Singles/Video Reviews: March 2021

Text © Robert Barry Francos / FFanzeen, 2021
Images from the Internet

Singles/Video Reviews: March 2021

Note that these reviews are alphabetical, not listed in a “ratings” order.

 

Adrian Younge
“Revolutionize”
Jazz is Dead
Younge takes a few different styles and successfully mixes them together. The song starts a bit like The First Poets, arguably the first – and I believe best – political rap groups, with sharp lyrics over atonal music. This flows into a 1970s style rhythm and sound of bands like the O’Jays, but with a sharper tone and a jazzy piano thrown in (amusingly ironic considering the name of the label that put this out). The lyrics the first part are a bit drowned out by the noise in the mix, but the message still comes through, especially on a second listen. This is the right time for this strong imagery by musician, composer, producer, and ex-Law Professor Younge, considering what is going on across America with the re-rise of a culture of hate of the “Other.”.
Can be heard HERE 

 

Amiture
“Touch”
Dots Per Inch Records
I hear a lot of people being nostalgic for the British-pop music of the 1980s. Most of that, I don’t understand. It was all synthetic beats, nonsense lyrics, and downer messaging. A lot of the videos, though, were pretty interesting (Human League’s “Don’t You Want Me,” for example). If you are one of those, you are going to love Jack Whitescarver’s output as much as I did not. Yes, I found the video stunning and odd, but the music is such a throwback to the ‘80s that I almost immediately glossed over and wanted to go turn on a garage band (perhaps the Tryfles or the Outta Place?) or some Heartbreakers (JT, not TP) to cleanse my palate. Please, if the ‘80s were your thing, you’re probably going to love this, and you should give a listen. It comes from their debut album, The Beach.
Can be heard HERE 

 

Arms of Kismet
“Potter’s Field”
Wampus Multimedia
I have been listening to AoK for a few releases now and have always enjoyed them. So, why should this be any different? The ballad here is light and airy in tone, with an almost dreamlike rock of the cradle in the breeze. It has a ‘60s garage tone, without the farfisa, relying on a triple time waltz of schmaltz. It’s not as zoned out as some meditation music, due to its razor sharpness buzz, but I found it soothing and quite beautiful. There is a lot thrown in there, from harmonious and soaring choruses to the electronic sounding reading near the end (apparently, it is taken from the final comments of Louis XVI as he was to be executed). Definitely worth a listen if you like garage influences with a modern car in the structure.-
Can be heard HERE 

 

Ashley Monroe
“Drive”
Mountainrose Sparrow/Thirty Tigers
Off her fifth studio album, Rosegold, this single is a bit confusing to me. Hailing from Nashville, the video looks like it would be a nice country pop song, but the music itself is merely a modern, overproduced pop ballad. It brings nothing new to the table. Don’t get me wrong, Monroe has a good voice, as far as I can tell; I have no idea if it is autotuned, but this is the kind of sound (not that ridiculous T. Pain electronic tone) I find with a lot of modern recordings, which I try to avoid as much as possible. Being off her nearly half-dozenth full release, I am going to assume she has a following, and my opinion hopefully will not matter a hill of beans, but this is the kind of material that lead to why I stopped listening to country. If this is the style of material she is releasing, I don’t need to hear more, but wish her well.
Can be heard HERE 

 

Haunted Shed
“Umami Bomb”
Strolling Bones Records
Athens, GA, has always been a den of quirky musicians, from R.E.M. and Pylon to Love Tractor. Haunted Shed, led by Etienne de Rocher, certainly has an unusual, almost electronic psychedelic sound. In fact, they remind me of a more modernized version of bands that came off of the International Artists label in Texas, especially like Red Krayola’s The Parable of Arable Land: a lot of noisy sounds with electronic eccentricities and standard instruments as well, with a high studio magic. The video is as odd as the music, which is apparently about food, but the lyrics are extremely hard to make out. This isn’t casual composition you can necessarily dance to, but it is nicely subversive while still keeping some rhythmic elements to it. I must say, by the time the video ended, I was definitely getting into it all.
Can be heard HERE 

 

