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American Tunes - Foot-Stompers, Shit-Kickers & Top-Poppers: A Playlist to Celebrate the 4th of July with
"Sing me back home with a song I used to hear..."
I haven't celebrated a 4th of July in the States in six years. Yes, I have celebrated in Australia and this year I will celebrate in London...but its not the same. There's no mad dash to the supermarket for BBQ fixin's. There's no parades down Main Street. There's no big field under a clear blue summer sky filled with friends and family playing horseshoes. There's no fireworks displays. There's no dusk bonfires outside a New Hampshire lake house. Nope...none of that.
I miss all of that hoopla. I miss the tradition and camaraderie that is the celebrating of the Fourth of July. I don't want to get all philosophical on a kick-back day like today, but just let me say, "you don't miss your water, 'til your well runs dry".
When I think of a 4th of July celebration, this is what I picture:
A wide open field, filled with closest friends and extended family. There is a stage where band will play. They will play a couple sets: one at noon and one at dusk. There's summer spots being payed everywhere: horseshoes (my fave), whiffle ball and badminton. There is a Beer tent with plenty of ice cold kegs, tapped and at the ready (everyone has red and blue solo cups in hand). The food...oh, the food: burgers, hot dogs, chicken, corn, beans, potato salad, macaroni salad, lobsters, apple pies...all eaten off of paper plates.
The day turns to night. The bonfire is lit. Everyone who is still there huddles around it. Kids sleep at their parents feet. We can see the local fireworks display from across town light up the sky. The young'ins spark up their own display out in the field in front of us. The crowd calls out for the band to grab the acoustics and lead us towards midnight in group a sing-a-long..."Crossroads, seem to come and go, yeah...."
Yep...I'm hankering for a good ol' fashion Americana celebration. While I can't share a cold one or a hot dog with you, I can share some American sounds. When I'm feeling a little blue on a day when I can't celebrate the the Red, White and Blue on American soil, I do what I always do: put the needle on the record and let the music play.
I have put together a playlist perfect for a day like the one I described. This playlist is full of old favorites, complete with a bit rock and roll, swinging blues and country twanginess. You'll be stomping feet and slapping backs while you pop the tops off of your ice cold longnecks of Bud when you hear this collection of classics performed by citizens of our beloved country.
I have wrapped them up in a bow in this shared folder for you to download: American Tunes
I'll be playing this set loud and proud as I fire up the grill and put on a couple burgers and dogs for me and the missus. Enjoy the day and and enjoy the people the you spend it with...where ever you are on this this big ol' globe.
Happy 4th of July. Judd
p.s. the songs in the folder are not in the order that put them in. If you want to recreate that, check the sequence below
(download)
Ode to Robert Mitchum: Red-light, Moonlight and Highlights from a night spent skulking in Montmartre Paris
I was in Paris on business, but I was surrounded by pleasure. My hotel was right next door to the Museum of Erotica. Across the street, bright neon signs blazed on about "Porn Shops", "XXX Store", "Sex Toys". Up the road on the way to the Moulin Rouge were handfulls of cat houses and skin joints where front door pimps lured hard-up locals and hopped-up tourists looking to trade cash for dry-humps and weak drinks.
It was near eleven pm and I had been skulking around Paris' red-light district in Montmartre for close to two hours. Its easy to skulk in this area of Paris. There are many skulkers and many places to skulk in Montmartre, especially nearby the Moulin Rouge. I was skulking not because I need to hide or hide something. I was skulking because it seemed like the right thing to do.
"Paris was a place you could hide away
if you felt you didn't fit in"
- Rod Stewart, "Every Picture Tells a Story"
I ignored all of the invites from the pussy-pushers and dope-dealers. It wasn't a decision, it was a reaction; I looked, but I didn't touch. I was on the hunt for something else. I strayed the main drag to skulk the side streets. I was looking for a scene...some place that I could prop up on a stool, pull back pints and, hopefully, find good tunes on the box (a "place I could hide away").
As my luck would have it, I found my Paris hideaway half way down a dark street that was well lit from the bright full moon. I found it because of the music. I had my antennae up as it was, but I didn't expect to get much reception. I was looking for the blues...not jazz, as there are many clubs there for that...I was looking for some blues and maybe, just maybe a bit of country. Shit, if I could find something close to either it would have been perfect.
