Images selected
by Brian Dickson from the Internet
The
Internet is loaded with trap doors. Today I reached the end of one random online
article or another, and there at the bottom of the page was a selection of
others. And, jarringly, one of them was titled, “Leon Redbone dead at 69.” A nice
feeling when that happens, isn’t it? Jump over to Google, type in the name to
verify, and there you have it. That old familiar jolt when someone you really
dig is gone – forever.
I
discovered Leon Redbone…when? You know, I can’t even remember. Let’s see. I’ve
never seen him perform live, and I greatly regret not buying a ticket to see
him at Hugh’s Room in Toronto in December of 2013. He played two shows on a
weekend, intimate acoustic sets that would ultimately be among his last live
performances. I never caught any of his guest spots on “Saturday Night Live” in
the 1970s, nor did I see him on the “The Tonight Show” in the ‘80s and ‘90s. And
I only recently learned of his stint at the Mariposa Folk Festival in 1972, and
how he became exposed to a wider audience with an assist from Bob Dylan. This
would lead to his signing with Warner Bros. and the release of his debut album,
On the Track, in 1975.
I
do have five of his albums on compact disc, though: On the Track, Champagne
Charlie (1978), Red to Blue (1985), Christmas Island (1987) and Whistling in the
Wind (1994). Island was sought out solely for Leon’s duet with Dr. John on
“Frosty the Snowman,” but that album has been a Christmastime favorite at our
house ever since. [Author’s note: Their rendition of “Frosty” takes on entirely
new meaning this Christmas, as Dr. John has, in somewhat perplexing fashion, passed
away only a week after Leon, on June 6, 2019.] But, for the life of me, I can’t
remember when I became tuned in to Leon’s music and his rag-timey charm. And that
seems just about right: mission accomplished on Redbone’s part. He once said,
however, “I don’t do anything mysterious on purpose. I’m less than forthcoming,
but that doesn’t necessarily mean I’m mysterious. It just means I’m not
inclined to go there.”
The
statement issued by his family today echoes the humor and eccentricity of his
craft, and of the man’s enigmatic persona throughout his life in music:
“It
is with heavy hearts we announce that early this morning, May 30th, 2019, Leon
Redbone crossed the delta for that beautiful shore at the age of 127. He
departed our world with his guitar, his trusty companion Rover, and a
simple tip of his hat. He’s interested to see what Blind Blake, Emmett, and
Jelly Roll have been up to in his absence, and has plans for a rousing sing-along
number with Sári Barabás. An eternity of pouring through texts in the Library of
Ashurbanipal will be a welcome repose, perhaps followed by a shot or two of
whiskey with Lee Morse, and some long overdue discussions with his favorite
Uncle, Suppiluliuma I of the Hittites. To his fans, friends, and loving family
who have already been missing him so in this realm he says, ‘Oh behave yourselves.
Thank you…and good evening everybody.”
Not
long ago my wife and I had a nice little gas fireplace installed in a back
room of our house, the one that leads out to the deck and then to the back
yard. During cold winter months here in Ontario Canada, on nights when the wind
and snow are howling outside and I am warm by the fire with my bulldog on the
rug by my feet, I like to sip on an aged rye whiskey over ice while the
firelight ripples across the ceiling. For a scene such as this Leon’s music is
custom-made, and I felt a playlist of favorites would be just the ticket. And
after a night or two of ‘settin’ by the fire,’ I was good with the arrangement
of tunes on my list, and I made a copy on CD for my older brother. He spends a
lot of time in his workshop; he occasionally enjoys a whiskey on the rocks, and
the shop’s got stereo speakers and a big ol’ wood stove.
Here is the track list for that mixed disc. Another reason for my
renewed interest in Redbone at the time was that I’d just discovered he’d
released what would be his last album of new recordings, 2014’s Flying By.
Note:
An excellent documentary short film called “Please Don’t Talk About Me When I’m
Gone” was uploaded to YouTube today. Have a look, it’s good.
