after all! The senior prom, dammit! They had looked forward to it! All four years of high school! But it was impossible to discern a danceable beat! Who was responsible for hiring these jerks?!?

Next, the band lurched into a ballad, "Sorrow."

"With your long blond hair and your eyes of blue...

The only thing I ever got from you...

Was sorrow! Sorrow!"

Vera placed a hand over her heart (was she playing with her nipple?!) and sang on:

"You're acting funny, try to spend my money...

You're out there playing your half-ass games...

Of sorrow! Sorrow!"

She strutted around the stage, danced a little, doubled over with the microphone stand, some of her moves copped from Jagger, and continued, mugging:

"You never do what you know you owt-tuh...

Something tells me you're the Devil's daw-tuh...

Sorrow! Sorrow! Boo, hoo, HOO!"

An electric current, buzzed and throbbed through the crowd, chaperones and teens alike. Anger, smoldering anger, waves of it… The precious once-in-a-lifetime night subverted, in ruins, Dresden carpet-bombed. 

And you paid us a thousand bucks! Ha HA!

They lugged their gear to the Ampmobile, laughing, feeling blurry and smug and triumphant - until they saw it: tires slashed, windows smashed, broken glass scattered on the pavement, on the seats, glittering pieces glinting like diamonds on black velvet under the full moon. Then, emerging from the shadows, Jarzabek with a Bowie knife, and a half-dozen of his buddies, clutching tire irons, no adults to restrain their savage instincts.

Television

"Why do you call him Mouse? He's not a mouse! He'd like to eat a mouse!"

Sunlight poured through the picture window, glinted off cut glassware, glazed a coffee-table top, created a square of warmth that Mouse dozed in, one paw stretched, his tail twitching occasionally.

The television was on, a Western in progress, two cowboy pals riding horses, chasing after outlaws. An old woman and a little curly-haired boy sat on her sofa, watching. He liked it now, just them.

Initially, his older sister came along. Wendy's choice of programs bored him. At eight-years-of-age, she yearned for a sophistication of sorts: Art Linkletter, Virginia Graham, "The Edge of Night."

But her interest in these afternoons waned. Now it was just Mouse, Miss Gardner and her "gentleman caller." The phrase sailed over his five-year-old head, but he enjoyed being called that. And he enjoyed being doted on. Without Wendy, he got all the oatmeal cookies and his choice of the television fare: Westerns, "The Cisco Kid" at the top of the list.

Mouse was mouse gray with white paws and a white belly and a white vee on his face. He rose from a patch of sun, arched his back, lazed over for attention, then trotted to the kitchen, stopping half-way to shake a rear leg.

Miss Gardner wore flower print dresses and carried a scent of lilac; her was hair salt and pepper. She lived alone, just Mouse and her. Whatever the boy said, she weighed as if it bore great import. He liked that. He told her, "When I grow up I'll be the Cisco Kid. And you can be Pancho!" She nodded while looking into his eyes and said, "We'll have six-shooters. You'll ride a golden palomino, and I'll a spotted roan. When we see banditos, we'll shoot 'em dead!" She held up her hand like a pistol, index finger pointed, thumb cocked, and said, "Pow! Pow!" Seated on the couch, his feet kicked a little.

No one else ever had time to listen to much of what he to say. Wendy dismissed him as a pest. When his parents said mm-hm, he knew they weren't really listening. But Miss Gardner heard.

He came over almost every day until one day he didn't.

There was no formal break or good-bye. He was just a little older, suddenly too old to spend afternoons with an old woman, even if she offered cookies. Now he had friends his own age, new kids, right across the street. They chased after Indians or Germans, then cars and girls. From her living room window, as Mouse slept, she could see them.

He grew taller. His once-soft features defined a little, crept to adulthood. His curls lengthened. They'd see each other once in a blue moon at the market or the post office. One summer she hired him to mow the lawn. But they didn't talk very much; their era was of its time. Then one morning, getting the paper from her porch, she saw the moving van.

By evening it was packed, and the family, the boy, gone.

He swiped the plastic card through the metal slot, opened the door. Another Marriott room. At 61 he was sick of them; he'd hoped to be done with this. But the best laid plans of mice and early retirement went up in the poof that was 2008. That meant more conferences, more years. So be it. At least they had some money, and their health.