Manolo Redondo
“Try”
Violette Records
Redondo is from the Alps, but lives in Paris. Despite that he sings in perfect English for those who feel more comfortable. He has a casual, singer-songwriter style, with just a whiff of a pop feel (in this case a good thing). Written as an aftermath of road trips in places like Paris, Mexico and the Mojave Desert, his tunes are poetic soundtracks to movement and life, as well as, indicated by the title, trying your best. It has a sweet tone with an almost melancholy underbelly of hopefulness. This is from his EP, The Lost and Found.
Can be heard HERE 

 

Mason Lively
“Happy Home”
www.masonlively.com/
From the slide guitar in the opening musical phrase, there is no question that this is deep cowboy-boots-Stetson-hat country. At a slow ballad pace and a nice classic nasal twang, Lively keeps up the tradition of a 1980s stye before it gave way to a pop influence. Lively presents us with a marital (or at least co-habitation) break-up with a blues riff and soaring chorus to give us a tale of heartbreak. Like I said, classic country. Luckily, he’s got the chops for it. Personally, I kinda stop listening to country in the 1980s when it developed a pop fusion, but this harkening back makes me reminiscent for some good ol’ boys (and girls) sitting around with gee-tars, howling at the moon in love pangs. Don’t read this wrong, it is a powerful song that belies a sound that is both a throwback and with a new twist, with a bridge that echoes a bit like it came off a Jim Croce record. This is from his eponymous second album.
Can be heard HERE 

 

Megan Wyler
“The Calling”
Nowever Records
This is Megan Wyler’s first release in seven years, having started a family and focusing in on that. Her voice is superb in this liquid ballad about “a kind of dark exploration around the disorientation of loss and where that takes you,” she has said. There is a strong rhythm that flows though the song with her voice lilting over it, moving up and down the scale smoothly. The tone reminds me of the style of Claudine Longet (sans accent), with a slight whisper, but the song builds to a surprising and stirring climax with Matt Sweeney’s guitar swelling and a bit dissonant as a counterpoint to the sorrowful sound up till then. It’s a beautiful piece.
Can be heard HERE 

 

Sloping
“Raft”
Sound as Language
From the album Completed Songs, JJ Posway (Scooterbabe) presents a singer-songwriter introspective and moody ballad piece with acoustic guitar for melody and overdubs for harmony. I have listened to a couple of other songs off the album, and this the better one. Light and airy, with more than a hint of navel-gazing, Posway slides through the song on a field of gloss, like skating on a pond under the moonlight. The song is very listenable, with a twinkle in the eye. If I got it right, the song is about not wanting his partner to feel bad if he dies (unless I misheard the soft-spoken lyrics), but even with the slow pace, it is not moribund.
Can be heard HERE 

 

Tom Jones
“No Hole in My Head”
S-Curve Records/BMG
He may be getting’ up there (a couple of songs from his new album, Surrounded By Time, include “I’m Growing Old” and “Lazarus Man”), but even after all these years, Jones does not fail to both surprise and stretch as an artist to make himself relevant. Taking cues from his acting career (remember how great he was in 1996’s Mars Attacks!), the video sets him up to confront some authority figure as he rocks out while fronted by a sitar. The song and the video show defiance, anger, and positing that, well, Tom’s the man. I love the chorus of “There’s no hole in my head / Too bad!). It’s all about personhood and the willingness to stand up for yourself. Best Jones song I’ve heard in a while. The album also sounds interesting, which includes covers by Dylan (“One More Cup of Coffee”), Cat Stevens (“Popstar”) and the classic “Windmills of Your Mind.”
Can be heard HERE 

Doin’ the Head Boogie with CHINGA CHAVIN [1977]

Text by Lincoln D. Kirk / FFanzeen, 1977

Intro and live image by Robert Barry Francos / FFanzeen, 2021
Other images from the Internet

Doin’ the Head Boogie with Chinga Chavin

This article about Country Porn lead singer Chinga Chavin was written by Western New York rock historian Lincoln D. Kirk, and was printed in FFanzeen Number 2, way back in October 1977.

A previously unreleased interview with Chavin by myself was published last year on this blog (HERE). At the time of this article, Chavin had only released one eponymously titled album, Country Porn and later would have Jet Lag, and years later, Live and Politically Erect. – RBF, 2021. 

