Professional wrestler (and one-time Staten Island resident) "Macho Man" Randy Savage (born Randall Mario Poffo) died Friday while driving in Florida. Early reports say he suffered a heart attack while driving and then crashed the car. His wife was also in the car and suffered minor injuries. Savage was 58.
Oddly enough, of the Poffo boys, I was probably more of a fan of Leapin' Lanny (also known as The Genius). But there was no denying the awesomeness of the Macho Man, coming to the ring to the strains of "Pomp and Circumstance" (thus making everyone's graduation a little cooler) and later flying from the top rope in his three-star wrestling trunks and landing that elbow time after time. Men of a certain age (mine) will fondly recall his match with Ricky "The Dragon" Steamboat at Wrestlemania 3 as being one of their all-time favorites.
And, of course, almost everyone I know (or at least the ones I like) has done a Randy Savage impression at one point or another. As fine as the matches were, the talking was where the Macho Man shone. To wit: (kudos to the still-living Mean Gene Okerlund for his fine work here, too):
And it was a little after my interest in wrestling started to wane, but he also should be commended for taking a pretty nasty snakebite:
I had the pleasure of meeting the Macho Man when he was promoting his rap CD (yes, that's right) at the FYE in NYC. That moment is captured above, and, despite the fact the photo was taken when I was 26, it is probably the most youthful and excited I've ever looked in a picture. I guess all those flying elbow drops meant more to me than I'd thought.
When I first heard of the Louvin Brothers (sometime in the mid-1990s), I assumed I'd missed my chance to ever hear them live. Those piercing harmonies seemed to be from somewhere way back in the ether, and even if they were alive and, even more improbably, performing, there was no way a college kid in Ithaca was going to see them anytime soon.
Turns out one of the Louvins was still around and, according to the article I read in the first No Depression I ever got my hands on, he was recording, living near Nashville, and playing the occasional live show and Grand Ole Opry performance. But Nashville seems impossibly far away when you're surviving on the kindness of your parents and, well, not much else. So seeing Charlie Louvin perform seemed a pipe dream. And even when I made it to Nashville in 2002, Charlie was nowhere to be seen on either of the Grand Ole Opry shows I went to (though Loretta Lynn was, so it wasn't a total loss). I began to have my doubts I'd ever see him.
Finally, in September 2003, on a bill put together by Cake, a band whose music I don't like but whose taste I have no quarrel with, Charlie Louvin came to New York City for a show with Cake, Cheap Trick, and the Detroit Cobras. I bought my ticket, counted down the days, and finally headed out in the early afternoon with my Charlie Louvin LP to see if I could meet the man before the show.
I was running a little late, so I hustled off the subway and made my way to Roseland just in time to see two guys unpacking their car and heading toward the stage door. I wasn't entirely sure what Charlie looked like, but I was reasonably confident that he was the older of the two guys. Luckily, I was right, and after listening to me babble about how honored I was to meet him and how psyched I was to see him perform, he signed my record and I was just about as happy as I could possibly be.
Inside Roseland, I was standing next to a couple of guys who had no idea who Charlie was, something akin to a crime in my mind at the time (and the passing years haven't dimmed that thought much). I tried my best to explain, and to help them with the pronunciation of his last name, but once I said "country," they looked confused. One of them piped up.
"You mean, like Johnny Cash?"
"Um, yeah, I guess."
"Is he as big as Johnny Cash?"
"Well, it depends who you ask, I guess."
"No, he can't be bigger than Johnny Cash."
"Well, if you asked Johnny Cash, he'd probably say Charlie was bigger."
"No way."
It wasn't a fun conversation, and I didn't bother asking what they thought of Charlie after the show. I'm sure they didn't like him as much as they liked Johnny Cash (or at least the three Johnny Cash songs they'd heard). But I did, even if the voice that came out of Charlie at Roseland wasn't anywhere near what I'd heard on Satan Is Real or Tragic Songs of Life. I was in the same room when Charlie Louvin was singing, and that was good enough for me.
