Saturday, February 15, 2014
Here come The Beatles February 1964
We knew The Beatles were coming months before they arrived here. I was suspicious. I liked rock & roll. I liked many kinds of music. I didn't have a great cultural or emotional investment in rock & roll. Those early Beatles singles & the LPs Meet the Beatles & Beatles Second were enjoyable, but they didn't bowl me over. The Beatles' music seemed too slight to support the madness. & then there was the marketing: authorized merchandise, Beatles wigs, lunchboxes, dolls, pinup magazines etc. etc. aimed at 10-12 year old girl demographic. Manager Brian Epstein wanted his band innocent enough that parents would buy the crap Beatles merchandise for the little girls. What happened in high school was a bit different. I was 15, a sophomore. The 14 & 15 & 16 year old girls I knew who fell in love with one or another of the Beatles did so with self-aware & barely disguised lust. All Epstein needed to sell them were the records & record jackets & some glossy photos of the boys. Their photos were in all the magazines.My favorite single of 1963 was Candy Girl b/w Marlena, by The Four Seasons. two sided hit bigger in Philly & Atlantic City than NYC. I had been impressed by some of the songs, vocal harmonies, on Surfer Girl album. I thought the Beach Boys & Seasons could cover each other's songs. My favorite LP of '63 was either a movie soundtrack or Stan Kenton's Adventures in Jazz." I was fond of Martha & the Vandellas.
Some kids in my high school detested The Beatles. There was a serious Fifties hangover teen culture in my h.s., plus leftovers of the folkie hootnanny, which continued to move songs into the top 40, neither of which I much appreciated. The Fifties influence had become parody. The Beatles broke over those like a tidal wave. That's why I liked The Beatles. As a little kid immersed in the malt shop world of Archie Comics & Ozzie & Harriet, I had envied teen culture of the mid-Fifties because it had Elvis, plus doo wop & Buddy Holly. Elvis was a transformer. I must confess to also liking Bob Denver's gentle teen beatnik Maynard G Krebs from Dobie Gillis. But Elvis meant almost nothing to us in 1964, beatniks were disappearing, there were vestiges of doo wop in the top 40 but lacking the purity & ethereal qualities of the music that had enchanted me in grammar school. Occasionally a decent song popped out an Elvis Movie. The Beatles were our Elvis. I recognized that much & embraced the change. Soon enough more music flowed from England, like The Animals' great "House of the Rising Sun." Had to put up with Gerry & Pacemakers & Freddy & The Dreamers & other forms of mindless profiteering inspired by The Beatles. Bobby Vee compared to Buddy Holly. The first Beatles LP I bought was the soundtrack to A Hard day's Night with the George Martin instrumentals.
The Beatles in California smoking pot with with who?
At the end of 1964, The Beatles released Beatles '65, an LP I loved, initiating a period of about two years when The Beatles recorded & released the finest series of now classic records ever from a band or artist, from "No Reply" & "I Feel Fine" to "Help!" & "Paperback Writer," "Drive My Car," "Rain," "And Your Bird Can Sing" all the way through Rubber Soul & Revolver. Beatles 65 made me a real fan \of the band. It was when rock & roll became rock. Even the lp cover pix were cool, with the umbrellas. The speed of The Beatles' musical evolution, while under the incredible pressure of needing to produce more "hits," touring, & making two movies, was proof of their genius. Because of The Beatles, The Four Seasons made better records, The Beach Boys made wonderful records. The Beatles inspired the creation of The Byrds, making folk music palatable & hip. & The Beatles turned Bob Dylan from a rock dabbler into the greatest white American rocker since Elvis. The Stones would be along as soon as they finished urinating on the gas station attendant, or so the story went. The Stones or maybe their fan club passed out buttons that said, "Let's Lock Loins." It became getting more & more difficult for the profiteers to keep a handle on the teenybopper market. Ultimately it lead to the The Monkees. & even they became too uppity. But that was a long way ahead.
At the end of August 1964 I missed my one chance to see The Beatles live. Wasn't a sure thing, but it was a chance. Another story.
