AM

Excerpted from Buck 'Em:  The Autobiography of Buck Owens with Randy Poe, ©2013:

Speaking of the radio, the reason my Capitol records sounded the way they did-- real heavy on the treble-- was because I knew most people were going to be listening to 'em on their AM car radios.  In fact, in those days, even the radio in most people's houses was an AM radio.  And of course, those early transistor radios were all AM radios, too.

When I told Ken Nelson why I was going for that trebly sound, he didn't waste any time.  He had the tech guy at Capitol Studios install some little mono speakers in the control booth.  When we'd mix my singles, we'd always play 'em through those little speakers to make sure that sound really cut through loud and clear.

At the time, nobody else was doing anything like that, but it just seemed like common sense to me.  And it was one more reason that you knew it was a Buck Owens record as soon as it came on the radio-- because it just didn't sound like those other records that always came out sounding like the bass player was standing in front of the singer. 

There's an oldies AM radio station I listen to in my car because the songs sound the way they did when I heard them for the first time.

Snowed Under by Ruling-Class Images

 

Excerpted from Abbie Hoffman's autobiography Soon To Be A Major Motion Picture, ©1980:

Lenin once wrote that art was counter-revolutionary because it showed beauty in the present, while revolution promised beauty in the future. It's true that art-for-art's sake leads to performing modern dance for Shahs and Sheiks or discussing sculpture at afternoon tea with the Rockerfellers. Yet creativity is needed to reach people snowed under by ruling-class images, and only artists can manage the breakthrough. Artists are the collective eyes of the future. One of the worst mistakes any revolution can make is to become boring. It leads to rituals as opposed to games, cults as opposed to community and denial of human rights as opposed to freedom.

In organizing a movement around art we not only allowed people to participate without a sense of guilt but also with a sense of enjoyment. The use of fun in struggle was a new notion. Even in Mississippi where we were truly frightened most of the time with people shooting at us, living with the constant thought that we might lose our lives, it seemed like people enjoyed their "work." All I did was admit it felt good. There's no incongruity in conducting serious business and having fun. This pissed off the straight left to no end.

A Short Interlude

 Excerpted from We're All In This Together by Steve Smith (aka Red Green) ©2008:

I was never drawn to comedy as a weapon.  I was drawn to comedy as a uniting force, not a dividing one.  I grew up with Jack Benny, Burns and Allen, Our Miss Brooks, and then Sid Ceaser, Red Skelton and Jackie Gleason.  They weren't using their comedy as a political weapon or as a tool for anarchy.  They were trying to get people to forget about their problems for an hour and have a few laughs, have a short interlude of visiting and friendship and social interaction.

I like that.  There are enough things to get people riled up about.  Let's not take one of the forces for good and turn it to the dark side.  

The Jugular

 Excerpted from John Lydon's autobiography Rotten:  No Irish, No Blacks, No Dogs, ©1994:

That's the trouble with working-class people throughout the world. They always try to spur their hatred onto what they see as being lower down the scale, rather than going for the fucking jugular of the upper- and middle-class bastards who are keeping them down in the first place.

Anyone Can Do It

 John Lydon (aka "Johnny Rotten") on the Sid Vicious personality cult, excerpted from his autobiography Rotten:  No Irish, No Blacks, No Dogs, ©1994:

Since I always have to have a point and purpose to everything I do, that's why people accuse me of being calculated. But it's the way I am. I always know my next move. I could never conjure up a death wish. This is all I have, life. I don't know what comes next, and frankly, I'm in no rush to find out. I didn't believe in playing the martyr just for the sheer hell of it, either. And to die over something as vaguely childish as rock 'n' roll is not on. Even though there's a lot of popularity in Sid's character, the people who buy the Sid myths, they don't buy records. They're wasters. That's the drug culture thing for losers and junkies, people who bemoan their sorry lot. I'm not part of that. I never was. I'll always go out and make sure it gets better. That's the difference between the Sid fanatic and the Johnny Lydon Appreciation Society. Life and death! There's nothing glorious in dying. Anyone can do it.

We Couldn't Stand It

"It was horrible to hear Camille sobbing so.  We couldn't stand it and went out to buy beer."  ~Jack Kerouac as Sal Paradise in On The Road, ©1957

Not exactly overflowing with the milk of human kindness, are you there, Jack?