This weekend - okay, yesterday - I attended a wedding reception in the small Alberta (Canada) town of Rosalind. The band that played there was the River Jacks.
Now, I'm more punker than a C&W guy, but this group was tight. Yes, there were lots of covers I didn't recognize, not being up on the latest country hits (I was more of a country fan up-to 1975) and they took me by surprise. I actually stayed longer than planned to hear them. That being said, they did a killer and much different version of "Take Another Little Piece of My Heart," one of the few pieces I did recognize.
The River Jacks are well known around the Camrose area (if I got the story straight, Chad went to Bawlf school with the Maid of Honor), and I'm not surprised. They are (alphabetically):
Tom Lichak (vox, guitar, bass)
Jeff Orom (drums / vox)
Myra Marshall (vox /guitar)
Garrett Richard (bass)
Chad Szott (guitar/vox)
If you get the chance to see them play at some fair or wedding or corporate event, and you're in a C&W bent, check 'em out.
Introduction by Robert Barry Francos / FFanzeen, 2019
Images from the Internet
This article was originally published in FFanzeen, issue #14, dated 1986. It was written by the effervescent North
Carolinian native Nancy Foster, now better known as Nancy Neon.
To be honest, I still am pretty unfamiliar with
this Georgia-based band. They were mostly around for the period of 1981 through
1989, but have reunited on and off over the years. Often, they are compared to
the scene that gave us quirky college rock bands like R.E.M., Pylon and Let’s
Active. In total they produced one EP, four studio albums, nine singles, and a
later live album. – RBF, 2019
Guadalcanal Diary has been lumped in
with the Athens and Southeast scene. Yet, they are really a Marietta, GA, band
with diverse influences that come together to make an arresting, hybrid. Some
connect them with the Byrds-like jingle/jangle magic of R.E.M., others try to pigeon-hole
them with the so-called country punk of Jason and the Scorchers and Rank and
File.
Yet, Guadalcanal Diary defies
categorization. Just as the Athens / Atlanta / Marietta axis is a crossroads where
lots of transient influences and ideas meet, so is Guadalcanal Diary a blend of
several styles. Whereas some bands sound like a variety show, jumping from one
genre to another, they diversify without being incoherent; they’re stylized
without being static or predictable.
I love the way they put the headbangers
off guard with startling versions of Cab Calloway’s “Minnie the Moocher,” a decidedly
non-headbanging, esoteric version of “Johnny B. Goode,” and a scathing,
sarcastic rendering of Syndicate of Sound’s “Hey Little Girl.”
It is, however, their original
material that really bewilders. Murray Attaway, the lead singer / guitarist’s
command post is the eye of the storm. He stands at attention in the middle of
the twin cyclones of Jeff Wallis and Rhett Crowe, who whirl dervish-like on
either side.
They set up a scenario that is both
musically and visually thrilling. Before their show, we had been talking about
how someone who had been talking about how the dBs fail to push the audience
past a certain point of excitement. I was coming out against histrionics and spoon-fed
hysteria. They agreed, but they said that they, themselves, did not put an emphasis
on entertainment. However, the spontaneous combustion that takes place onstage
ignites because of their love for, and dedication to, their music. This isn’t
choreography or rock star flexing, or self-parody.
We talked about how certain acts like
Billy Idol had been reduced to a set of conventional poses, i.e., the pout and
the fist. What you’re seeing with Guadalcanal Diary isn’t showbiz, it’s pure
joy.
The band expresses some concern that
their New York City Christmas Holiday ’84 debut had not ben auspicious. Yet, it
was so inspiring to see them gradually win over the Peppermint Lounge Saturday
night crowd, many of whom resembled “Dance Fever” outtakes as opposed to music
lovers. Despite that obstacle, they bombarded the audience with their
high-quality material. Pure Pop for Now
People was “Pillow Talk.” Rhett Crowe was so powerful on bass, and despite what
some myopic critics say about kudzu-covered confederate bodies, she is
definitely female. Her grass skirt with t-shirt, lei, and cowboy boots was the
fashion statement of the year. It’s the perfect embodiment of their
cross-cultural pollination. It's what you wear to a “Watusi Rodeo.”