* * *

What’s this? You say you hate country music? But you do dig smut, don’t you? I thought as much. Well then, good buddy, allow me to introduce you to Chinga Chavin’s Country Porn, the world’s first X-rated country band.

X-rated country? Doesn’t sound like something that’ll go over big in the Bible Belt, much less country fairs, John Denver Rocky Mountain  hideaways, the Grand Ole Opry, or even beer-brawl Texas roadhouses. But that won’t stop Nick Chavin. He’ll hit all those circuits anyway, knowing full well he’s setting himself up as a target for rednecks waiting in parking lots across America to tear him limb-from-limb., for verbally raping their virgin kid sisters’ ears with his explicit raunch – after all, it’s happening to him already.

Chavin’s demented combination of rugged individualism, hucksterism, and salacious pornography can be traced back to his years as a teenage pervert in Juarez,. That fabled flesh-hole, across the border from his hometown, El Paso, quite probably the most debauched of all wide-open Mexican border towns (Juarez, that is; the El Paso Chamber of Commerce as been known to get awfully nervous when people allude to the two cities in the same breath!), serves as the inspiration and origin for many of his outrageous lyrics. To hear those who were there tell about it, New York’s modern-day street-punks are practically model of strait-laced gentility compared to the denizens of Juarez’ golden era. Pre-teen sex, bestiality as night-club entertainment, and other fun depravities most people only read about, watch in porn flicks, or fantasize about could easily be had for a price, and not an overly high one at that. To be sure, for most Texas teens in the ‘50s, these pockets of paradise were rarely more than temporary outlets, places to sow wild oats and to taste the pleasures of manhood, a very occasional thing at best. To Chavin, Juarez became an obsession (“love at first sight,” he’s characterized it), and fond memories festered in his warped psyche long after he went respectable and became a high school English teacher in the San Francisco Bay area, living the good life in Marin County.

But then along came the 1970s. Charlie Rich’s “Behind Closed Doors” opened the floodgates, causing an uproar over its supposedly “dirty” lyrics. Nevertheless, despite bitter denunciations, country and pop fans lapped it up in the millions. In its wake, a rash of bedroom songs invaded first the country airwaves, then peaked over into Top 40.

Keep in mind that the young honky-tonkers  who thrilled to barroom weepers and cheating laments in the ‘50s have long since grown up into staunch conservatives, to whom country music is the last bastion of true, red-blooded, God-fearing, moral Americanism in the media. All those songs about warm and tender bodies, making love in the hot afternoons, and having daydreams about night things are ruining their teenage children’s morality, breaking up marriages and families, causing a decline in church attendance, and eating away at our democratic institutions. And you think you’ve got it tough being a punk? Try being a Christian parent, what with sinners like Billie Jo Spears, Barbara Mandrell, Bill Anderson, and Mel Tillis seducing your youngsters and loved ones into a life of lust and slavery!!

But, let’s face it. Even with all the Ruby’s taking their love to town, the afternoon delights, the blankets on the ground, the girls who get prettier at closing time, and similar manifestations of decadence run amok, all these songs of illicit sex and forbidden pleasures are pretty smut-less. The strongest four-letter words are still “hell” and “damn,” and even these can still get a record into trouble (Farron Young’s “Here I am in Dallas” was banned on dozens of country stations simply because of the vehemence with which the former singing cowboy repeated the relatively innocuous line, “Where the hell are you?!”). The actual sex act is never mentioned in any of these songs (the lovers generally just considered it, or just woke up following their dastardly deed). Besides, sex in country lyrics is generally dignified as a daring, meaningful expression of love and tender emotions instead of pure animal lust. IF there’s no “true love” involved, the singer is usually beset by enormously crippling guilt pangs. All acts considered “deviant” by a random panel of evangelists are strictly taboo, and sex in general talked about rather than done. So much for smut in country lyrics.

Into this setting steps Chinga Chavin, to whom the very idea of porno lyrics in an idiom which continually tries to clean itself up is enough to change the entire course of his life, from reputable to purposely offensive. Even his name is extended to be offensive, “chinga” being Spanish for “fuck you.” Even his guitar is depraved, being constructed out of a toilet seat. This guy is all the evil, filthy things that so-called evil, filthy AM-country isn’t. Forget that idealized, romantic balladry – you won’t get it from Chinga. This pervert says everything straight out. Lyrics like, “She wore my ring around her neck/But she wore her legs around mine” (from “Tit Stop Rock”) ain’t something you’re gonna hear on a Ray Price record!