"It's sad and I don't like it."

Excerpted from On The Road by Jack Kerouac, ©1957:

Dean was having his kicks; he put on a jazz record, grabbed Marylou, held her tight, and bounced against her with the beat of the music. She bounced right back. It was a real love dance. lan MacArthur came in with a huge gang. The New Year's weekend began, and lasted three days and three nights. Great gangs got in the Hudson and swerved in the snowy New York streets from party to party. I brought Lucille and her sister to the biggest party. When Lucille saw me with Dean and Marylou her face darkened- she sensed the madness they put in me.

"I don't like you when you're with them."

"Ah, it's all right, it's just kicks. We only live once. We're having a good time."

"No, it's sad and I don't like it." 

Every time you re-read a book, any book, you take something different away from it.  As we grow, learn, and evolve, we see the world through different lenses.

This time through On The Road, I'm inclined to agree with Lucille.  I'm almost overwhelmed by the selfishness and self-deception of the principle characters.  They are casually misogynistic, callous and manipulative; they abuse drugs and have sex joylessly; they believe their hedonism is teaching them hidden lessons about life when in reality that's the very thing preventing them from seeing anything other than an illusory surface.

Lucille is right.  It's sad.

And I don't like it.

Jack and Rita

Excerpted from On The Road by Jack Kerouac, ©1957:

Then I went to meet Rita Bettencourt and took her back to the apartment. I got a her in my bedroom after a long talk in the dark of the front room. She was a nice little girl, simple and true, and tremendously frightened of sex. I told her it was beautiful. I wanted to prove this to her. She let me prove it, but I was too impatient and proved nothing. She sighed in the dark. "What do you want out of life?" I asked, and I used to ask that all the time of girls. 

"I don't know," she said. "Just wait on tables and try to get along." She yawned. I put my hand over her mouth and told her not to yawn.I tried to tell her how excited I was about life and the things we could do together; saying that, and planning to leave Denver in two days. She turned away wearily. We lay on our backs, looking at the ceiling and wondering what God had wrought when He made life so sad. We made vague plans to meet in Frisco. 

My moments in Denver were coming to an end, I could feel it when I walked her home, on the way back I stretched I out on the grass of an old church with a bunch of hobos, and their talk made me want to get back on that road. Every now and then one would get up and hit a passer-by for a dime. They talked of harvests moving north. It was warm and soft. I wanted to go and get Rita again and tell her a lot more things, and really make love to her this time, and calm her fears about men. Boys and girls in America have such a sad time together; sophistication demands that they submit to sex immediately without proper preliminary talk. Not courting talk-- real straight talk about souls, for life is holy and every moment is precious.

I don't think the problem is with "God" or "society."  I think the problem is that Jack is a dishonest, selfish jerk.

Wonderfully Chaotic

 John Lydon on politics, excerpted from his his autobiography Rotten:  No Irish, No Blacks, No Dogs, ©1994:

Around the time of the punks, socialism wasn't working in England. The Labour party were unimpressive and tedious. The Conservatives, the same. It fluctuated from one party to another, four years of this, four years of that, and you wouldn't notice any change. Young people-- in fact, most people-- just walked clean away from politics as if it were a waste of time. A cloud of apathy had truly set in. Of course, that's exactly the environment the Conservatives want. That's when they can strut their stuff using prejudice, hate, family values, all the nonissues of political life. Grim.

—•—

I'm not a revolutionary, a socialist, or any of that. That's not what I'm about at all. An absolute sense of individuality is my politics. All political groups that I'm aware of on this planet seem to strive to suppress individuality. They need block voting numbers. They need units. It doesn't matter if it's left or right, sometimes the tactics are the same. The things these people strive for is mass uniformity. The feminist movement became oppressive very quickly. Gay liberation is not after equal rights at all. It's to be accepted as this one great lump. If a homosexual inside that movement dares stray away from what they term as the norm, then they victimize that person. It's replacing the same old system with a different clothing. I hate all these groupings, any kind of gathering like that. It destroys personality and individuality. Maybe a roomful of people having very different ideas is chaotic, but it's wonderfully chaotic, highly entertaining, and very educational. That's how you learn things-- not by everybody following the same doctrine. I don't suppose my kind of world could really exist at all because there are so many sheep out there that need leaders. Let them bleat among the flock, that's not for me. I'd rather be the lone sheep out there fending off the wolves. It's much better. When you grow up in a working-class environment, you're supposed to stay inside and follow the rules and regulations of that little system. I won't have any of that. It's all wrong, equally bad.