Being in a changing environment,
experiencing the class of Old World Southern values and the modernization of
cities like Atlanta is part of what establishes the tension in their music. When
I asked whether being from the South brought a certain romantic and mystical
element to their music, Rhett agreed. Religion is a big theme with songs like “Walking
in the Shadows of the Big Man” (“Big Man” meaning God) and “Why Do the Heathen
Rage?” The latter is highly reminiscent of fellow Southerners from Memphis, Big
Star, circa 1974 [Big Star’s singer, Alex
Chilton, sang “The Letter” and “Cry Like a Baby with the Box Tops – NF, 1986].
When asked if something about the
water in Athens area makes great pop with a twist, the guys confided that once
the B-52s made it, “lots of bands came out of the woodwork.” They are, as I am,
amazed how every band with a Rickenbacker is called “Post-R.E.M.”
Other than their home state, they
also share a producer with R.E.M., Don Dixon of Chapel Hill, NC. Dixon was
suggested by their rec rod company, DB. They have played dates with the
Psychedelic Furs, Beat Rodeo, the Bongos, R.E.M., etc. They get some of their best
reactions in Rome, GA, Louisville, KY, Richmond, VA, etc.
One of the most unusual places they
played was Greensboro, NC’s Secret Garden, which had a garden in front of the
stage. Back to the show: the groovy Georgia quartet gradually won over the basically
stoic audience. Enlightenment is usually a gradual process. Yet when Guadalcanal
Diary moved in for the kill on “Trail of Tears,” it was musical cataclysm.
Murray Attaway was especially moved and moving on this one. Maybe it was my own
mist, but he looked misty-eyed.
Guadalcanal Diary accomplished a lot
on their second New York City gig, especially for a band on an indie label with
little exposure. Rave reviews of the album, heavy airplay for “Watusi Rodeo”
and a push on their video is remedying that fast!
“Watusi Rodeo” was the rave-up of the
night. Their Western influences (they did Johnny Horton, George Jones, etc.)
showed on this hilarious portrait of a rodeo star doing his thing on a rhino,
much to the dismay of African natives. Is this an exaggerated analogy of being a
hardcore Southerner in the wilds of the North? It is culture shock for both
parties.
As Jeff and Rhett said, “You can be wild
in New York City and have no one give you a second glance. But once they hear a
Southern accent, you’re an instant curio item.”
When I said that I thought it was a
healthy trend for bands like R.E.M., Let’s Active, and themselves to stay in
their hometowns instead of automatically moving to New York because of the
changes it could cause in their perspective and the music, Rhett said, “I
couldn’t live in New York City. It gives me claustrophobia. I think Southerners
are very close to the land; very territorial. Like, my father lived his whole
life in Smyrna (Georgia),” and they really want to keep the influences and
change out. They would build a wall, if they could.
This was intriguing me. It was all
becoming clearer: the world is changing so fast and vales are changing, too. In
this modern world, the Old South seems like an ancient culture. It’s solid and
secure. People like the music and are intrigued with the perspective because it’s
exotic – all those snake handlers and faith healers. The Southern world seems
as far away from cosmopolitan New York City as Hong Kong.
Guadalcanal Diary invites you on a
trip into another world full of beauty, soul and mysticism.
Excuse the way I am
phrasing this, if you must, but Woody Guthrie was punk as fuck. Perhaps not in
volume or electricity, but certainly in message. For example, he quite famously
had written on his guitar, in big letters, “This machine kills Fascists.” Woody
also had a strong influence on other proto-punk folkers like Bob Dylan and Phil
Ochs.
Most people I know who
came to punk got there through the loud guitars of bands like the MC5, the
Velvet Underground, or even KISS. For me, I grew up on folk (Simon &
Garfunkel, Peter Paul & Mary, Ochs, and others; Dylan would come later for
me, after the Ramones in 1975). For example, my very first concert was Melanie
(Safka) at Carnegie Hall in early February of 1973.
