Lame Dog

  • Influenza Blues — From Flu to Rock

    Lame DogR & B, Vintage

    For a long time, the Dog has been too preoccupied to indulge his musicological pretensions.  But I want to do something to commemorate the fact that, like much of the world’s population, I am under orders to shelter in place.  In this time of crisis, I find myself reflecting on the great flu pandemic of 1918-19.  I find doing so oddly comforting.  In dim historical retrospect, it appears as a discrete event that came and went, with nothing comparable to follow for over a century.


    But the pandemic was horrifying.  It may have killed fifty million people, over triple the toll of the First World War.  Indeed, it was so traumatic that for decades it was largely blotted out from our cultural memory.  


    The British journalist Richard Collier once wrote that the “Spanish Lady,” as the pandemic was called, “inspired no songs, no legends, no works of art.”  This, of course, is an overstatement.  Among the exceptions were three different songs published from December 1918 to June 1919 entitled “Infuenza Blues,”  — a ragtime composition; a Broadway show tune; and a lament for a lost sweetheart.  Google the phrase, however, and you will be linked to a fourth song,  It informs us that the flu was a punishment from God:

    This fascinating, if rather offensive piece, has a curious history. It is not clear if it was written about the great flu pandemic at all.    

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  • Yesterday’s Ding-a-Lings

    Lame DogNovelty
    “It’s one of the crazier quirks of the rock era that ‘My Ding-a-Ling,’ a forgettable rude novelty song, is Chuck Berry’s only number one single.”  The words are from Fred Thompson’s Billboard Book of Number One Hits. I cannot argue with them.  Indeed, it’s hard to know what’s more embarrassing — the silly song itself or the fact that it achieved a mark of success that eluded such classics as “Johnny B. Goode” and “Roll Over Beethoven.”
     

    Another irony is that, although Berry was credited as the songwriter, that distinction properly belongs to someone else.  Have a listen to the original 1952 version by Dave Bartholomew.
     

    Bartholomew is best remembered as the man who discovered Fats Domino and co-wrote many of his hits.  This Christmas Eve he will celebrate his 98th birthday.  (Some sources give an earlier date of birth that would make him 100).
     
    Recently, I was reminded of Chuck Berry’s dubious achievement when reminiscing about the music I was listening to in the early ’70’s.  Personally, I never had much interest in ding-a-lings.  But as a twelve-year-old, the fact that the song below could be heard on the the local “black” radio station surprised and delighted me.
     
    The singer of this vaginal riposte is listed as

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  • Ed Cobb — From Preppy to “Dirty”

    Lame DogClassic Rock

    In our last post, we briefly traced the rise and fall of the Four Preps.  Here are the boys at the height of their popularity on what may be their best recording.

    The first to exit the group was Ed Cobb, the six foot four bass singer.  He proved to be more complex, driven, and multifaceted than his tenure with the Preps suggested.  As a kid, he had been exposed to gospel in a black Baptist church that he and bandmate Bruce Belland would visit with Belland’s father, a local Hollywood preacher.  As time went on, he gravitated to a rougher, more beat-driven sound than the Prep’s repertoire could accommodate. He eventually became a successful producer and sound engineer, with over thirty gold and platinum records under his belt, who worked with acts including Pink Floyd, Steely Dan, and Fleetwood Mac.  In her memoir Storms (Chicago Review Press 2007), Carol Ann Harris — the girlfriend of Fleetwood Mac singer Lindsay Buckingham — recalls him as an “imposing figure” in “cowboy boots, blue jeans, and a denim shirt” with “cigar smoke billowing around his head.”  He ended his days as one of the country’s top breeders of race horses.  But it was as a songwriter in the mid-1960’s that Cobb achieved a dash of immortality.

    Today, Cobb is largely remembered as the author of this song by the Standells, which became the unofficial anthem of Boston Red Sox.

    Stories have circulated that the inspiration came from a run in Cox had with “muggers and thieves” during a 1965 Four Preps gig in Boston.  Given his reticence in discussing the matter and tendency to embellish, the truth of that may never be known.  But in their book Love That Dirty Water (Rounder 2006), the best source on Cobb, authors Chuck Burgess and Bill Nowlin provide additional insight.

    According to an account that Cobb’s widow “pried out” of him, he wrote the song on what may have been toilet paper while in a hotel room with the winner of an American Legion sponsored “Snow Queen” contest.  The beauty queen — like the “frustrated women” in the song — had to be back in her dorm by midnight. (Ironically, one of the Prep’s releases in the Fifties had been entitled “Cinderella”).  But to the beauty’s consternation, Cobb insisted on jotting down his idea for a new hit record while their time together was running out.  That same year, Mick Jagger was wailing over the airwaves that he couldn’t get satisfaction. Perhaps for Cobb, frustration was more of a female problem.