I was lucky enough to see Charlie live five times after that (and to see him shoo away a woman in Lancaster, PA, who, I think, had asked him to sign her boob), and it never stopped being cool to be breathing the same air as Charlie Louvin.
I'm sad that Charlie breathes no more. It's a worse world today without Charlie Louvin in it. But I've had a better life for having heard Charlie Louvin sing Louvin Brothers songs up close. So, thanks, Charlie. Hope you and Ira are getting reacquainted.
Here's just some of Charlie's best. Buy his CDs if you haven't.
Tinsel and Rot interrupts its autumnal hibernation to mourn the death and celebrate the life of inaugural Tinsel and Rot Hall of Famer Leslie Nielsen, who died Sunday at the age of 84.
I've written before about why Mr. Nielsen's career should be celebrated, but it's worth adding that there is likely no other actor who has made me laugh as much as he did (John Candy comes close, but I'm giving Mr. Nielsen the nod).
I had likely seen "Airplane!" before I saw the commercial for "The Naked Gun." So I knew a little bit about the Zuckers and Mr. Nielsen before that ad popped up on the Daszkowskis' TV on Margaretta Court in 1988. But I didn't know enough to be waiting in high anticipation for the movie. Until I saw the commercial. Then there was nothing in the world that I wanted to see more. There were sight gags, dumb jokes, and a lot of baseball. I was sold.
Needless to say, I was not disappointed. And I'm still not. It's definitely still All-Time Top 5 on my list. If that makes me a simple man, so be it. But, c'mon, the baseball scene cannot be topped:
The sequels had their moments, too (2 1/2 had more than 33 1/3, and had this), but the true joy for me after seeing the movie was discovering the TV show it was based on, "Police Squad." It is All-Time Top 3 on the TV list. In fact, after trolling YouTube for clips, I realized I need to break out the old VHS copy ASAP. But you can enjoy these, the first of which has the joke mentioned in the T&R HOF induction of Mr. Nielsen at the very end.
Still awesome. At least Mr. Nielsen will live on through his work.
Rest in peace, sir. Thanks for the laughs, both past and future.
The second Sigman Holiday Greeting death of the year came to pass on Friday, as Gary Coleman died at the age of 42.
By all accounts, it wasn't a very happy 42 years for Mr. Coleman (though he was pleasant enough when I met him). So, one would like to think that he has found happiness on the other side. Or at least that no one is asking him to say or write "that phrase" anymore.
I'm hesitant to write anymore, lest I stumble further into that snarky detachment that generally greets the passing of child actors. So I'll just wish a safe journey for Mr. Coleman. Thanks for the laughs (and for sufficiently freaking me out on those Very Special Episodes).
I like some Wham! songs just fine and if "Faith" comes on the radio, I'm probably not turning it off, but when it comes down to it, the far more important George Michael in my life was the guy who pressed the buttons on the Sports Machine. And that guy died Thursday at the age of 70.
I have said what I had to say about Mr. Michael and his Sports Machine before, so I will just add, rest in peace, George Michael. Thanks for the Machine.
I don't know why I started liking wrestling, but I can tell you my first memory of it. I was sitting upstairs in the O'Keefe house in Staten Island, watching the Saturday morning WWF (sorry, World Wildlife Fund, but that's what it was) show. The main event was a battle for the tag team title between the Wild Samoans (Afa and Sika) and, my favorites, Rocky Johnson and "Mr. U.S.A" Tony Atlas. The Internet tells me that this match was on November 15, 1983, which would have been my seventh birthday, though I think that's the date of the actual match and not the airing. In any event, I was still a little kid, blissfully unaware that pro wrestling was all fake and all the outcomes were predetermined (sorry if you just found out about that now, but it's true, unless you're "Dr. D" David Schultz, in which case, I take it back--wrestling is 100% real).