Over the next few
years, before I became obsessed with the bands at CBGB and Max’s Kansas City, I
had the opportunity to see a lot of the musicians that are on this DVD (an asterisk
will appear next to the names in the Song List below, of those I saw).
The purpose of this
tribute concert was to not only honor Woody, and rightfully so, but as a
benefit for a charity to fight the disease that killed him in 1967 by robbing
him of his movement, his voice and then his life: Huntington’s Disease.
Filmed at the
Hollywood Bowl, this is the first official release of the film. I do remember
there were showings of it in 16mm at local churches along St. Mark’s Place
(between Second Ave and Tompkins Square Park), but this is my first time seeing
it.
If you read through
the song list, you will most likely see lots that you may have heard before,
especially if you’re an older camper like me, though done by other artists. His
songs were carried forth by his fans (i.e., musicians) so it makes total sense
for the rhythm to continue.
First up is a huge
line-up for his song about a post-death heaven-bound train, “This Train is
Bound for Glory” (which Peter Paul & Mary did so well with as “This Train”).
Each musician takes a turn at a stanza; like the Traveling Wilburies, where Roy
Orbison’s voice outshines the rest, there is some of that here too, with Odetta
being the fiercest and certain Joan Baez being the highest pitched.
Between songs, there
are narrations read from Woody’s words, by Will Geer (Grandpa from “The Waltons”;
d. 1978) and Peter Fonda. These lead into the next song. For example, when the
notes read are about Woody’s Oklahoma upbringing, they slide into Arlo singing “Oklahoma
Hills.”
I am not going to
discuss every song (which are listed below), but I would like to highlight
certain points and show how prescient Woody could be beyond the grave. For
example, Baez and Seeger sing the dust bowl cry, “So Long, It’s Been Good to
Know Yuh.” This song is actually bogged down, in my opinion, by the catchiness
of the chorus (same as title), so most people don’t know it beyond that. But it
may be a song for modern times as well, as climate change is severely affecting
weather patterns to where it may occur again; last time was natural, this time
it may be induced by some governmental policies. For example, where I’m living
in the Prairies now, it’s been an overtly dry spring.
This was understandably
a large focus of Woody’s music from this period, and the troupe here follows
through with his “Going Down the Road Feeling Bad,” “I Ain’t Got No Home,” and
Arlo provides a musically updated and rocking “Do Re Mi.”
The dustbowl created a
migrant class both from the US and below the border, for which Woody addressed
with the extremely powerful “Plane Wreck at
Los Gatos (Deportee).” I first learned the song from Seeger, but it is worth
checking out the devastating version elsewhere by Washington DC-based acapella
group, Sweet Honey in the Rock (who I’ve seen on more than one occasion). Here,
Baez picks it up and gives a sincerely expressive version that is just beautiful.
In these times of locking kids in cages and mass deportations, it’s worth a
listen because things have definitely come in a sad and scary circle.
Odetta’s solo “Ramblin’ Round” shows something
I have felt for a long time. She essentially had a one-hit-wonder with “John
Henry,” but her voice is amazing, and she should have been bigger and more
popular. Her sound is to folk what Aretha was to R&B: unique and powerful.
Similarly, Richie Havens steals the scene with his “900 Miles,” as he had one
of the more unique guitar playing styles and a voice that is incredibly
different than any other artist here. He was a regular at the Bottom Line in
New York, as well as some of the Greenwich Village haunts.
For “Woman at Home,” Country Joe seems to be physically
trying to channel Jim Morrison, but his vocal tones remind me more of Johnny
Thunders.
Of course, for the finale, they all gather
together to perform Woody’s arguably most well known song (well, the first verse
and chorus is etched in the general psyche), “This Land is Your Land,” in a beautifully
shared and joyful rendition that includes all the verses.
The nearly 13-minute extra is worth
the watch. Within the backstage footage and thoughts by Arlo and Ramblin’ Jack,
there are some additional songs, namely “1913 Massacre” by Ramblin' Jack, “John
Hardy” by Odetta, and Baez covers the powerful “Pastures of Plenty.”