Labels: culture, growing up, music, Roselle Park, TV
Monday, December 16, 2013
Buddy Dorney
Thinking of my late cousin, Buddy Dorney, this morning, who died in strange circumstances in early December 1962, apparently swept off rocks while fishing with his son in Tierra del Fuego. Only Buddy's body washed ashore. He was down there working for an oil company. Buddy was my Catholic godfather (I think for my sister also), a job he knew had no responsibilities, fine with him, as we were not being raised Catholic & he was minimally observant.
He loved beautiful women & flashy cars, married a former & drove a latter. We rarely saw him. When he visited, usually unannounced, he draped himself in tire snow chains from the garage & banged on the windows as "Mr. Clanky Chains," which threw us four siblings into hysteria although we knew it was him. He knew parlor tricks. Nana, my dad & mom adored him. Nana had raised Buddy & his older brother Jim, her late sister's kids. So they were more like young uncles to us.
Buddy was the one fellow in my family who looked totally Irish, with dark hair, bushy eyebrows & piercing eyes. He was the only one in the family considered to have the gift of blarney. Most Irish love blarney, knowing it's mainly bullcrap wrapped in flattery & persuasiveness. You enjoy blarney by surrendering to it.
When Buddy died, I noticed my parents were unable to grieve together. Their marriage was over. I walked around the corner & sat on the steps of the Methodist Church, looking up at the winter stars, wishing I was in Atlantic City with my grandmother, I believed I could be a comfort to her.
***
Next day, in boys health class, when the story had appeared on the front page of the Elizabeth Daily Journal, old Coach Herm Shaw devoted the entire class to his memories of the Dorney Brothers. Coach Shaw, a kind man, did that for me. I never forgot it. When Coach died many years later, I sent a note to his wife, Dorothy, also a teacher, remembering the day. She was pleased to receive the note.
He loved beautiful women & flashy cars, married a former & drove a latter. We rarely saw him. When he visited, usually unannounced, he draped himself in tire snow chains from the garage & banged on the windows as "Mr. Clanky Chains," which threw us four siblings into hysteria although we knew it was him. He knew parlor tricks. Nana, my dad & mom adored him. Nana had raised Buddy & his older brother Jim, her late sister's kids. So they were more like young uncles to us.
Buddy was the one fellow in my family who looked totally Irish, with dark hair, bushy eyebrows & piercing eyes. He was the only one in the family considered to have the gift of blarney. Most Irish love blarney, knowing it's mainly bullcrap wrapped in flattery & persuasiveness. You enjoy blarney by surrendering to it.
When Buddy died, I noticed my parents were unable to grieve together. Their marriage was over. I walked around the corner & sat on the steps of the Methodist Church, looking up at the winter stars, wishing I was in Atlantic City with my grandmother, I believed I could be a comfort to her.
***
Next day, in boys health class, when the story had appeared on the front page of the Elizabeth Daily Journal, old Coach Herm Shaw devoted the entire class to his memories of the Dorney Brothers. Coach Shaw, a kind man, did that for me. I never forgot it. When Coach died many years later, I sent a note to his wife, Dorothy, also a teacher, remembering the day. She was pleased to receive the note.
Labels: growing up, Roselle Park
Monday, August 05, 2013
Vow of Silence
Turns out the guy with the lousy memory asking all the questions at my hometown FB page didn't even go to high school there. Don't we have some kind of "omerta" rule applies to him, a voto di silenzio dei adolecents. When I suggested this, my comment was deleted. The voto di silenczio isn't itself a secret, but a warning.
If there is no vow of silence, can I ask why there weren't any black people in the town & who ordered the vicious beating of the barber who tried opening his shop on Wednesdays & expect to receive answers?
I should just lie & say I grew up in Atlantic City. It's what I always wanted to do. Did you grow up in Roselle Park? Heavens no, I just went there to visit my parents & siblings.
If there is no vow of silence, can I ask why there weren't any black people in the town & who ordered the vicious beating of the barber who tried opening his shop on Wednesdays & expect to receive answers?
I should just lie & say I grew up in Atlantic City. It's what I always wanted to do. Did you grow up in Roselle Park? Heavens no, I just went there to visit my parents & siblings.
Labels: Roselle Park
Monday, February 04, 2013
The rest is a pop song
. It was obvious to others back then that I found her beautiful, smart & talented & loved her.