As the match drew to a close on the TV that day, I saw something my seven-year-old eyes could not believe. The Wild Samoans' manager, Captain Lou Albano, stepped into the ring with a wooden chair and prepared to smash it over Tony Atlas's head while one of the Samoans held him (the ref, if you can believe it, was out cold). Then, at the last second, Atlas turned away, and--wham!--the chair went right through the Samoan's head. Amazingly, the ref recovered consciousness--and somehow didn't see the chair the Samoan was wearing on his head--just in time to count the 1-2-3 and crown Johnson and Atlas champs! Holy crap! How awesome was that? It was probably one of the greatest mornings of my life at the time.
The moment was immortalized on the cover of the first WWF Coliseum Video I ever coveted (I don't think we even had a VCR yet), the totally awesome "Wrestling's Bloopers, Bleeps and Bodyslams":
I know I wasn't supposed to, but I kinda felt bad for Captain Lou. It wasn't really his fault. How could he have known Tony Atlas would duck out at the last moment? What a bad break. Even though I was supposed to hate the Captain (he was, after all a manager of bad guys, or heels, if you speak wrestling), I found it pretty difficult. First of all, his interviews were pretty funny, with him gyrating around and talking fast. Second, there were the Hawaiian shirts, which are always a plus. And last, and perhaps, most important, there were the rubber bands he wore pinned to his cheeks. C'mon, now. How can I hate a guy who has rubber bands pinned to his face? Impossible.
So, I was relieved when Captain Lou eventually turned babyface (again, I'm speaking wrestling here, try to follow) and started managing good guys like the British Bulldogs. Now it was OK, even encouraged, to like Captain Lou. So I did. And I continue to do so.
I met him for the first time at a wrestling convention at the Hotel Pennsylvania (then known as the Penta) in Manhattan and had him sign a page from an issue of Pro Wrestling Illustrated. Though I met several wrestlers that day (including little person The Haiti Kid, NWA legend Lou Thesz, and G.L.O.W. superstar Queen Kong, who clasped me to her bosom), I was most excited to meet the Captain. I met him several other times, including a Honeymooners comic book signing in Staten Island, a completely unexpected book signing at the B. Dalton in the Staten Island Mall, a few Chiller Theater conventions, and, most memorably, at a wrestling convention on the morning of my friends' wedding in Long Island. It was only a few miles away, and I wanted a picture with the Captain. I got it, and eventually I got the photo signed for my friends. I'm sure they're putting it on eBay as I write.
And I haven't even begun to mention the Captain's connection to one of my favorite bands, NRBQ. Their collaboration, "Lou and the Q" (which preceded the whole "Rock and Wrestling" phenomenon by a few years), is still one of my all-time favorite albums, and when my friends and I started up a magazine the year after I graduated college, Issue 2 featured an appreciation of the album. And, of all the great concert moments I've experienced, I'm not sure there was one better than seeing the Captain sing "Captain Lou" live with NRBQ at their 30th anniversary show at the Bowery Ballroom.
Plus, there was the Captain's work as "Captain Lou Morano" in my favorite movie about wrestling (suck it, Mickey Rourke), "Body Slam" (I've got the soundtrack on vinyl, signed by Captain Lou, Roddy Piper, and Tanya Roberts, who couldn't have seemed less pleased to remember being in the movie when I gave her the record to sign) and as "Frankie the Fixer" in the underappreciated "Wise Guys," easily the best Joe Piscopo movie you'll ever see. (If you've got 90 minutes to kill, you can watch "Body Slam" in its entirety here; you'll have to work a little more for "Wise Guys.")
I'm sure I could go on and on about my fondness for Captain Lou, but my point here is that it sucks that the Captain passed away Wednesday morning at the age of 76. A little bit of my childhood goes on with him. Rest in peace, Captain.
The Captain at the mike:
I never called the number, but I do have fond memories of the commercials:
In his obit on John Hughes in today's Daily News, David Hinckley wrote this:
That film showcased Hughes' ear for droll absurdity. When the dimwitted brother-in-law of Chase's character is grilling dinner and says he's using Hamburger Helper, Chase mutters that yeah, that's good with a little meat. The brother-in-law says, "You add meat?"