I got as close to perfect as possible that night as a Paris street skulker could.
This one little bar on the corner had about a twenty people sitting outside. Near three quarters of them were singing along to the heavy, cock-sure sounds of the Howlin' Wolf that were rumbling out of the open-front bar. I near shit myself: The Wolf was out on a night where the full moon's beams were shining bright. Hot damn!
I walked inside and pulled up a stool, rested an elbow on the bar and called out for a pint of the local. The barkeep was in control and not just from behind the taps. He was spinning the tunes, too. He had that box humming with all sorts of rockabilly, country, soul, blues and hyped-up Gene Vincent/Link Wray slashing guitar.
I was in shock. This guy had some real-deal taste. He wasn't fucking around...you could tell just by looking at him. He looked like a cross between the first Rocky movie Balboa, Clark Gable and rivet pounder from the 1920's. He had bold tattoos up and down each of his arms: skulls, roses, knives and a massive (early) Elvis portrait on his right bicep (It was, bad-ass).
He could see that I was on to him...that I was a pro. When another gunslinger comes into town, there's usually a showdown out on main street where pine boxes are propped up on fences waiting for the man with the slow hand. Not this time though. There would be no showdown on this night. We weren't fighters; no, we were lovers...lovers of those early American sounds.
We did a bit of talking between songs. He'd play something and I would try and guess the artists (I got stumped a few times). It wasn't until I called out, unprompted, one of the craziest, "how the hell did you know that" rabbits out of my ass of all time: Robert Mitchum's, "The Ballad of Thunder Road".
I love this song...always have. It came from the movie of the same name and Mitchum played the lead role. I've never seen the movie, but I sure as hell know the song. My throw-back bar tending buddy was as appreciative of the fact I knew his songs as he was surprised. I could see by the look on his face that I made his night with that call. You can guess that my beers for the next little while came free of charge.
Mind you, the barkeep didn't speak a lot of English and my French sucks...as in I can't speak the language. There was hardly any English speaking patrons in there...French, German, Dutch, Italian. No matter...we all spoke the same language: music.
Within twenty minutes of that song, the place had turned into a sing along (about 20-30 people in there at 12:30 am). I recorded a bit of it and attached it here. It makes me laugh when I listen to it. I'm a transient in Paris, sitting in bar after midnight, back slapping and singing along to 1950's country tunes with people who can't speak English and me not able to speak French. Shit, yeah...that's my kinda fun. Life is coolest when it is unplanned.
It is only a minute or so long. Have a listen and sing along if you like.
(download)
The lure of going around had worked it's magic once again. I left that bar walking tall and feeling like a proud peacock: a skulker no more. Rave on...
10th row center at The Royal Albert Hall for Jackson Browne & David Lindley. Lindley was amazing.
I knew Jackson Browne. I had heard of David Lindley, but I had never heard David Lindley. Wow, that guys is talented. Yeah, there are a bunch of you saying, "no shit, thanks for showing up". See, this is what I love about music discovery. Now I have someone else to learn about...backstory. songs, connections to lore and legend, etc. There are many handfuls of Lindley's out there. I'm going to put a list together.
Talking Old Trees, Squeezed Juice & Willie Nelson: Thoughts on Willie's London Gig from June 11th, 2010
If you chop down an old tree at it's base and have a good look at the stump, you should see many rings on it. The more rings a tree has, the older, the stronger and sturdy the tree is/was. Some trees live for hundreds of years; the strongest living for centuries. These trees weather storms. These trees comfort those who sit in it's shade. These trees are landmarks or touchstones that communities rally 'round. These tree's roots run deep...very deep.
Willie Nelson...is one of these trees.
Them old trees and Willie Nelson...they are a lot alike. Willie must have many rings on his innards. Not that we want to go chopping Willie in two pieces, but you can imagine that all the miles he's logged and roads he's traveled have left impressive marks. Willie's latest road he's a travelin' came through London the other night.
Grown men don't cry...unless they go to a Willie Nelson concert. I saw Willie Nelson at the Hammersmith a few nights ago and for the first dozen songs he and his Family Band played, I fought back tears. I see a lot of shows, but I was not prepared for the impact Willie would have on me.