The rest is a pop song & I play with the lyrics., my right as a poet.
We were small town ambitious. We believed one or the other of us, or both, might become famous. Although neither of us was a great social butterfly, we were sociable & enjoyed being seen together.
I've always been grateful for her family, her mom especially, how I was taken into that crowded, chaotic house on Hemlock Street during a turbulent period in my own family. I was "Karen's boyfriend," & with that came meal privileges & use of the old upright piano.
Karen, of course, always wanted to get out of the house if it wasn't a school night, or if it was, at least go sit on the front porch or on the back seat of an old but functioning 1948 Desoto, a Battell heirloom called "The Turtle" kept in the garage. She would be annoyed with me If I settled on the couch, watching TV with three or four kids crawling over me. But I felt love in the chaos, & I sensed the love was emanating from the frazzled woman in the kitchen who welcomed me if I went in there, sat down & chatted with her. As long as mom liked me, I'd be o.k. with her dad & we'd get a longer leash. I liked talking with her mom. I suspected her dad secretly hoped we'd elope the day after Karen graduated high school just to get her out of a crowded house lacking in space & privacy.
It was my job as a writer to fit Karen into my narrative. Where I fit into her's was of small concern to me. I hoped only that she carried no hurtful memories, & in our few conversations later she never gave the impression she had.. You won't find her in my poems, except invisibly in a group I wrote in 1990 which drew from every romance & break up I'd gone through up to that point.
Karen passed at age 62, a tragic fact. I have only two early years of those 62 & I wish she had lived until my small percentage was much smaller. But they were two adolescent years filled with the kinds of days & nights everyone remembers as the rest of our days & nights & years speed by faster & faster. My poetry mentor, Joel Oppenheimer, taught by example that there are memories a poet holds in trust. He was passing down an old tradition. One might never bring those memories to a poem or story, but they are held & treasured all the same. It is a privilege.
Remembering how Karen, the most beautiful teenage girl I every knew, entered a party, a dance, a brightly lit diner, a wedding reception (we went to at least two), my dad's living room, whatever occasion called for it. She always did this if she was wearing something new from Daffy Dan's. She would walk through the entry, quickly survey the occupants, tilt her regal nose up & slightly to one side just so, & pose for a moment. Yes, people looked. Always. I'd be standing behind her or off to one side, thinking, "Wow! I'm sure she rehearses that." To me she was dancing.
In Memory of Karen Battell Silva, 1950-2012
The rest is a pop song & I play with the lyrics., my right as a poet.
We were small town ambitious. We believed one or the other of us, or both, might become famous. Although neither of us was a great social butterfly, we were sociable & enjoyed being seen together.
I've always been grateful for her family, her mom especially, how I was taken into that crowded, chaotic house on Hemlock Street during a turbulent period in my own family. I was "Karen's boyfriend," & with that came meal privileges & use of the old upright piano.
Karen, of course, always wanted to get out of the house if it wasn't a school night, or if it was, at least go sit on the front porch or on the back seat of an old but functioning 1948 Desoto, a Battell heirloom called "The Turtle" kept in the garage. She would be annoyed with me If I settled on the couch, watching TV with three or four kids crawling over me. But I felt love in the chaos, & I sensed the love was emanating from the frazzled woman in the kitchen who welcomed me if I went in there, sat down & chatted with her. As long as mom liked me, I'd be o.k. with her dad & we'd get a longer leash. I liked talking with her mom. I suspected her dad secretly hoped we'd elope the day after Karen graduated high school just to get her out of a crowded house lacking in space & privacy.
It was my job as a writer to fit Karen into my narrative. Where I fit into her's was of small concern to me. I hoped only that she carried no hurtful memories, & in our few conversations later she never gave the impression she had.. You won't find her in my poems, except invisibly in a group I wrote in 1990 which drew from every romance & break up I'd gone through up to that point.
Karen passed at age 62, a tragic fact. I have only two early years of those 62 & I wish she had lived until my small percentage was much smaller. But they were two adolescent years filled with the kinds of days & nights everyone remembers as the rest of our days & nights & years speed by faster & faster. My poetry mentor, Joel Oppenheimer, taught by example that there are memories a poet holds in trust. He was passing down an old tradition. One might never bring those memories to a poem or story, but they are held & treasured all the same. It is a privilege.