Really? Next time you attempt to memorialize a guy by pointing out what a good writer he was, it might be a good idea to watch the scene so you get the words right. Or even close.
It is late, and I only slept about three hours last night, so there is no way I could give a proper obituary for John Hughes, who died in New York Thursday morning. Still, something must be said.
I do not think I'm the only person in my age group whose life would be significantly different if John Hughes had decided to continue his career in advertising rather than try his hand at writing scripts. If I were to list my top ten favorite movies of all-time, I'm pretty sure John Hughes would have a hand in at least four of them--"National Lampoon's Vacation"; "Planes, Trains, and Automobiles"; "National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation"; and "Uncle Buck." Then there's "Ferris Bueller's Day Off," "The Great Outdoors," "Dutch," "Home Alone," and "Career Opportunities," all of which I don't pass by when I see them on TV (I'll admit the last of those might be poor judgment on my part, but, come on, Jennifer Connelly). And that's not even going into the Ringwald ouevre, which I've either never seen in one sitting ("The Breakfast Club") or never seen at all ("Pretty in Pink" and "Sixteen Candles") but are doubtless classics in the eyes of many. Plus, without him, such phrases as "Those aren't pillows," "Merry Christmas! Shitter was full!" and "Moley's Russell's wart" would not come out of my mouth on a semiregular basis. And that would be sad.
I assume it's probably not cool to say John Hughes is my all-time favorite filmmaker, but, well, you may have guessed already that I'm not cool. So I'm standing by my decision to revere John Hughes. My childhood would certainly have been a bit emptier without his movies (and, believe me, it was plenty empty as it was), and, so, as he heads off to his rest, I thank him.
Let's watch some clips (some NSFW...well, maybe all, but they all make me laugh):
I'm not sure I've ever had my picture taken with someone who's died two weeks later.
Based on my eight seconds of interaction with him and watching him interact with other people at the Big Apple BBQ, he seemed like a genuinely nice guy who truly enjoyed what he was doing. And, yes, he insisted that I do the thumbs up.
Rest in peace, Billy Mays. I'll leave the snarky jokes to the rest of the Internet.
He wasn't the first Dusty Rhodes I knew (that'd be this guy), but he'll always be my favorite.
James Lamar "Dusty" Rhodes, whose pinch-hitting heroics in the 1954 World Series helped the New York Giants win their last championship, died of cardiopulmonary arrest Wednesday at the age of 82 in Las Vegas.
Rhodes finished his playing career with a modest average of .253, but his crucial pinch hits in the first three games of the 1954 World Series earned him his spot in baseball history. And they were the reason I knew enough about him as a kid to ask my parents to take me to a baseball card show at the Penta Hotel in New York City (now back to being called the Hotel Pennsylvania) so I could get his autograph.
Every year for my birthday and/or Christmas, my grandmother would give me one of Donald Honig's baseball books, which featured not only written tales of baseball's past, but also hundreds of photographs of old players. When I first caught the autograph bug, I guess it seemed only natural to get these books signed by some of the guys in them. So I would see an ad for a baseball card show, usually in a Friday New York Post, look to see if the former players signing at the show were in one of the books, and, if one or more of them were, would begin pleading with my mom and dad to take me into the city to get my books signed. They generally caved pretty easily, and since my dad worked across the street at Madison Square Garden, he would frequently take me in and get some extra work done while I was at the show. He was a big baseball fan when he was a kid, too (he liked the Giants, and was at the last game at the Polo Grounds), so though he probably wasn't all geared up to go into the city and do work on his day off, I think he understood.
But I seem to recall that it was my mom that took me to the show where Dusty Rhodes was signing, and it might've actually been the first baseball card show I went to at the Penta (I'd been to a wrestling convention there, though, where I met Captain Lou Albano and the Haiti Kid, among others). I'm pretty sure I got Bob Feller's autograph at the same show, which means that was also the show where I wanted to get Joe DiMaggio's autograph, but they sold out of tickets before I could get one (never did get his autograph, though I bought one once that I'm pretty sure is a fake).