If you suspect the Nashville-music press is ignoring his existence, you’re almost right. Country Music, perhaps the top mag in the field, did make the mistake of reviewing his album and has lived to regret it. But the porn press has done much to publicize Chinga, almost to the point of landing him major-label contract (from – believe it or not – Motown, who backed down at the last minute and signed Pat Boone instead; true story!). Indeed, he was an underground hero, particularly in San Francisco, before he ever committed a note to vinyl. If nothing else, his exploits have made for what is known in the press as “hot copy.”

You see, Chinga’s the sort who would play a concert in a divinity school without toning down the pandering obscenity of his lyrics and stage act. He would and did hire porno film star Gina Fornelli to bump, grind and reveal her world-famous mammaries – while dressed in a nun’s habit! He wasn’t asked back. Then there was the time he played San Quentin, fondling his dancer’s boobs as he sang with a plastic dick on his nose. He caused such a riot among the crowd of ultra-horny inmates that he almost found himself staying in prison as an unwilling guest of the State! This Chinga Chavin fellow is so low, he didn’t even soften his act when his own, very-mainstream mother was in the audience. Now that’s nasty!

If some of this garbage seems to stretch credulity a bit, if you think I’m making this up, send $8.95 (I know that’s a lot, but put things in perspective; it was also the list price of the soundtrack of A Star is Born, which has about as much redeeming musical value as Chinga has a redeeming moral value!!) to CP Products, [New York address that is no longer valid – RBF, 2021], and ask for album CP-666, Chinga Chavin’s Country Porn. (Don’t look for it in your local stores, cos they won’t have it!) If you’re into unmitigated trash, it’s worth every penny.

No expense was spared! Chinga attempts to supply you, the consumer, with a worthwhile product, one that will bring you hours of disgusting entertainment. Chinga brought in no less a record-industry-respected figure than Michael Brovsky, the man who brought you Jerry Jeff Walker and similar namby-pamby (in comparison to Chinga, at least) “outlaws,” to professionally produce the album. The engineering is first-rate, thanks to the facilities of Quadraphonic Studios – one of Nashville’s finest. Augmenting regular Country Porn members – Chinga, Beaver Bob Herman and Blue Berry – are some of country’s most awesome sidemen. If names like Kenny Buttrey [d. 2004], Norbert Putnam, Bobby Emmons [d. 2015], Bobby Thompson [d. 2005], and Chip Young [d. 2014] don’t mean anything to you, look through the personnel listings in the country bins of your favorite record stores and count how many times these names pop up. And on steel guitar, Chinga managed to procure the services of the man whom many worship as the greatest steelman of them all, Curley Chalker [d. 1998]. Helping out on background vocals is no less than Dobie (“In Crowd,” “Drift Away”) Gray [d. 2011]. This ain’t no low-budget quickie, nosireebob!

Musically, it’s more country-rock than hardcore country. Hold it – I didn’t mean to conjure up Eagles and Poco images with that term “country-rock.” Imagine a middle ground between rockabilly and Merle Haggard. Take it down to a Texas sleaze tavern and throw in some R&B and Tex-Mex, give it some Nashville-tinged gloss, and you’ll get an idea of what sort of country-rock this is. The music is performed pretty much straight, all the better to emphasize the discrepancy between Chavin and “proper” country music. There’s only one drawback – poor Chinga can’t sing to save his ugly ass (there’s a photograph of his ass on the inside cover, such is how I know it’s ugly!). But while his voice lacks all flexibility and he has the gosh-darndest ol’ time trying to carry a tune, he does have this sardonic leer-turning-to-sneer in his voice that is simply perfect for the under-the-counter rancidity of his lyrics.