My only nit-picking issue is that I would liked
to have the option of playing just music without the talking, so I can just use
it like an album. The talking is fascinating, but not something I need to
listen to numerous times, unlike the music.
One last thought, while most of the musicians
mentioned above play their own instruments (yes, guitars), they are backed up
by a stellar band which really enhances the sound.
I think my favorite thing is that this is not
just a tribute of playing songs, but rather each performer gives the songs the
power and concentration they deserve. There are a couple of numbers where they
read the lyrics of a sheet, but other than that, it’s an enjoyable albeit intense
presentation. So good.
Song List:
·This Train
Is Bound for Glory: Arlo Guthrie*; Joan
Baez; Odetta* (d. 2008); Pete Seeger* (d. 2014); Country Joe McDonald; Richie
Havens (d. 2013); Ramblin' Jack Elliott; Earl Robinson (d. 1991)
·Oklahoma Hills: Arlo Guthrie*
·Pretty Boy Floyd: Country Joe McDonald
·So Long, It's Been Good to Know Yuh:
Joan Baez; Pete Seeger -
·Goin' Down the Road Feeling Bad:
Country Joe McDonald, Arlo Guthrie, Ramblin' Jack Elliot, Pete Seeger
·I Ain't Got No Home:
Pete Seeger; Arlo Guthrie
·Do Re Mi:
Arlo Guthrie
·Plane Wreck at Los Gatos (Deportee): Joan
Baez
·Ramblin' Round:
Odetta
·Roll on Columbia: Pete Seeger; Earl Robinson
·Nine Hundred Miles:
Richie Havens
·Woman at Home: Country
Joe McDonald
·The Sinking of the Reuben James: Pete
Seeger
·I've Got to Know: Arlo
Guthrie; Joan Baez; Odetta; Pete Seeger; Country Joe McDonald; Richie Havens;
Ramblin' Jack Elliott; Earl Robinson
·This Land Is Your Land: Arlo
Guthrie; Joan Baez; Odetta; Pete Seeger; Country Joe McDonald; Richie Havens;
Ramblin' Jack Elliott; Earl Robinson
This interview was published in FFanzeen, issue #9,
dated 1982, by then-Chicago-based writer, Cary Baker.
When this was first printed, he was just John Cougar, and Jack and Diane
were still in his future. While I’ve never been a Mellenhead, and always
considered him a depressive Springsteen wanna-be (to me, both are overrated,
but see below), I respect the work he’s done, considering he rose from the
ranks of the MainMan label splitting record sides with the likes of Cindy
Bullens, to the small Hoosier label Gulcher, and then onto an international
stage. – Robert Barry Francos, 2019
* * *
We catch up with John
Cougar in the environment we’re told he feels most at home – among hundreds of Harley-Davidson motorcycles.
We browse through a Harley dealer, located on the fringes of a massive car dealership
row that could be one of thousands of such stretches between Van Nuys and
Norfolk. But John has selected his dream toy: a black beauty listing for $7,000
to add to his present menagerie of bikes.
“I’m gonna get me one
of these and put new jammer parts on it, and paint over that emblem. You know
it’s a Harley – you don’t have to advertise it.”
From the street we hear
a deafening VAROOM!
“Hear that?” he asks. “That’s a Harley. I don’t even have to
look. It ain’t like a Suzuki, which goes RRINGG.
That’s not thrilling. It’s like, if you had the chance to see Gene Vincent
or Bobby Rydell, who would you go see?”
John Cougar takes his
ride as seriously as his rock. And with his unequivocal small-town veneer – a
rube’s voice that presumes him sooner a native of Raleigh then Seymour, Indiana
– we don’t doubt the rough and tumble nature of his songs come from real-life
experience. In that sense, he’s a true rock populist, a neo-Buddy Holly whose
side of the Mason-Dixon Line is at first uncertain. But Cougar, who speaks with
an emphatic drawl and in often too-emphatic
language, will be the first to point out he’s no different than any other
self-respecting Harley rider. His self-image appears to be one of a sated
Hoosier, the one-in-a-million who clicked.