Old Women Knitting Quilts

 Excerpted from John Lydon's autobiography Rotten:  No Irish, No Blacks, No Dogs, ©1994:

I'm not a social snob; I can move inside any group and feel comfortable, I don't care if it's old women talking about knitting quilts. It's all about human beings. I can find that as fascinating as anything else. Sid, Paul, and Steve had a very hard time understanding that. "It's not rock 'n' roll." Of course it is! Rock 'n' roll is supposed to relate to everybody! If everybody isn't involved, then it's sectarianism. The people who condemn and slag you off do so because they have little knowledge of you. If you confront them and give them that knowledge, things will change. That's the whole point of living! You can learn off each other and enjoy.

The Pinnacle of Evolution

"Each people is, I believe, inclined to believe it is the purpose of history, that all that has happened is leading to the now, to this world, this country. Few of us see ourselves as fleeting phantoms on a much wider screen, or that our great cities may someday be dug from the ruins by archeologists of the future."  ~from Education of a Wandering Man: A Memoir by Louis L’Amour ©1989

I had bought this autobiography for my father, who was a fan of L'Amour's books, and he hated it.  I am not a fan of L'Amour's books, but loved it.

"C'est la vie," say the old folks, "it goes to show you never can tell."  :)

We do not at present educate people to think but, rather, to have opinions…

Excerpted from Education of a Wandering Man: A Memoir by Louis L’Amour ©1989:

Acquiring an education has many aspects, of which school is only one, and the present approach is, I believe, the wrong one. Without claiming to have all the answers, I can only express my feeling that our methods of instruction do much to hamper a child in learning. Our approach is pedestrian. We teach a child to creep when he should be running; education becomes a task rather than an excitement. Yet each of us can remember one or two teachers who made learning an adventure, which it surely is.

Personally, I believe children should be taught to see, to observe, and to subject what they have seen to analysis, and this in the earliest grades. Very young children will often learn a difficult subject easily unless someone tells them it is "hard." To me it also seems obvious that a child should be taught some methods of reasoning, methods of scientific investigation. Children have an innate feeling for logic and, given the opportunity, would learn quickly.

Such instruction would be unthinkable in any country not a democracy, and if carried out in a democracy it might clear the air of a lot of loose thinking, loose public speaking, and the kind of questionable statements that fill the air during political and other campaigns. The first generation of parents who had such children would have a difficult time but would find their own thinking undergoing drastic change.

We do not at present educate people to think but, rather, to have opinions, and that is something altogether different. Many of the political ideas that have disturbed the world in the past fifty years could not exist in such an atmosphere.

An Incomplete Education

"Unfortunately, in most of our schools the history of Europe and North America is taught as if it were the history of the world. The rest of the world is referred to only when Europeans or Americans were invading or trading. There has recently been a small change for the better but not nearly enough."  ~from Education of a Wandering Man: A Memoir by Louis L’Amour ©1989

The way I was taught about Europe and the way I was taught about Africa and Asia were very different.

I know that Europe consists of many different cultures in a rather small area, and that they haven't always gotten along well with each other.  I know that each culture eats different foods, wears different clothes, attends different churches, sings different songs, dances different dances, tells different stories.

But when it comes to the much larger continents of Africa and Asia, I was taught as if each were sort of a homogeneous lump, a great big mass of people who all looked, acted, and thought exactly alike.

That's a rather uninteresting, not to mention dehumanizing, way to look at the world, and I have to think it has contributed to the current xenophobia that is currently dominating American politics.

Time

"A mistake constantly made by those who should know better is to judge people of the past by our standards rather than their own. The only way men and women can be judged is against the canvas of their own time."  ~from Education of a Wandering Man: A Memoir by Louis L'Amour ©1989

Paul Laurence Dunbar was one of America's first celebrated Black poets.  His work is in the public domain, and can be read or downloaded freely from Project Gutenberg, HERE.

Most of his poems were written in standard English, but he wrote quite a few using Black, German, and Irish vernacular.  If I were to read one of these poems out loud today, there is a good chance I would be assaulted; at a minimum, I would be excoriated on social media and precluded from public office.