And, after all, it is the lyrics that you as a punk are more interested in than the music, right? Things get off to a great start with “Talkin’ Matamoros First Piece O’ Ass Blues,” in which Chinga rewrites his glory days at Juarez. Our hero recounts the loss of his innocence to a “cute little Chicano whore” in one of the album’s most explicitly, humorous, and smoothly produced (mariachi trumpets, castanets, and all) tracks. To fully appreciate it, you really have to hear the way Chinga says things like “Psst, hey meester / How’d you like to fuck my seester” and other deathlessly poetic lines. On the other hand, “Cum Stains on the Pillow (Where Your Sweet Head Used to Be”) is an almost poignant love-lost lament which, with a few lyric revisions, would be just right for a Tennessee barroom jukebox.

Probably the only song which could get any airplay at all is the trucker song, “Get It On the Run.” You won’t find a radio station in America, though, with balls furry enough to risk their FCC license by playing the rockin’, rollin’ “Four A.M. Jump,” with its all-time irresistible singalong chorus, “We’re gonna jump, suck, lick, fuck / And hump all night… / Till we ball away the blues.” And what a Capella doo-wop group wouldn’t love to shake their middle-class/middle-age audiences up with a few sounds of “Sit, Sit, Sit  (Sit On My Face)”? Don’t overlook the R&B stomper “Head Boogie” (“Get down and poach them eggs / Three minutes soft cooked / and well done” sure ain’t no Julia Child cooking lesson, friends and neighbors!!).

Two cuts deserve special mention. “Asshole from El Paso” is Chavin’s biggest hit, so to speak, though no one gives him credit for it. Seems an old University of Texas frat brother, Kinky Friedman, heard Chavin do this parody of “Okie from Muskogee,” added it to his (Kinky’s) act, and now everyone thinks it’s a Freidman original. But Kinky is strictly a lightweight when it comes to porn-country. If you want to hear how lines like “We keep our women virgins ‘till they’re married / So fuckin’ sheep is good enough for us” should really be delivered, forget Friedman, and rely on Chavin to show you the true way.

Speaking of “the true way,” perhaps the most controversial of all Country Porn favorites is “Cum Unto Jesus.” Here, Chinga  takes on that most sacred of all country cows: fundamentalist evangelism (simplified for all you atheistic punks out there, that means “religion”). As Bobby Emmons plays “Rock of Ages,” that scurrilous heathen Chinga renders a sermonette from the Anal Robert Show, with a devastating attack on country-gospel music. This wicked sinner, Chavin, apparently hopes to draw his listeners with him into the flaming pits of Hades, claiming our dear sweet Savior actually encourages us to engage in perverted sexual activity. May the red-hot fires of eternal damnation forever punish Nicholas Chavin and all his propensity for darin’ to disseminate the blasphemous chorus, “You’ve got to cum for Peter / Cum for Paul / Cum for Mary, too / If you cum twice / Jesus Christ will bless you.” It’s enough to give a Bible-toting Christian a vicious hardon, I tell you. Anyone who listens to this heinous record will surely perish from the face of the Earth! Satan, himself, must be turning the record presses for this diabolical lump of vinyl. Hallelujah!!!

Believe me, this guy China does have a way with smut. So even if you don’t dig country music, you owe it to your immoral [sic] soul to check out Country Porn. 10-4, good buddy!!

Marboro Memories: Ushering in the Crazy, in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

Marboro Memories: Ushering in the Crazy, in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

 Text © Robert Barry Francos / FFanzeen, 2021
Images from the Internet

Anyone who has worked in retail or has been a service provider knows that you have stories of dealing with the public. There are lots of “Karen” videos out there on Facebook, Instagram, TikTok, etc., but even before and beyond that, dealing with both a public and oft times fellow staff members, can be a challenge, to put it mildly. Here are some stories of working as an Usher at the Marboro Theater, in southern Brooklyn. The theater, I should add, had been torn down and is now a CVS chain pharmacy.

It was a big, single screen theater at the time (it would be broken into four separate theaters after I left). My job of Usher was to mostly stand in a particular spot in the inner theater lobby by the water fountain on the left side. Because I was positioned inside, I saw films many times. I didn’t often count, but I do know that I saw American Graffiti about 160 times, and The Sting about 140. The average film though, was probably about 40 times. I did get to see a lot of what is now considered classics, such as O! Lucky Man, Jesus Christ Superstar, Billy Jack (the second crowded run after all the ads; the first showing held the record for the least amount of people in a week at the Marboro of 14 paid tickets before I started working there), and Smoky and the Bandit.