Remembering how Karen, the most beautiful teenage girl I every knew, entered a party, a dance, a brightly lit diner, a wedding reception (we went to at least two), my dad's living room, whatever occasion called for it. She always did this if she was wearing something new from Daffy Dan's. She would walk through the entry, quickly survey the occupants, tilt her regal nose up & slightly to one side just so, & pose for a moment. Yes, people looked. Always. I'd be standing behind her or off to one side, thinking, "Wow! I'm sure she rehearses that." To me she was dancing.
In Memory of Karen Battell Silva, 1950-2012
Labels: growing up, Karen Battell, love, Mahalo, obituary, Roselle Park
Saturday, February 04, 2012
Karen Battell; narrative not myth
Jotting down various memories of Karen Battell Silva, who passed away far too young this week. As they accumulated they began taking on a "what a fool believes" quality. Which is all wrong. I don't overestimate my impact on a teenage girl in the 1960's who lived an entire life since then, or her influence on me. She leaves a husband, a son, her mom, six siblings at least a dozen nieces & nephews. My condolences to them. But as a writer I'm always trying to draw a narrative out of the episodic, was already doing that when I was 18 years-old. I'm the son of a fine "amateur" historian & storyteller. There are a number of anecdotes about Karen & her family I've told all along. I repeated one to my stepbrother earlier this week, before I heard about Karen - he knew her as my girlfriend & met his future wife shortly after I met Karen - about a particular summer night on the crowded Seaside Heights boardwalk. Karen & I were strolling the Seaside Boardwalk on a balmy summer evening just digging the scene. Karen probably wearing some light summery dress - she was very much a dress kind of girl in those days. Over leaning against the boardwalk railing were my stepbrother & his girlfriend, a tall attractive blonde, both in leather jackets. At the timehe had a beard & a bike & looked a bit like an outlaw Abe Lincoln. We sropped & chatted for a few minutes, the most natural thing in the world to meet in that place at that time.
I 've told a few stories on the radio. None of them are negative. I began writing some of them down only after I started this blog, I allude to Karen in a very general way in just one of my poems I can think of. Most of my poems are located in their moment of creation, recent past, or mythic time. She was long gone when I began writing publishable poems. She has her place back there, mainly in mythic time, but she is so distinctive a personality, attractive, sensual, intelligent, even as a high school student, so memorable - & I've been with several remarkable women since then in longer, more serious relationships. I imagine Karen would appreciate being so memorable. She wanted her presence & personality felt. She was very good at letting me have the spotlight, but when it was her turn, I got out of the way. Maybe I learned that from her, when to get out of the way. She also had small tolerance for crass or vulgar people, & that taught me something important, too.
Karen was not only the first woman (at 16), but the first person to give an unqualified "yes" to my creative aspirations, which at that time were vague & largely undefined & searching for outlets, but very strong. For Karen it was part of who I was, just as dancing was who she was, & something she liked in me, & no further discussion was necessary.
"If a nation expects to be ignorant and free, in a state of civilization, it expects what never was and never will be." Thomas Jefferson
I 've told a few stories on the radio. None of them are negative. I began writing some of them down only after I started this blog, I allude to Karen in a very general way in just one of my poems I can think of. Most of my poems are located in their moment of creation, recent past, or mythic time. She was long gone when I began writing publishable poems. She has her place back there, mainly in mythic time, but she is so distinctive a personality, attractive, sensual, intelligent, even as a high school student, so memorable - & I've been with several remarkable women since then in longer, more serious relationships. I imagine Karen would appreciate being so memorable. She wanted her presence & personality felt. She was very good at letting me have the spotlight, but when it was her turn, I got out of the way. Maybe I learned that from her, when to get out of the way. She also had small tolerance for crass or vulgar people, & that taught me something important, too.
Karen was not only the first woman (at 16), but the first person to give an unqualified "yes" to my creative aspirations, which at that time were vague & largely undefined & searching for outlets, but very strong. For Karen it was part of who I was, just as dancing was who she was, & something she liked in me, & no further discussion was necessary.
Labels: boardwalks, growing up, jersey shore, Karen Battell, love, Mahalo, Roselle Park, Seaside Heights