I know the man's work and I understand his deep contribution to music...not just country music. What I didn't know, or expect, was effect that the combined weight of the two has when you see and hear him in the live setting. If you read this blog and know me, you'll know that when music matters most to me, I tend to dig deeper than surface level. So...take this post with a grain of salt because, I'm about to go half-way to China.
Way, way back when (late 1,800's/early1900's)...a musician played his songs in one spot; the piano was the instrument of the day. When the musician got the urge to roam, carrying a piano from town to town was not an option; hence, the emergence of the guitar. The guitar was portable...easy to carry and carry a tune with. (One of my fave authors, Peter Gurlanick, calls this urge, "the lure of going around". I just got the chicken-skin...)
Have guitar, will travel.
Songwriters don't write for themselves, they write to share. To share, you must take your songs to the people. The image is indelible: he is walking down an old dirt road, guitar slung across his back. He strides into town and finds a busy, hectic street corner. He takes of his hat and lays it at his feet and he begins to play. He plays his songs for the people. He looks for their reaction; he feeds off of it. People clap, drop a few coins in appreciation and they move along. So does the musician. He moves along...this is the life of the traveling singer-song writer. Few, if any, have done it better than Willie Nelson.
Last Friday, Willie played out this image for a sold-out London crowd. Seventy-six years old and he is still walking that road and playing his songs...and, oh MAN, does he have songs.
That is what really hit me. Willie has not just written songs, he's written SONGS. Many of his songs run the gambit of genre, experience and time(lessness). Maybe Willie's songs are his "tree rings"? Maybe his songs are what makes him so accountable and lasting? Either way, his songs are what blew me away the other night.
Thirty-one songs in ninety minutes. Eeeeeh, doogeee! That is insane. I guess the old quality / quantity argument rears it's head here. Fair enough. Yes, he did blaze through most of them. Yes, I would have liked a few of them stretched out a bit more in places. What I can't argue with was the chance to hear all of these classics. The mind's eye...or in this case, ear...does not have perfect recall. I (we) tend to remember snippets of what we see and hear, wrap that up in the emotions we felt and then call that our "memory". So whether I heard three or thirty-one songs, I wasn't going to remember every bit and nuance of what I heard.
The 31 song set Willie played was like one big ninety-minute medley; which is just how I remember it. Chunks of this medley I remember better than others. The three song mini-medley of "Crazy>Time>Nightlife" had me shielding my face which was revealing that I was getting seriously choked up. These are three tall and towering songs in music. They have been and will be covered by many artists. Willie wrote them. When I heard Willie play them, it knocked me back.
There was Willie, 76 years old and still playing these songs for the people. We have all heard them by many an artists...but this was Willie singing them. He may have played shorten versions of them, but he didn't mail them in. In my view, he consolidated them down their pulp. He squeezed their juice and we still got a full glass. To hear these three played back-to-back-to-back was a treat.
What else was a treat was Willie's fine form. He was the only performer with a guitar and the only performer to give voice all night. No back-up singers to handle notes he can't reach and no second guitar player standing in the shadows playing fills and leads that Willie's fingers can't pick. Nope...Willie pulled his own weight. At seventy-six, you can't expect a performer to give it like he did when he was twenty-six. Did Willie? I don't know, but what I do know is that he showed us that he is still the fucking boss.
His guitar picking is so damn clean. It is a big stew of equal parts BB King, Django Reinhardt, Chuck Berry (think, stops & starts) and Bob Wills. It is what he doesn't play that makes what he does play, resonate. You would also expect his vocals to be strained from age, wear and tear and his longstanding membership in the 4:20 club. At times they may have been, but most all of the night his voice was strong and clear and hit bone in all the right places.
All up, at the end of the show...I was a happy Willie fan. I was even happier as a music fan. I have been asking myself, "who has taken it farther and cut deeper, wider swath than Willie...in American music or music in general?". I'm not sure of the answer. Can you tell me someone else who has? There are many examples of moments in time where history freezes high-water marks (Hank Williams, Otis Redding, Jimi Hendrix, etc.), but who has walked this road as long, and as well, as Willie has?