Being an Usher, as well as with many other front-line employees, as is making the news lately, are usually paid minimum wage, and know they are easily replaceable. Not only that, because we wear the “uniform,” be it the company apron, a certain color shirt, or in my case a red jacket of questionable material, a white shirt, black pants and shoes, and a clip-on bowtie, we “represent” the company and any resentments were sure to come our way. Our Usher slogan for the insanity was: “The Masses are Asses.”

* * *

My memories of being hired are a bit murky, but I do believe I was recommended at a time when they were short of ushers, by my friend David who worked there, albeit our time did not overlap for long as he left shortly thereafter. I was seventeen years old in 1972, and a mere 110 pounds of skin and bones (as I would remain for the next two decades). The problem was, I was hired by an assistant manager while the manager, Mr. T_____, was on vacation. He came back to a new employee that he had no say on hiring. When he returned, he was not happy with me being there, not to mention I would find that he really did not care for Jews. When David left shortly after, I was the only Jew on staff during his tenure until 1975.

When I met Mr. T_____, I introduced myself as Robert. Instantly, he started calling me Bobby. He didn’t ask, he just did. Soon, all of the staff were calling me that. I didn’t complain because, as I said, I was easily replaceable, even though it seemed like I was the only one who swept up the popcorn from the lobby floor. So Bobby I was, and then for some reason a couple of months later, to my face, he started calling me Stanley. I was confused: on my paycheck, it said Robert; in front of the other Ushers, he would call me Bobby; but when it was just the two of us, he called me Stanley. I think there was someone in his life named Stanley he didn’t like, possibly another Jew back in his home state of Minnesota, that he associated with me. He was not a good person, and after some embarrassment that I don’t remember exactly what, I put some sugar in his gas tank on my way out before heading home for the night.

* * *

Bensonhurst was largely Italian back then, especially the neighboring area around the theater, so it was natural to pick of a smattering of the language. I probably know about 10 phrases and a bunch of words. One evening I was walking through the lobby, sweeping as usual, when a gent who was probably in his 60s came over to me and said something in Italian. I smiled at him and said, “Non capisce Italiano.” Next thing I know, he is screaming at me, in Italian. I’m baffled, so I repeat, “Signore, non capisce Italiano.” He became even redder in the face, getting angrier. My look of confusion was lost on him.

He was creating such a ruckus, one of the older Ushers, Manny – who was Italian (as was most of the staff) – quickly came over to find out what was going on. I shrugged my shoulders to indicate I had no idea, and he turn to the gent and, in Italian, asked a question. The man was vigorously and repeatedly pointing his finger at me, yelling. Manny broke out into a big laugh, which made the man even angrier. Manny calming talked to the guy, pointing at me occasionally, and the man huffed, and walked away. He then explain what happened:

The man had recently come from Italy and was embarrassed that he did not understand English. Being in Bensonhurst, he assumed that everyone who worked there must be (a) Italian and (b) speak Italian. Why he would come to an English language film, I don’t know, but there you go. Manny said that he needed to use the washroom and asked me where it was, and when I said that I didn’t understand, apparently my little Italian was so good, he thought I was mocking him, hence the anger.

* * *

The Marx Brothers’ film Animal Crackers (1930) was a “lost” film due to a copyright fight, for over forty years, and was finally reissued to theaters in 1974, including at the Marboro, to my delight. One night, I was by the water fountain getting a drink, and when I looked up, I saw a shadow on the wall. I turned around and I was surrounded by a guy. Yes, one guy. He was huge, with slicked back hair, a pencil thin moustache, his polyester shirt open to mid-chest, and his medallions stuck in the hairs of his chest. The first thing he says to me is, “I’m gonna punch yer fuckin’ head in.”

Thinking fast, I looked him right in the eyes, and said, “Hunh?!” with a crackling voice.

“I’m gonna punch yer head in. Whatcha gonna do about it?”
Still looking at him in the face with my head tilted up at a 45-degree angle, I said, “I’m gonna hit you on the side of your head with my flashlight.”
He replied, “Oh, yeah?” and proceed to measuredly cock his fist back, slow but sure. Now, in my belt, I had my flashlight. It was one of those two-D battery heavy black plastic ones with the red tip by the light. I quickly pulled it out and backhanded him with it across his head. Hard. So hard, the flashlight broke, the cap popped off and one of the batteries went flying, the lens was cracked, and my hand was numb. His reaction? His head moved about an inch to the side, and came back, looming over me.