With time, his vitality was replaced with gray and sag, crease and ache. The curls displaced by a thinning business cut. He told himself, "I need to start exercising," but he knew he wouldn't. Before mixing a scotch and soda at the mini-bar, he stripped out of his suit, down to a comfy T-shirt, boxers and socks, set the AC at a gentle cool, thinking, "I'd prefer the option of opening a goddamn window."

Sitting on the edge of the bed, remote in one hand, drink in the other, randomly clicking through the 500 channels, he happened on something that rang a distant bell, an old B&W TV Western featuring a heroic Mexican and his silly sidekick. "Huh," he thought, "I remember this show! I haven't seen it in a million years..."

It triggered memories: lilac, oatmeal cookies, a cat napping in sunlight.

The distant bell's chime grew louder, those afternoons with Miss Gardner. She'd seemed so ancient back then, older than his parents. But in retrospect she was only been 50 or so. "Younger than I am today," he thought.

What could've happened to her? She can't be alive. How did she die? I hope it wasn't painful. Was she alone? God, I hope it wasn't painful...

The program played on. Lost in thought, he wasn't conscious of horses galloping in a desert, saloon slugfests, breaking glass, bullets ricocheting off boulders...

Without realizing he'd been drinking, his glass was empty. He got up to mix another, but part way there, stopped. His shoulders sagged, his face contorted, mourning days that were leafy with promise, afternoons that stretched to a far horizon, a lost time when he was the center of someone's universe.

The show came to its close.

"Good-bye, amigos!" said Cisco.

"See you, soon! Ha!" said Pancho.

Beatlemaniac

"Bee-oh! (Clap!) En-oh! (Clap!) Em-oh! (Clap!) Bonomo! Oh! Oh! Oh! (Clap!) It's Bonomo! Turkish! TAFFY!"

Donna, Patti and Deb were in this real good mood, singing, dancing down the hallway. It was real sweet and funny, them singing that commercial. They sounded good, they really did.

"Bee-oh! (Clap!) En-oh! (Clap!) Em-oh! (Clap!) Bonomo! Oh! Oh! Oh! (Clap!) It's Bonomo! Turkish! TAFFY!"

Of the three, Donna's the best looking. She's the best looking girl in the whole junior high, maybe even the entire world. I mean, name any movie star, and she puts 'em all to shame. She really does. Her hair's strawberry blonde, in a beehive. It always reminds me of the cotton candy you get at Coleman Brothers Carnival. And she's got these green eyes, like glass, and this spray of freckles across the tiniest nose. You wouldn't think a nose could be so cute, but hers is, and it hovers, like a hummingbird above a flower, over this easy smile. And her voice just sends me, it reminds me of church bells off in the distance, I swear. I love that voice.

Donna never wears makeup. All her friends do, but she doesn't. And she looks better than them, better than anyone, really. And today she was wearing a plaid skirt with suspenders, the hem short, above the knees, a white blouse with french cuffs and her really tuff little ankle-high black boots. I mean, she's just perfect. And the best part is, she's not the least bit stuck up, she's a really good kid. Some of the sharp girls are stuck up, but not Donna. I love that perfume she wears. All the sharp girls wear it. I should find out what it's called and buy a bottle someday, so I can sniff it whenever I want.

Yeah, I'm in love with Donna. I was from the moment I saw her, the first day of seventh grade, in home room, I'll never forget seeing her that first time. Sometimes we talk on the phone. I love her voice. After we hang up, I kiss the receiver, honest, I do.

If you saw her, you'd be in love with her, too. You really would. But Owen's her boyfriend. They've been going steady since, like, forever. Fifth grade, she told me. They'll get married someday, for sure. Still, I love her. I think about her all the time. I can't help it.

Anyway, the Bonomo song. That's how it began, the last day of seventh grade.

It's been quite a year, really, when you stop and think about it. I mean, it started off nice and fun, everything was Sugar Shack and My Boyfriend's Back, but then Kennedy got shot, and everyone seemed gloomy until just after New Year's. Then everything was Beatlemania, everyone was excited again with The Beatles and The Dave Clark Five and The Searchers and everything.