I don't remember anything about my interaction with Feller, but I remember that when I stepped up to Dusty Rhodes's table, he was really nice and went out of his way to talk to me and just generally be cool. When you're a kid and a guy who played in a World Series (and with Willie Mays!) talks to you, it's pretty awesome. And so, after that experience, Dusty Rhodes became my new all-time favorite baseball player. I used to compile stats and give actual major leaguer names to the little red dots that were the players on my Coleco Head-to-Head Baseball game, and Dusty Rhodes quickly became my cleanup hitter on the Giants (sorry, Willie). I believe his average hovered around the .600 mark.
Around the same time, I became aware of R. J. Smalling's Baseball Address Book, which listed home addresses for former major leaguers. Looking at it as an adult, that seems like a slightly creepy idea for a book, but as a kid, I thought this was the greatest book ever. I could write old ballplayers, send them a baseball card or an index card with a self-addressed stamped envelope, and maybe they'd sign the card and send it back. How cool would that be, getting mail from a former major leaguer?
I looked up Dusty Rhodes's address and was surprised to see that he was living on Staten Island, probably not that far from where I lived (I didn't recognize the address, but nothing's really that far away on Staten Island). I didn't want to ring his doorbell or anything, but I did want to write him a letter and thank him for being nice to me (and update him on how well "he" was doing in Coleco Head-to-Head Baseball). So I wrote him on a sheet from a yellow legal pad, mentioning how grateful I was that he treated me so nicely (and I think I included an index card for him to sign).
Pretty soon after, I got a response. I saw that the envelope was thicker than just an index card, so I opened it up and saw that my letter was there. I was briefly bummed out that he was sending my letter back. But then I looked on the back of the letter, and I saw a note. I still have it, but it's not in my apartment, so I think the note read:
It was just the way I was raised. James "Dusty" Rhodes
Wow! A ballplayer wrote me a note! And he has the same first name as me! Cool!
Childhood's full of such moments of awe and wonder, but we often forget about them as we get older. I've never forgotten that note, and the nice guy that sent it to me.
So, rest in peace, James "Dusty" Rhodes. Thanks for the note, and I hope today you're talking to the New York Giants fan that took me to baseball card shows and bought me lots of autograph tickets. Wish him a Happy Fathers' Day for me.
I probably saw Willie Nelson in concert before I liked him. It was either at Hunter Mountain, as part of one of the two Country Music Festivals they used to have each summer (which I was too young to truly appreciate), or at Radio City Music Hall, when my sister got tickets to the Willie Nelson/Asleep at the Wheel/John Anderson show that was part of the "Country Takes Manhattan" festival (also too young to appreciate). It's hard not to like Willie after you've seen him, though I've certainly met people who've actually found it pretty easy. Let us not speak of them.
Anyway, there are many great parts to the Willie show: the Texas flag lowering as the Family kicks into "Whiskey River," the ritual tossing of the bandanna into the crowd, sister Bobbie pounding out "Down Yonder," the Hank Williams medley. But when I first started going to Willie shows as a younger man, I was most intrigued by the postshow autograph signing from the lip of the stage. I can't remember if he did it at Radio City, but I know he did it at one of the Hunter Mountain shows, because I have pictures (and I had Willie sign my "Willie and the Family" album there, the first of roughly two dozen Willie signatures now in my possession). It's best described as barely organized chaos, as people thrust pieces of paper, albums, CDs, and the occasional child at Willie in hopes of obtaining his blessing, which he dispenses willingly. Here's an example from a Hunter Mountain show (note the baby being thrust forward on the left...I wasn't making that up):
And, always, at the side of the stage, keeping a close eye on things was a guy with an impressive beer gut (I can't quite tell if that's him in the white hat in the picture, but if it isn't, that's his body type for sure). He would make sure things didn't get out of hand and pull Willie away when it was time to finally leave the stage. That guy, I later discovered through much Willie-related reading was the awesomely named Poodie Locke, who served as Willie's stage manager and all-around wrangler.