“I’m no songwriter,” he
says. “When you say writer, you’re
assuming you’ve got something to say. What did “I Need a Lover Who Won’t Drive
Me Crazy” say? It didn’t say shit. Now Tennessee Williams was a writer. Let’s give credit where credit is due.
“I string some words
together. Kids and people my age might like it, but what I’m really doing is
communicating. There’s nothing wrong with communicating, but it’s a whole
different thing from writing.
“I write about very
insignificant parts of life. I ain’t got nothing to say that you don’t already know.
I may refresh your memory; but some
of these cats are heavy fuckin’ writers and I don’t want that responsibility on
my shoulders.”
We mention Dylan,
Lennon and McCartney, and Cougar is reticent to acknowledge their place in
rock’s annals, save for some early Dylan perhaps. He stops to consider our
suggestion that after five years of Fabianism, Meet the Beatles was easily on par with A Streetcar Named Desire.
“Yeah, you’re probably
right,” he acknowledges, “but I mean, ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand’? If somebody
wrote that song now, we’d probably never hear it!”
John Cougar, nee John Mellencamp, is a youthful 30.
His styled, not-exactly-punkish black hair reveals sprigs of silver. The eyes
are oceanic blue and intense. The perennial 5:00 shadow is in full-bloom at
2:30 on a Saturday afternoon. Within two minutes of sitting down with him at
McDonald’s across the street from the bike dealer, there’s no mistaking him for
an urbanite. Even a few years of ripening in Europe and the dubious tutelage of
David Bowie’s ex-manager haven’t changed his headstrong outlook.
John Cougar, you might
recall, started out as a hype. He’d straggled into Tony DeFries’ MainMan
Productions around 1975, “where everyone looked like Bowie.” DeFries was about
to lose his paramount client and it wouldn’t have hurt to prove he could do it
again. Enter the then-23-year-old Mellencamp of Seymour, and soon there was an
album on MCA that displayed little more integrity than More of the Monkees.
“I had a year’s
unemployment coming, right?” he shrugs. So why not use it to become a star?
MainMan even staged a “Johnny Cougar Day” one nippy October afternoon in
Seymour, Indiana [2 hours west of
Cincinnati, OH – RBF, 2019], and wondered why half of Soho didn’t turn out.
But Johnny Cougar, MainMan and the MCA deal
weren't terribly long-lived. Not exactly crushed, Mellencamp headed for London
where he spent two years. Eventually, he teamed with producer John Punter, a
Roxy Music alumnus, and cut “I Need a Lover Who Won’t Drive Me Crazy.” The song
caught fire, so he returned to these shores, inked with the Riva division of
PolyGram and cut an album around his hit. He also shed his pristine
“next-Bowie” image, adding that, “what you’re seeing now is the way I’ve been
from the start.” What then? “I got lazy.” But by that time, the real starmaker
machinery was in motion and “I Need” was safe in bed with AOR.
The next Riva album may
not have panned out to be the smash its predecessor was, but well-espoused the
philosophy of John Cougar. It’s title: Nothing
Maters and What If It Did?
“I’ve learned it’s not
really important that everyone likes John Cougar. People’s opinions aren’t that
important, not even mine. The good news, though, is that the music’s still
gotta be good for people to buy it.”
We cite Christopher
Cross as an example to the contrary.
“I don’t like him
either and if I hear that ‘Arthur’ record again, I’m gonna puke. But there are
35-year-old women out there and I’m not gonna be the one to tell ‘em they’re
crazy for liking Christopher Cross ‘cause they ain’t.”
Cougar’s populist image
becomes intensified or deflated, depending on how one views populism, when
Cougar insists his songs are written for him alone.
“I don’t write songs
for the people. They’re for me. I don’t really think about them being hits. I
could be a hit by selling cocaine. You and me could be rich and famous much
quicker and with more leisure than this
job!”