But in his time, this wasn't considered demeaning.  As a poet, I'm sure his intentions were quite the opposite.  He was exploring and celebrating different speech rhythms, something that in his time was quite ordinary and widely accepted.

Things change.  I'm sure today he would have written differently; but, like all of us, he was of his time.  His talent and works transcend something so ephemeral as current social mores, and should be appreciated against the canvas of their own time.

No Limit

"It is often said that one has but one life to live, but that is nonsense. For one who reads, there is no limit to the number of lives that may be lived, for fiction, biography, and history offer an inexhaustible number of lives in many parts of the world, in all periods of time."  ~from Education of a Wandering Man: A Memoir by Louis L'Amour ©1989

"He just didn't know any other way."

Steve Parish was a roadie for the Grateful Dead and manager for the Jerry Garcia Band.  His 2003 autobiography, Home Before Daylight: My Life on the Road With the Grateful Dead, is about his own life and experiences.  It's not a tell-all by any means, but of course his story overlaps with theirs.

His stories about losing Jerry Garcia to addiction are heartbreaking.  The first excerpt below is about the aftermath of Parish losing his wife and children in a car crash; the second comes years later, as it became clear Garcia was nearing the end of his life:

That first night, when I got to the show, Jerry approached me backstage and gave me a hug. He seemed so sad, so moved by my loss. And then, in a twisted but genuinely loving gesture, he did something that astounded me.

"Hey, man," he said, his eyes brimming with tears. "You want some heroin? It'll kill the pain."

I thanked him but declined the offer. "If I did anything right now-- one snort, one drink-- I'd never stop."

He nodded and told me again how sorry he was. In that instant I felt more pity for Jerry than I did for myself, because he really was trying to help. He just didn't know any other way.

•

There is nothing quite as sad and painful as living with a junkie. You watch him die, inch by inch, and there's nothing you can do about it.

Swindell Swindle

In this excerpt from David Brinkley's autobiography, titled simple David Brinkley: A Memoir, ©1995, he remembers his first job, at the age of twelve, in the 1930s:

Mr. Swindell explained to me that the A&P sold butter in two forms-- "print" butter in quarter-pound sticks wrapped in paper printed with the dairy's name, and a cheaper butter that came in bulk in wooden tubs and set on the floor open to dust and insects. When bulk butter was sold, it was scooped into pressed cardboard trays and weighed on a scale with a sliding balance out of the customers' sight. Mr. Swindell explained to me that when I weighed butter for black customers, "You should set the balance about here," he said, placing the balance weight at thirteen ounces. If the weight was out of sight of the customers, it was also out of sight of the store manager. I always set it for a pound at nineteen ounces.

 

And I Knew Before I Answered

In this excerpt from Wunnerful, Wunnerful! the Autobiography of Lawrence Welk, © 1971, Welk discusses the grief and disorientation he felt when he lost his mother:

It was in Pittsburgh that I got the telegram. "Come home at once. Mother is dying." I stood holding the telegram in my hands, sick at heart, remembering a thousand things all at once. How gentle she was, how kind, the way her hair curled around her face when she was flushed from dancing, the way she sat so straight in church holding her prayer book, the soft way she called me "Lawrencell." I felt so guilty, because I knew she had been ill with diabetes for some time, and even though I had tried to get home and see her as often as I could, I knew I hadn't gotten there often enough. The last time I had talked to my sister Agatha she had said, "Mama wants to see you, Lawrence. Come home as soon as you can."

And now it was too late. But I felt I had to try and see her. We were playing on tour at the Kennywood Amusement Park at the time and I went in to the manager and explained the situation to him. He was sympathetic. "Go ahead, Lawrence. You can fly in and see her and probably be back for the show tomorrow night."

I threw some things in a bag and drove quickly out to the airport. The weather was bad and the fog blowing in from the Ohio River grew progressively heavier as I drove. When I arrived, the man at the ticket desk said, "I'm sorry, Mr. Welk. All the planes have been grounded for a while. There'll be an indefinite delay."

I sat down to wait, and in spite of myself my eyes filled with tears. I longed to see my mother one more time and tell her how much she meant to me. None of us in our family had ever been very good at expressing ourselves verbally; instead, we had shown by our actions how felt about each other. My mother had shown us more love than any human being could rightfully expect. I loved her, and I wanted to tell her so.