As soon as I walked out of the theatre and reflected on what I just experienced, I thought of those trees and their rings. Those trees are symbols of survival, examples of the extreme and powerful portrayals of persistence. Just like Willie.
_____
Here is the set list from the show. Yeah...31 songs in a blaze of glory: one big Willie medley. My highlights are in bold.
- Whiskey River
- Still Is Still Moving To Me
- Beer For My Horses
- Shoeshine Man
- Funny How Time Slips Away
- Crazy
- Nightlife
- Me And Paul
- If You've Got The Money I've Got The Time
- Blue Eyes Crying In The Rain
- Mama Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys
- Angel Flying Too Close To The Ground (this one had the water-works starting, too)
- On The Road Again
- Always On My Mind
- Man With The Blues
- Nobody's Fault But Mine
- Milk Cow Blues
- Good Hearted Woman
- Georgia On My Mind
- Jambalaya on the Bayou (this Hank WIlliams three song medley was treat)
- Hey, Good Lookin'
- Move It On Over
- Instrumental
- Sad Songs And Waltzes (is anyone writing songs like this one anymore?!)
- Healing Hands Of Time
- Pretend I Never Happened
- Pick Up The Tempo
- City Of New Orleans
- To All The Girls I've Loved Before
- I'll Fly Away
- The Party's Over (Fitting, right? Good thing Willie's party ain't over yet)
Also noted:
Willie's sister Bobbi plays a MEAN piano. Shit, she pounded those horse teeth like it was forty years ago. Great to see/hear Paul English play drums and percussion, too. His younger brother did the heavy lifting, but it ain't a Willie show with out (he and) Paul. Mickey Raphael's harp playing was expert. He never got to too loud or played too much...all the solos and fills were spot on.
The only hokey part of the night was when Willie pulled of his black Stetson and donned some pre-tied red bandannas. he had a half a dozen of these suckers ready to wear and toss into the crowd.
I attached some less than stellar pics from my iphone. Here is a link to another attendees snaps. He took some real-deal shots.
- Posted from Hammersmith, United Kingdom
"Now, the album is the thing": a look at the contents of the Super-Deluxe "Exile on Main St." Re-issue
I don't believe them though, dearest Keef. I am on the album's side...a true Champion, in fact. I love the album...so much so that I have reverted back to the black circle, where the album was born. You would be proud, Keef...I have a rule now. When I buy a new album I have to listen to it straight through, first song to last, at least ten times before I start cherry picking songs.
By dong this, I get the flavour of the set...the way the artist intended it. Plus, I get a better feel for each of the songs as they were sequenced...they were done so for a reason, right? Who's with me? Who will fight he good fight...?
Newcomers, now is your chance. Go out and buy one of Keef's children: The "Exile" re-issue. It doesn't have to be the super-deluxe package, it can just be the CD. The important part is that you get it and listen to it front to back. If you have virgin "Exile" ears, believe me and millions of others, you will be floored at the diversity and dynamism of this collection of sounds, riffs, honks and yelps.
This is an album in the truest sense of the word. It demands to be listed from start to finish in its entirety. You will thank us, the Album Champions, later for it.
Click here to download:
now-the-album-is-the-thing-a-look-at-the-contents-of-the-super-deluxe-exile-on-main-st-re-issue-luHllsovzwCsJszzhIue.zip (16316 KB)
Here are some snaps of the super-deluxe "Exile on Main St" re-issue package. It just showed up at my office. I am definitely sneaking out early to get home and devour this tonight...from start to finish.
- Posted from Camden Town, United Kingdom
Poorman's Podcast: "Its the stories not the song, that makes the music move along..." (Jeff Beck & Johnny Marr spin tunes & yarns)
Click here to download:
poorman-s-podcast-its-the-stories-not-the-song-that-makes-the-music-move-along-AcvfkFzagxhrJqFcdrvd.zip (57 KB)
via AudioBoo
Links from this Poorman's Podcast:
Here is a link to the Jeff Beck/Johnny Marr iTunes Celebrity Playlist Podcast. You can listen to it there or download it via iTunes. While there, be sure to check out he Mick Fleetwood, Ringo Starr & Tom Jones versions. All of them are bow-down, R&R, story-teller goodness.