I thought to myself in a brief second, “Well, that is it; that was my best shot. I’m dead. It was a good life.”

His response? His fist came down, he smiled, and he patted my shoulder, “I just wanted to see if you could protect yourself.” And he walked away.

I walked over to Mr. T______’s office. The door was closed, which meant he was counting the money (remember, it was only cash back then), and it was forbidden to enter on threat of being fired. I swung the door wide open.

On his desk were stacks of money. He turned bright red as I sat down in the chair next to his desk, inches from the stacks. “Stanley, what the hell do you think you’re doing!?!?” Then I started to shake uncontrollably as the adrenaline caught up. He became so worried (probably how it would reflect on the theater), he asked what happened. I told him the story, and asked him to call the police. What was his response? That I should hide in the balcony (which was closed except for busy shows and for the other Usher to bring their conquests) until the show was over and the behemoth had left. Thank you Mr. T______, for your support. At least I kept my job right then.

* * *

The other Ushers scored a lot, heading off to the balcony for a quickie tryst. Honestly, the women that they hooked up with were certainly not interested in a thin-as-a-rail, shy guy like me, though I actually found it all amusing, except when I had to do the other Usher’s job because they were literally screwing around.

One night, a woman about my age walked up to me, wearing a pair of teeny shorts up to almost nothing, a tight top with cleavage for miles, a short fuzzy jacket, hair the size of Texas, enough make-up to keep Max Factor going for a year, 6-inch stiletto heels, chewing gum, and holding a clutch bag. She said, “Where’s da bah’troom,” with a smug sense of privilege.

I pointed it out to her, and she turned around without a thank you, and started walking way. I said, behind her, “You’re welcome, mister.” I walked away as fast as possible, counting down from five. Almost on cue, I heard a screech as it finally reached her brain: “Mistah?!” 

* * *

Nearly all of the Ushers had day jobs in the construction field. Because I was the only Usher who was attending or had attended any post high school education, sometimes the other Ushers would occasionally call me “Doc.” One day one of them, who was still in high school, brought one of his friends in. “I hear your smart. Oh, yeah? What’s the square root of [whatever number he gave me]?”

I smiled at him and said, “You just learned that in school, right? I haven’t been to high school in years. Name five parts of the paramecium. Can you?” He didn’t see that I turned it around on him, because I was terrible in math. It was my shining Good Will Hunting moment.

* * *

Some of the Ushers had a con going, which I honestly didn’t participate, because I did not want to go to jail, get fired, or lose a possible recommendation. It was a co-conspiracy between the cashier, the doorman and the Usher (although not all of them were doing it). It went as follows: the cashier would sell the ticket (remember, it was cash only). The doorman would rip the ticket. The customer often would throw the stub on the lobby floor. The Usher would pick up the stub and give it to the doorman. When another customer came in, he would pretend to rip the ticket and palm the whole one, and then give the used stub to the customer. He would then give the unripped ticket to the cashier to resell. They would then split the money three ways. They were making on average $50 to $100 a night when it was busy. I was told that most of them spent it on food or pot. None of it was saved apparently, and in my years there, no one was ever caught, either.

* * *

During one of the local elections, a neighborhood Assemblyman for the 47th District named Frank Barbaro (pronounced BAR-ba-ro; d. 2016) was up for re-election. He held a fundraiser at the Marboro, and I took the tickets. The special guests were husband-and-wife acting team of Joseph Bologna (d. 2017) and Renée Taylor. Before the show, Frank came in with his wife, Mary (though she was called Patty) and Mr. T______ and went to pin a button on the lapel of my flammable red jacket. I said, “No thank you.” Confused, he asked why not.

I explained, “You are my Assemblyman, and I don’t vote for you because you are often absent for votes.” His wife, in anger (and my boss was not pleased either, I could easily tell), said, “That’s because he was in court defending a tenant’s rights!”