I paced the floor of the airport for a while, watching the fog grow thicker and thicker, clustering around the dim lights on the runway until they were blacked out entirely. Finally the manager came over to me and said, "There's no use staying, Mr. Welk. All the planes are grounded for the night. You can't possibly get out of here now."

I got into my car and drove slowly back to town, much of the time with the door open so I could see more clearly where I was going. I had just gotten into bed in my hotel room when I heard the phone shrill. And I new before I answered, what it was.

It was my brother John. "Mother just slept away very peacefully," he told me. "We were all here with her."

I couldn't answer him. "Are you there?" he asked me finally.

"Yes. Yes I am, John. I tried to come home, but all the planes are grounded here."

"Yes, I know," he said. "We heard about the weather. Don't try to come home, Lawrence. It's too dangerous. I'll keep in touch with you."

He hung up, and I felt like a small boy again. Both my parents were gone, and even though I hadn't seen either of them very often in the past few years, I felt as if a whole piece of my life had died with them. My childhood, all the things they had spent so many years teaching me, all the kindness and goodness they had shown me, was all gone now. My mind was full of memories that night and I was very lonely.

I was unable to get home for the funeral services. I knew they would be held at St. Peter and Paul's Church, which had been such a big part of my mother's life. I knew that my brothers and sisters and all the grandchildren would be there, and the priest who knew her so well would speak the words of the Faith she loved so much. I could not truly weep for my mother, whose whole life was a living testimony to the faith she believed in, but I did weep-- I guess for myself-- for the next three days. I stood on the bandstand at the amusement park and smiled and played the accordion while the tears just rolled down my face. I couldn't seem to stop them. I could not help remembering that if it hadn't been for my mother I would never have gotten an accordion in the first place. I would never have been able to realize so many of the youthful dreams which had seemed so unattainable to everyone else but her.

I owed so much to her, and I hadn't been able to tell her at the end how much I loved her. And now I never would.

He lamented several times in his book that his mother wasn't there to share his successes with him.

I don't think he ever really got over the loss.

Vulnerable Human Beings

In this excerpt from Wunnerful, Wunnerful! the Autobiography of Lawrence Welk, © 1971,  Welk discusses the lesson he learned when his first band left him to tour on their own:

Some of the bewilderment and pain began to lift the moment I returned (home) to Yankton, and a day or so later when I dropped into church for some quiet reflection I had a sudden flash of insight which helped me very much at the time and has helped greatly all my life. I realized that we are all vulnerable human beings, and whenever we put our love and faith into another human being, we are open to hurts and disappointments. That's just part of life. We all hurt each other, completely unintentionally at times. The only one to trust completely is God, and once you can understand that, and learn not to bear any malice or bitterness in your heart, your life will be much happier. I never again took anything quite so personally. I realized that the only important thing in life is to live it as well as you can. Everything else is secondary.

Brushed My Hair Back

In this excerpt from Wunnerful, Wunnerful! the Autobiography of Lawrence Welk, © 1971, he talks about how hard it was for him to express his emotions verbally:

I had always thought my mother was beautiful, but she looked especially so to me as she held (my newborn daughter) Shirley for the first time. She settled down in her old rocking chair, cuddling Shirley close, murmuring soft German phrases to her, singing some old-country lullabies, as Shirley nestled contentedly in her arms. Suddenly the years melted away and I could remember her doing the same thing when I was a small boy. I realized with a pang that my mother was growing old. I didn't like to think about that. Instead I wanted to tell her how much I loved her. But, as usual, I couldn't quite get the words out. I sat down beside her, and she stopped rocking and reached out and brushed my hair back in the old way, and then she smiled at me, her eyes warm and tender as always.

I smiled, too. I loved her so much. But I couldn't seem to tell her.

That wasn't an uncommon problem for men of that generation.  My own father is the same way.  I don't think I've heard him say the words, "I love you."

But if you pay attention, he expresses it in other ways.

When the weather's bad, he calls to make sure I made it home safely.  When I come over in the morning, he offers me a cup of coffee and a cookie.  He cuts out coupons for me if he thinks they're something I could use.

You just have to know how to read the signs.