Poodie Locke died last Wednesday from a heart attack at the age of 56. I just saw him at the side of the stage at the New Brunswick show last month. Sad to think he's gone, and to think of both his family and the Family mourning his passing. But as his own motto was "There are no bad days," I'm sure they're carrying on.
***
The first Willie Nelson studio album (well, cassette) I loved was the Don Was-produced "Across the Borderline," which featured some covers, a few Willie originals, and a bunch of Willie duets. There weren't many cassettes that I almost completely wore out (and, full disclosure, one was the soundtrack to "Cocktail"), but I easily wore down both sides of "Across the Borderline." I still don't think there's a bad song on there, but one of my favorites was Willie's duet with Bonnie Raitt on "Gettin' Over You," one of the finest country heartbreak songs I'd heard at the time, and after a crush gone bad, I'd collected a few at that point. I've collected several more since, and it's still up there. Check it:
Why do I still write? Why do I still call? Why do I still think there's hope for us at all? These are the things I hate but they're the things I do To get over you
Sunsets make me cry Old pictures make me grin But I don't really care to see your face again These are the things I say, but they're so hard to do Like gettin' over you
You gotta believe that there's a reason that we surrender up our hearts But there's a vantage point and it takes some time to find Where you can see how all the pieces fit as you watch 'em fall apart
Now I don't think it's right And you don't know what's wrong My heart keeps asking me just where do we belong It's not as though my life ain't hard enough to do Try gettin' over you
You gotta believe that there's a reason...
Now other people say Stop living in the past But when there's nothin' left, it's your memory that lasts It's later than you think but still this isn't through This gettin' over you
Now it's later than you think and still this isn't through This gettin' over you
That song was written by Stephen Bruton, a Texas songwriter and frequent Kris Kristofferson collaborator who died Saturday from throat cancer, at the age of 60.
Another day, another death of an underappreciated performer.
Vern Gosdin, singer of one of the all-time great country songs, "Chiseled in Stone," died Tuesday in Nashville after reportedly suffering a stroke a few weeka ago.
Gosdin, known as "The Voice," is right up there with the much more celebrated George Jones when it comes to guys who can sing the hell out of a country songs. Aside from "Chiseled in Stone" (which he cowrote with Max D. Barnes), my other favorite Gosdin songs include "Set 'Em Up, Joe" and "That Just About Does It." I first heard of Mr. Gosdin when his name popped up on the schedule at Nashville's ridiculously awesome Station Inn when I was planning my first trip to Nashville. I'd seen the name before but wasn't familiar with any of his songs at the time. Still, it seemed like it would be cool to see him at the Station Inn. But when I got there, I found out he had to cancel, thus postponing my first taste of his music and severely bumming out some of the older Station Inn patrons in the crowd. But I eventually got around to hearing "Chiseled in Stone" (the song and the album), and, when I did, I grew as upset as the old folks at the Station Inn. Never did get to see him sing live.
My "celebrity interview" career in college was fairly short and largely unrewarding. Richie Havens gave me the runaround for two days (I even skipped class because he was supposed to call me) before his people told me he decided not to do the interview (apparently he doesn't have a telephone in his bosom after all). John Flansburgh from They Might Be Giants got angry when I asked him what he thought of TMBG being labeled "geek rock" (he claimed he never heard them called that, even though I was looking at a press release for the show that had the phrase in the headline). Dick Schaap was gracious and cool, but, at the same event, NHL Commissioner Gary Bettman refused to admit that the then-recently resolved lockout had resulted in a loss of popularity for hockey.