My response was, “Even so, any lawyer could represent a client in court, but only you can vote, which affects more people than a court case with a single client.” At that moment I thought, well, this was a good job…”

Instead, to his credit, Frank laughed out loud, shook my hand, and said he respected that I said that, and turned to Mr. T______ and said, “I like this guy. Don’t let him lose his job over this.” And I didn’t…over that.

I took pictures of the show, but my camera was new and I didn’t have a flash, so the pictures all came out too dark and blurry, sadly. Barbaro was re-elected and served until 1996, and still remained absent where he was needed most. I never did vote for him, including when he ran for mayor against Ed Koch.

* * *

When Jaws (1975) played, it was huge, and the theater was pretty consistently packed. Let me give a quick logistical aside so this makes sense: the cashiers booth was inside the outer lobby of the theater. The Theater was on Bay Parkway, a four-lane street that was extremely busy. Most of the time, when people lined up, if the line went out the doors, the queue continued along the side of the building and down the block. But not for one Saturday afternoon of Jaws.

As the people lined up and it went out the doors, rather than turning and hugging the building along the sidewalk, they went straight out into the middle of the street. When I first saw this, they were about a car’s length into the road, and shortly the line made it out past the yellow line road separator. Buses and cars were having to go into the opposite lane to get around them. They honked their horns, but no one would move because keeping their place in line was more important than safety. Kind of the same mentality of those who will not wear masks during a pandemic. I stood there and watched, amused to see what would happen, wondering if anyone would catch on.

At this point, Mr. T______ came out the door and I sprung into action, shepherding the people to line up along the storefronts. Calamity was saved, but I wonder how long they would have kept lining up into the street.

* * *

Jaws was also a turning point in when I started to get fired, and I got fired a lot from the Marboro. The first time was during Jaws, in 1975.

During the film showing, they issued special Jaws-designed cups that sold for a dollar extra as souvenirs. Basically they were harder plastic with the Jaws poster on them. We were told by Mr. T______ that someone was taking them out of the stock room, and it had to stop. I was fairly sure I knew who was taking them, but had no proof.

One day, I was in the balcony during my break, and I saw five or six sleeves of the cups tucked away among the seats. I went down and told Mr. T______ about it, and said, “If you keep your eye on them, you can catch whoever is taking them.” I thought that might put me in some better graces with the curmudgeon. Two days later, I get a phone call with him accusing me of taking them, and he fired me.

A few months later, I got a phone call from the new manager. Apparently, Mr. T_____ got into an altercation with some people trying to sneak into the theater and had his hand broken when the thugs slammed one of the exit doors on it. He retired, and the other Ushers urged the new manager – he had a long Italian name that I no longer recall, but everyone called him Mr. D – to rehire me since I had also been doing their chore of cleaning, and he asked me if I wanted the job back. And I did. We got along pretty well.

A few months later, Mr. D was having a conversation in the lobby of the theater with the district manager (DM). The DM said he wanted Mr. D. to hire his nephew as an Usher. Mr. D explained that there was no room for anyone else on the schedule. “Just get rid of someone,” pressed the DM. “And who am I supposed to fire for no reason?”
At that moment, I came into the lobby with the broom to do the cleaning, and the DM pointed to me and said, “Him.” Fired a second time. Two weeks later, when the nephew was caught with his hands literally in the till, he was gone and I was back.

A year or so later, I walked through the lobby near the end of the evening and saw the elderly woman behind the candy counter cleaning out the popcorn bin with the broom I had just used to sweep the floor. Yecch is right. I was upset and explained to her about how unsanitary and disgusting that was. I should have thought first, because she was the assistant manager’s wife. Let go for the third time. Thing is though, they were in their later ‘70s or early ‘80s, and I was their ride home (they gave me two bucks to drive them, though I offered to do it for free, but it would have been $5 or more for car service) in the late hour, and they did not feel safe waiting on the street for the car, so they had me hired back.

Finally, a few weeks later, Mr. D took me aside and explained that it was embarrassing to the company that I kept being fired and rehired, so he was having me transferred to another theater in the Bay Ridge neighborhood, called The Alpine. I said my farewells and moved on to the new theater in 1978, where I worked for another 3 years or so.

* * *

Some of my adventures at the Alpine are HERE.