What, we query, would
happen if Riva Records one day decided, “Sorry, John-boy, you’re too personal and esoteric for today’s
marketplace?”
“I couldn’t leave the record company now,” he says. “I already tried
and they said, ‘That will cost you $5-1/2 million’.”
But what happens – God forbid
– when obsolesces does rear its ugly
head and John’s washed up? [Note: He was
inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2008, the Americana Lifetime
Achievement Award in 2010, the ASCAP Founders Award in 2016, and the
Songwriters Hall of Fame in 2018, among many others – RBF, 2019.]
“Oh, I’ve got job
security,” he chimes. “When I get tired of makin’ records, I have another job I
can do. I know this business inside and out.”
He points to the
PolyGram promotion rep.
“I know what he should be doing. I know what his boss
should be doing, and when they’re
screwed up. I met this Atlanta guy who’s the
man if you wanna get on the radio – and let’s face it, you’re nowhere if
you’re not on the radio. If I’d met this guy five years ago, I’d’ve quit the
business.”
He does a mocking
imitation of a radio programming mogul.
“’You mess with him and
your records won’t be on the radio.’
But I’m at a point where I mess with him and get away with it.”
John Cougar, his “old
lady” and the “the kids” presently reside in Bloomington, Indiana, “The Gulch” –
quieter then New York or London, but “not as embarrassing as living in Seymour.”
A college city with a music scene that now and again dents the national consciousness,
Cougar claims the locals know him and accept him as a burgher.
“”They see me so much
there that they say, ‘Oh, there’s that guy who makes records.’ They all know I
live there so it’s not any big deal,” he says.
A typical off-the-road
day for John Cougar might begin with “a few business phone calls to check in.
then I might smoke some cigarettes, sit around for a bit, talk to the old lady,
play with the kids and ride my Harley to the lake and back.”
Cougar probably loves
his Harley as much as he does music or the aforesaid old lady [second wife Victoria Granucci at the time,
but he’s been married more times since, and linked to a few others, including Meg
Ryan – RBF, 2019].
“I ain’t one of these
guys carryin’ guns, rapin’ women and shit like that. There are some who ride to
heaven – or to hell, whichever they choose – and back. For me, it’s just a
hobby outside music.”
We ask what kind of
music he does listen to at home, only
to elicit a rather surprising response.
“I’m into Paul Rodgers [lead singer for Bad Company and Free – CB,
1982]. I went into a record store to buy a Free tape last week; I’ve had
the record for 15 years. I told the guy at the counter, “It tested out;
telephone response has been great over the last ten years, so I’m buying it.”
Another jab at radio.
Cougar is hardly
considered villainous to New Wavers, but he personally deplores trendiness – a category,
which by his standards, includes Bruce Springsteen, a singer with whom he’s
been exhaustively compared. “He does have a little integrity left,” he shrugs. “I
wonder how long that’ll last [try getting a Springsteen on Broadway
ticket in 2018, ‘nuff said – RBF, 2019].
“But I make a point out
of not being hip. I’m not into Bow
Wow Wow. But don’t get me wrong – that’s only my opinion. If the kids are into
it, great for the kids. If the song is good, I could care if they have mohawks.
I had one once when I was a freshman in high school as an initiation. And I cut
it all off the next day. Mohawks ain’t
new to me – I had one for one day in 1967!”
His comment is silenced
by the thunderclap of a bike pulling into the dealer’s parking lot.
“You know,” he says, “All
the guys who ride Harleys even look
alike. It’s a little like punk rock…”
Cougar obviously hasn’t
seen the customer – squat, brawny, balding, faded denim jacket, chains, like a
Hell’s Angel 12 years after Altamont.
Savoring the $7,000
bike he’s decided he’ll eventually own, Cougar gives a sheepish grin.
Currently living in Saskatoon (email at RBF55@msn.com for address). From 1977-88, I used to publish a print version of a music magazine in New York called FFanzeen, which dealt with the wide-ranging independent music scene. I also photographed many bands from the period (and since). Now I write this blog. And the beat goes on.
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