Just before Christmas vacation, though, there was one good day. Banjo Eyes, I mean, Mr. Gagliardi, cancelled gym class, we didn't have to suit up, and it was boys and girls together, he held a little dance right there in the gym for us. He said it was time we started preparing for sock hops and stuff. He played some 45's over the PA system: The Marvelettes, The Impressions and Major Lance. And Mickey's Monkey, I love that song, I really do. So we danced around, Twisting, Donna lost her footing, slipped a little, but caught herself without falling and said, "Woops! La dee dah!" never missing a beat. It's stuff like that that makes you love her even more, if that's possible.

At the very end, Mr. Gagliardi held up a 45 and said, "In my opinion this is the most significant popular song of 1963." He's a young guy, for a teacher, so he listens to WPOP and all, he's pretty sharp for a guy with banjo eyes, I'll give him that. Then he gave the record a spin.

"Deet! Dunt dunt dunt. Dunt dunt... Louie lew EYE aye... We gotta go now, yi, yi, yi, yi... LET'S GO!"

Marvin says it's got dirty words, but no one can understand most of them, although I can make out some of them, and they are pretty dirty. Anyhow, that was a real good day even if Kennedy was dead and all.

I don't tell people this because I'm not exactly winning too many popularity contests, but I felt sorry for Oswald, when I saw him get shot. Don't get me wrong, I liked Kennedy and all, he seemed pretty sharp, and I felt bad for his wife and kids and all. But when I saw Oswald get shot, that's when I got real sad. Like I said, I don't tell that to people, but it is how I feel.

After The Beatles hit, it was Beatlemania: Beatle hours, Beatle magazines, Beatle cards and stuff. One day, Lenny, this real weakling kid, wore a Beatle wig to school and got some attention for once, he was kind of a hit for once. But when he went to the boys' room, a bunch of hoody kids, eighth-graders, were in there, smoking. They yanked the thing off Lenny's head and tossed it in a toilet. He started blubbering, said his sister bought it for him, and Stanley, the leader, called him a crybaby and told him The Beatles were fairies and told him to get the hell out, go piss in the girls' room with all the other girls. On the way out, Stanley gave Lenny a kick, a hard kick, on his behind. I think that was really uncalled for, that kick. I mean, Lenny was already crying, how much do you want out of a guy?

I never had money for Beatle records, but when the old lady's out of the house, I'd listen to them on the radio. I love The Beatles, not as much as I love Donna, but I do love them.

I remember when Mr. Deros intercepted that note Owen sent to Donna. He read it out loud to the class. And this is what it was, Owen had written out the lyrics to PS: I Love You. That was so tuff. We laughed and all, even Owen and Donna, especially the way Mr. Deros read it, all lovey-dovey, but, really, it was pretty tuff for Owen to do that. They'll get married someday. I wish I could hate Owen, but I can't, he's a real good kid. Actually, I'd like to be him, if you want to know. He has it made. I wish I was Owen.

The thing is, after school today, I got this real bright idea to skip the bus ride home, I'd walk it. My report card was real bad, one C, the rest D's, even worse than last semester. I was in no hurry to get home. So I walked, all the way down the long hill, around the corner, past The Pizza Palace and all the gas stations, stopping at the one with the '51 Ford custom, I love that car. It's candy apple green, so tuff. Then I got going again, along the factories, over the bridge - the air smells so good up there on the bridge, and spitting in the river is real fun. Then into town.

From town to home is one long walk, and I'd already had a real long walk, I was beat, but like I say, I was in no hurry to get home with this report card. My old lady's been the Creature From The Black Lagoon ever since the old man split. It's just the two of us in that crummy little house. There's times I've wished her dead, I swear. She's always on my case. It can drive me nuts. And with this report card, I knew I was done. Order the tombstone.