    Cobb wrote another song with an ever broader impact — but one that flew under the radar. (more…)

  • Meet the Preps

    Lame DogVintage

    Tracing musical influences back through the layers of popular culture can be reminiscent of an archeological dig.  When I first saw this clip, I felt as if I’d stumbled upon a prior civilization.

    “I’m Marv.”  “I’m Glen.”  “I’m Ed.”  “I’m nervous.” Who were these people?

    Contrary to their billing, the Four Preps were not graduates of an elite private preparatory school, but a group of friends who attended Hollywood High.  They originally formed to compete in the school’s annual talent show, but managed to get signed by Capital Records in 1956.  Two years later, they enjoyed their biggest hit with “26 Miles.”  Bruce Belland, the group’s ostensibly nervous leader, admitted that it was a “corny” piece that he wrote in fifteen minutes without ever having set foot on Catalina Island, the subject of the song.

    For a time, the Preps were the all-American band.  They played backup to Ricky Nelson on the Ozzie and Harriet Show and performed in the original Gidgit movie.  They were clean cut, wholesome, and sometimes stultifyingly bland, but did not lack harmony or a wry sense of humor.   They are said to have influenced a later California-based sensation, The Beach Boys.  And in the early 1960’s, they were repeatedly honored by Billboard Magazine as the “nation’s number one college concert attraction.”

    That changed when Capitol Records began releasing singles by another group with which you may be more familiar — The Beatles.  The Preps’ days as youth idols were over.  But not before they took their revenge.
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  • Jesse and the NEA

    Lame DogComedy

    For the last few months, the Dog has been preoccupied with saving the world from the forces of evil.  But we should pause to commemorate a satiric anniversary.  Twenty-eight years ago today, Loudon Wainwright, III, released his single, “If Jesse Don’t Like It” – a devastating take down of the late Senator Jesse Helms of North Carolina.

    The song arose in the contexts of Helms’ attempt to prevent the National Endowment for the Arts (NEA) from funding projects he viewed as “offensive, indecent, or sacrilegious” — a move critics assailed as an assault on free speech and artistic innovation. The cover of the single portrayed Helms punching his fist through a Picasso. The song later appeared on Wainwright’s album, “Social Studies.”  Here it is for your listening pleasure.

    The NEA controversy was triggered by two highly controversial grants. (more…)

  • Song of the Charmer

    Lame DogCalypso

    The dog is back — with a professionally designed logo.   We’ll mark the occasion by considering the musical legacy of Louis Eugene Walcott, a calypso singer of the 1950’s who was known as “The Charmer” or “Calypso Gene.”

    Walcott, the son of Caribbean immigrants, was born in 1933 in the Bronx and raised in Roxberry, Massachusetts.  As a boy, he loved listening to Jewish cantors.  Indeed, in an interview with Henry Louis Gates, he recalled that, after taking up the violin “all my heroes were Jewish,” especially Jascha Heifetz.  He also speculated that his Jamaican-born father, who he seldom saw, was of Sephardic ancestry.
     
    Walcott aspired to attend Juilliard, but instead went to Winston-Salem Teachers College on a track scholarship. Rather than become a teacher, however, he began touring, singing in clubs, and releasing records.  While obviously far less successful, some have compared him to the young Harry Belafonte. He recorded covers of calypso standards including the “Ugly Woman” song (discussed in our 12/4/17 post). He also wrote original compositions.
     

    The most interesting of Walcott’s songs is probably this one about Christine Jorgensen, the first American to undergo sex reassignment surgery.  While offensive by contemporary standards, it endures as a historical curiosity.

    In 1955, Walcott abandoned his career as a musician. But five years later, he released a new record that was played from loudspeakers and sold at rallies in Harlem. It illustrates a dramatic change in his world view and preoccupations. Here is an excerpt:

    Today, Walcott is better known as

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  • “Vera, Vera, What Has Become of You?” — Pink Floyd

    Lame DogClassic Rock, Vintage

    In 1980 or thereabouts, the hottest thing of which I was aware was the English rock bank Pink Floyd’s double album The Wall.  Some of the lyrics were disturbing, if not repugnant (“We don’t need no education.”). At least one song was superb (“Comfortably Numb”).  And then there was this track, which I found puzzling.

     Who was Vera Lynn?  As a young American of the pre-internet era, I had no idea.  A friend said, “Oh, it’s like some girl he knew in high school.”  That seemed as an good an explanation as any.
     