But, by far, my favorite celebrity interview was with Frankie Manning, an octogenarian at the time, who was responsible for making the Lindy Hop popular. He wasn't a household name by any means, but when I saw that he was coming to town to lead a swing dancing class around the same time I had a feature writing assignment for a class, I figured it'd be cool to do the article on him. I couldn't get hold of him beforehand, so I just went to the afternoon swing dance class, watched for a bit (a better journalist would've actually participated in the class, but, well, I'm writing a blog that four people read, so I think you know by now that I am not a better journalist), and asked if it would be possible to interview him later on that night at the dance downtown. I don't recall if I asked him directly or if I went through someone running the event, but I do know that later on that night I sat down with him for a bit and asked him some questions about his early days and what he thought about the swing dance revival that had brought him back into the public eye.
I don't have any great anecdotes about the interview, partially because it was about 13 years ago, but mainly because it was for one of the more worthless journalism classes I took, which was supposed to be one of the more difficult courses that would really propel you into the life of a journalist but instead culminated in a final that consisted of writing an article about an episode of "Twin Peaks." It was one of those classes where you didn't have to work that hard, so I didn't, and my article about Mr. Manning, though I'm pretty sure it received high marks, was not nearly as good as it could've been. But I remember how kind Mr. Manning was, talking to a student for an article that wasn't going to run in any newspaper, after a pretty strenuous day for an 81-year-old man. He was humble and gracious and, ultimately, one of the nicer people I interviewed in that time of my life when it seemed like journalism was going to be my career.
Frankie Manning passed away Monday at the age of 94 from pneumonia. He had a good, long ride, but it's still sad to hear that he's gone.
In keeping with our policy of always tipping our hats to Opry members who leave the earth, Tinsel and Rot notes the recent passing of two Opry members.
Hank Locklin, best known for the classics "Please Help Me, I'm Falling" and "Send Me The Pillow You Dream On," died over the weekend at the age of 91. Prior to his passing, Locklin was the oldest living Opry member, an honor that I think now falls to the 88=year-old Little Jimmy Dickens.
Mr. Locklin was one of those old-timers I wished I could've met, mainly because I like to meet as many classic country stars as I can, but also because his album covers were often as classic as the songs contained within. Witness "The Girls Get Prettier" and "Candy Kisses":
And here's vintage Locklin (with Floyd Cramer, I do believe), doing his biggest hit:
Ernie Ashworth, whose biggest hit was "Talk Back Trembling Lips," passed away on Monday, March 2, at the age of 80.
I'll admit that I know little of Mr. Ashworth other than the aforementioned monster hit, but I've always meant to rectify that. It's unfortunate that his passing is giving me the push I needed.
Here's "Talk Back Trembling Lips":
And so, two more Opry folks head to their rewards. Rest in peace, sirs.
We generally keep things light here at Tinsel and Rot, but sometimes something comes along that's a little on the darker side. And it doesn't get much darker than what happened three doors away from me Tuesday morning.
Let me first start by saying that I'm the type of guy who gets sentimental for the people that sell me my newspapers in the morning. I can remember the guys at the Optimo in Staten Island who sold me my papers every morning on the way to high school (and my wrestling magazines before I graduated to newspapers) and called me "Chief." I was always fond of George, the raspy-voiced guy at Mac's at Ithaca College, where I stopped every morning (or, in the later years, after I discovered no real need to take classes in the morning, every afternoon) for my papers. And I recently had a crisis when the woman who sold newspapers outside the Pavonia/Newport PATH, and had my Post and Daily News ready for me every morning, suddenly disappeared and I had to adjust to a new guy, who lost my business when he chased me into the PATH station because I had given him a dollar bill with a tiny corner piece missing. I'm trying to warm up to a newsstand near the station, but it's not feeling quite right yet.
All that is to say that I have a great fondness for those who sell me my newspapers. And that includes the family at the bodega on my street, where I routinely stop for my weekend papers, assuming I can rouse myself to put on pants before the papers sell out (I don't buy the daily papers there because they don't get the Sports Final). They're always very pleasant and friendly, and the patriarch of the family always had a kind word as I went on my way or even if I saw him closing up shop at night. I'm certain I never had a real conversation with him, but still, I felt a certain kinship, because I like the people that sell me my newspapers.