As long as I was in town, I figured, why not go to Woolworth's, thumb through the records? It don't cost nothing to look, as my old man used to tell me. I made a beeline to The Beatles bin, and when I saw Meet The Beatles, I just had to have it. But I don't have money, I don't have an allowance. My old man don't send us nothing, we're on relief, the idea of an allowance is a joke. Now, I know what Joey said: No one, not even him, has ever shoplifted even a 45 out of Woolworth's, let alone an album, on account of The Witch, this old bag who watches all us kids like a hawk, like we're mice for her to eat or something. But that made me want it all the more. And I remember seeing, on this TV show, that if you walk out a door, backwards, they won't notice, they'll actually think you're walking into the joint. And it was warm out, all the doors propped open. So I picked up the record, like I owned it, acting real casual - even if I was sweating icy bullets down my ribcage and my knees were flubber.

Anyhow I did it, just started walking backwards out the door, whistling. That's when I heard The Witch. "What do you think you're doing?! Come back here with that record, you little punk!"

I was shoving people out of the way, running down Main Street as fast as I could, as fast as you can run in these shoes. I mean, pointed toes, cuban heels - with cleats?! Try it sometime - in tight pants! My heart wasn't in my throat, it was in my mouth, I could practically spit it out on the sidewalk. Then I started skidding along on my cleats, slammed into a fat man, sent him sprawling. I heard his pants rip, he was cursing, but I had no time to learn some new swear words, I just kept going, sprinting, past McCann's Hardware, I knocked over a mom and her little boy, saw Bondi's Barbershop go by in a flash. Then a hard right, down Bank St., a left, up that hill, the big one, to where all the dormitories are for the college kids, until I knew I was safe. My sides hurt SO much, and I was gasping for air, like a drowning guy, but I was safe. And I owned Meet The Beatles.

I tore the plastic off the cover, a gust carried it away. Then I decided to lie on the lawn, face down. The cool grass felt so good, so refreshing, like Coca Cola, so I just stayed like that, holding my record. I could hear the college kids walking near me, one laughing, "What's with that kid? Did he die?"

I fell asleep.

I woke up, all groggy, it was getting dark and chilly, and I had a forty-five minute walk ahead of me, my legs were all shaky and I was thirsty as anything, no dough for a soda.

What a drag it was getting home to that dump with the peeling paint. I was dead tired, dying of thirst, my feet were blistered and killing me and I knew the old lady was going to slit my throat. I was scared. Exhausted and scared. Actually, I guess the word is dread. I was filled with dread.

I tried to sneak in, but she was at the door in a flash. You wouldn't believe a fossil could move so fast. She'd been in the kitchen dicing onions, chopping them to bits with the knife, the big one, but there she is, in front of me, yelling at me. I hate it when she yells. It drives me nuts, it really does, I can't stand her voice - even when she's not shouting.

"Where have you been?! Why weren't you on the bus?! Where's your report card?!"

Then she spots the record and says, "Where'd you get that? You don't have no money! Where'd you get that?!"

"A kid gave it to me."

She called me a liar, ripped the report card right out of my hand, sent my record flying, slapped my mouth. When she saw those grades, she exploded all over again, said I was no good, just like my old man, the drunk. Then she remembered the record, started in on that a second time. She knew I boosted it, she can read me like a book, she's like a gypsy fortuneteller. She slapped me across the face again and again. I screamed, "STOP IT! STOP IT! YOU'RE HURTING ME! WAIT A MINUTE! WAIT A MINUTE! WHAT'RE YOU SO MAD ABOUT?! AT LEAST I PASSED EVERYTHING! I WON'T HAVE TO REPEAT! A KID GAVE IT TO ME!"

I shielded my face with my hands, but then she slapped the back of my head so hard I saw stars, I swear to God.

She kept whacking me, screeching, calling me a liar and a crook and a retard.

I ran into the kitchen - but still with the hitting and the screaming.

All I could see was red. I can't stand being yelled at. Why couldn't she just, at least, have shut her trap?! That voice of hers drives me crazy, it's like it's all out of tune or something. Why couldn't she have just hit me, but kept her yap buttoned?!

But no, she kept at it. And at it... I tried to make a break for it, but she was stationed in the kitchen doorway, blocking me like some kind of Green Bay Packer, shifting left to right, on her toes, left to right, on those little feet, snorting like a beast.

Officer (deep breath... exhale)... that's when I picked up the knife, the big knife she was chopping the onions with...

now