    By now, the actual story is readily available even on this side of the Atlantic.  As an infant, Roger Waters, the principal lyricist of Pink Floyd, lost his father — a conscientious objector who felt compelled to change his mind and volunteer — in the Battle of Anzio.  The Vera Lynn to whom Waters referred was the British singer most closely identified with the Second World War. She boosted morale by singing, “There’ll be bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover,” and  — most famously — “Don’t know where. Don’t know when. But I know we’ll meet again some sunny day….”  I had actually heard the latter song without making the connection to Pink Floyd.  It was used to memorial effect for the conclusion of the 1964 film Dr. Strangelove or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb.
     

    But let’s return to Pink Floyd’s question. The answer is improbable.  Vera Lynn — who was born in London Borough of Newham on March 20, 1917 — 

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  • Happy Dogiversary!

    Lame DogUncategorized

    Today, marks the one year anniversary of the debut of lame-dog.com.  While a failure by any conventional measure, rest assured that this site is an astounding success in some alternative universe.  

    The Dog is too busy and tired at present to contribute a proper entry.  But to celebrate, I am sharing this clip of one of the most exciting things to happen in country music in recent years:  Margo Price.  Enjoy. 

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  • What’s Your Favorite V.D. Song?

    Lame DogUncategorized

    Love and V.D. go hand in hand.  Why it’s hard to fall in love these days without being exposed to V.D., with all the expense and discomfort that entails.  I’m speaking, of course, of Valentine’s Day.

    Here is my question du jour.  What song do you secretly wish that a partner (whether real or hypothetical) would sing to you on Valentine’s Day — or any day for that matter? Come on, I’m betting you have one.

    Okay, I’ll go first.  My pick is this track by Lucinda Williams from her Little Honey CD.  It’s sexy and then some: 

    Williams was inspired to write it after meeting a man named Tom Overby, who happened to be getting a haircut at the same time as her in a Hollywood salon.  She was initially ambivalent about his low-key demeanor.  After all, she was used to having tumultuous relationships with rock musicians.  But he had a calming influence that helped center her, and when her long-time manager died, he took over the role.  A few years later, in 2009, following a performance in Minneapolis, she surprised the general audience by marrying him onstage.  She was 56 at the time.
     
    In their vows, Lucinda and Tom took one another “as my friend and love, beside me and apart from me, in laughter and in tears, in conflict and tranquility, asking that you be no other than yourself, loving what I know of you, trusting what I do not yet know, in all the ways that life may find us.”  I think that’s beautiful.  But don’t worry that the Dog is going all mushy on you.

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  • Bryan Harvey — Singing “It’s a Sin to Sing”

    Lame DogAlternative

    In the late 1980’s, a band emerged on the LA club scene dedicated to the proposition that two guys on a stage could generate enough energy to put a traditional four person combo to shame.  That band was House of Freaks.  The name, which was taken from a circus poster, was most significant for what it did not mean.  It was intended to be amorphous — something that would not tie the performers to any particular genre.  They resisted categorizing their music.  But some have called it “twisted blues swamp rock.”

    Johnny Hott played the drums and collaborated in composing.  But the enterprise was most clearly identified with Bryan Harvey, the lead singer and lyricist.  Both men, who later discovered that they were distant cousins, were natives of Richmond, Virginia.  They wrote songs weighted with regional history, including one that asserts:

    What mysteries flow through these white folk’s blood?
    What secrets do they hide within?
    …
    Dusting off their fathers’ guns,
    Words like worms crawl through their brains.
    Sermons fly from the preacher’s mouth
    But the auction block still remains.
     
    What turned me on the House of Freaks, however, is the following:
     

    Given the title and the Southern gothic themes of  some of their other material, “Kill the Mockingbird” could be viewed as a grenade lobbed at that mainstay of the middle school reading list by Harper Lee.  But the contemptuous reference to the “cooing of amorous people” is a giveaway.  In fact, Harvey admired “To Kill a Mockingbird”; instead, as he noted in remarks that have been preserved on the site bluecricket.com, he intended to write an “anti-romance song” trashing his relationship with his then girlfriend.  I prize it because it is so spirited and clever as to balance the sense of menace. Harvey sings that the mockingbird should be killed for the sin of singing.  That softens the blow —  just as the fact the Harvey was Caucasian lightened his performance of “White Folk’s Blood.”
     
    Years later, after he fell in love with the woman he married, Harvey wrote a song entitled, “I Got Happy.”  It tellingly includes the line:  “Now its okay.  Let the mockingbird sing.”
     

    House of Freaks released four full-length CDs between 1987 and 1994.  Then the band, which never achieved mainstream success, disbanded.  Harvey and Hott went on to pursue other musical partnerships.  But the aftermath of the story is difficult to tell.  The word nightmare feels inadequate. (more…)

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