That guy at the bodega, whose name was Kiritkumar Parikh, was killed Tuesday morning by some heartless douchebag in a botched robbery attempt at the store. That bodega where I bought my newspaper was on the cover of one today, and that family is now without their father. When I walked past the shrine that is now outside the bodega tonight, I almost lost it. Not because someone was murdered three doors down and about 90 minutes after I passed by (though, truth be told, I'm not feeling all that great about that), but because Mr. Parikh is gone. Just gone. For no reason. And I'll never again see him on a Saturday morning, or heading home for the night. It doesn't seem right, or even possible. All because of a creep and his gun.
Requiescat in pace, Mr. Parikh.
And if you're so inclined, faithful reader, say a prayer today for Mr. Parikh's family.
Back in the days when journalism seemed like a real possibility for the future, I wanted to be like Studs Terkel, and not just because he was in the greatest baseball movie of all time. I wanted to be the reporter who didn't make a living being flashy, but could still be the life of the party if needed. I wanted to be the guy who took an interest in probing the mind of the average person and getting at what was in there. I wanted to be the writer who let other people tell the story while I got out of the way.
I got a little lost along the way, became a little disillusioned with what journalism had become and the seeming impossibility that there would ever be another Studs Terkel. Or maybe I just got lazy. Whatever the case, I never stopped liking Studs Terkel. I was lucky enough to hear him speak a few times at lectures and readings and tell stories about his career in the business. For a guy best known for capturing the words of others, he was pretty deft at telling a story himself, and once he got going, it was hard to get him to stop.
It's hard to think of the Four Tops without thinking of my dad. He was a Temps and Tops kind of guy. I don't think he played favorites between the two, as I recall each getting equal play among the cassettes he carried with him for car rides upstate (it's hard to believe he didn't wear out the Temptations 'N' and Four Tops set he bought through the mail). But I do know that he bought a signed 8X10 of the Four Tops one of the times he saw them (was it at the Friar Tuck Inn upstate?), the only autograph I ever knew my dad to own.
So when I heard Levi Stubbs died, I thought of my dad. And car rides with those tapes (and, in the years before we made that great leap to a car that could play tapes, WCBS FM). And my dad singing in a voice that didn't quite match Mr. Stubbs'. And I was sad. And happy. Because it's like that sometimes.
Rock and Roll Hall of Famer Earl Palmer, one of the most prolific session drummers of all time, died last Friday at the age of 83.
As impressive as Buddy Harman's résumé was, Palmer's was even better. Here's a partial list:
"Lawdy Miss Clawdy" "Beyond the Sea" "Let the Good Times Roll" "My Blue Heaven" "Tutti Frutti" "I'm Walkin'" "You've Lost That Lovin' Feelin'" "River Deep, Mountain High" "Donna" "La Bamba" "Dead Man's Curve"
And that's just a start. He also played on numerous film and TV scores, probably most memorably laying down the beat for the theme song to "The Flintstones." I'm also looking for full confirmation that he played on the "Brady Bunch" theme but can't find anything definitive.
Regardless, popular music wouldn't have been the same without Earl Palmer. So, here's to you, Earl. Rest in peace.
Grand Ole Opry star Charlie Walker died Friday at the age of 81 after recently being diagnosed with colon cancer.
I will admit that I don't know much about Charlie Walker, but the fact that he recorded the undeniably awesome "Pick Me Up On Your Way Down" and made it songwriter (and Tinsel and Rot Hall of Famer) Harlan Howard's first big hit is reason enough to celebrate his life here on earth. He also recorded two songs that rank high on the list of greatest country song titles ever, "Don't Squeeze My Sharmon" and "Tell Her Lies and Feed Her Candy," the former on an album that also featured "I Wouldn't Take Her to a Dog Fight." I wish I was home to confirm that I have that album, but I'm pretty sure I do. If not, I will be seeking it out shortly.