The pics on the post are: Jeff Beck in a studio (in Japan on tour) recording the podcast, Earl Palmer, Cliff Gallup
Talking Old Soldiers...(Neil and Crosby strike an "old" pose)
When I saw this pic, I thought of the Bettye Lavette cover of the Elton John song, "Talking Old Soldiers". Bettye sings the shit out of this song. She sings the shit out of every song she sings. She sticks her soul-finger into emotion's open wound and wiggles it around until emotions got nothing left in the tank to give. She's no steeler though...she's a natural born sender.
I included Elton's version here as well. I figured you need to hear how his floor gets mopped up...even though he does it justice it...Bettye wears the Blue Ribbon.
This pic also reminded me of a Neil and Willie tune. You'll be tappin' a toe and slappin' a knee before you can say, "Trans".
Fucking Neil...
Ass Sniffers and Record Collectors: Sound Hounds are the purest of breeds
Click here to download:
ass-sniffers-and-record-collectors-sound-hounds-are-the-purest-of-breeds-tFBtkhnkbjgfteFsdfmz.zip (3708 KB)
We're out in the park playing fetch or taking a walk and we run into another dog. Like a fucking thin, red laser beam, my dogs zero in on the other dog's asshole. This is the gut reaction, the centuries old knee-jerk response...dogs are natural born shit sniffers.
Yeah, they could smell the other dog's face, they could sniff the other dog's coat, but to really find out what that other dog is all about, to really get a feel for how they roll, they've got to get a good snort of that other dog's shitter.
Record collectors are natural born shit sniffers, too.
That's right. We ain't no dogs, but we are shit sniffers of a high order...evolved, upright, thumbs. I'll admit it, I've sniffed a lot of shit in my days, and I bet you have, too. We can't help it either; it's just what we do.
Record collectors. Music lovers. Sound hounds. When we meet people, there is only one way to find out what they are all about and that is to stick our noses as far up the other person's record collection as possible. Case in point...
Take my new friend, George. George and I just met recently. I had heard about George through a friend. George has worked in the record / radio industry for a number of years. From what I was told, George knows his music (confirmed). So, when we were introducing ourselves I passed him a link to my record collection that I have stored in an online doc.
What better way for George to know where I am coming from than to have virtual finger flip through my collection. I am my collection. It says a lot about me. I am happy if George, or anyone else, makes their first impression of me based on it. Shit, I have been curating that now for close to twenty-years. As I tell my wife: "sorry baby, but my first love and longest lasting relationship has been with my music". Oh yeah, she loves that one.
After he had a look through my list, George said something that made me smile. He said when visiting some one's home for the first time, he heads straight for their record collection (like a thin, red laser beam). I laughed because I do exactly the same thing. Other people don't want you looking through their fridge, they don't want you pawing through their underwear drawer, but they certainly don't mind if you flip their records.
(As George rightly pointed out...not many people have records anymore. Now we have to spin their CD rack, or worse, scroll through their iTunes)
George had good things to say about my collection (mustard officially passed). One thing he did notice was the "total lack of any punk". Good eye, George...I am not a punk fan. He was cool with that (personal taste), but what he could not tolerate was me having no Clash records in my collection at all.
Before I go any further, let me say that my preconceived notions about the Clash and their music was completely misguided. I disobeyed a cardinal rule of one my heroes, Boo Diddley: You can't judge a book by looking at it's cover.
I am a blues man. Punk just never resonated with me. As far as I knew, the Clash was punk. I didn't even take the time to validate that judgement. Fuck it, I have Otis Rush and Charley Patton...who needs the Clash.
I stand corrected. There is definitely room in my predominantly 12 bar collection for the Clash.
After getting berated by George for my Clash oversight, I went head first into "London Calling". Yes there is punk in there, but there is so, so much more, too. There's R&B, rock, Bo Diddley's beat, jazzy shit, ska...you name it, its in there. There are rockers, slow ones, aggressive ones and flat out ball-busters. The best thing about it is that it sounds different and not contrived.
The band put themselves and their scene into the sound and what came out was a true and honest representation of who they were at that point in time. Like all true classics, that point in time has the legs to live on forever.
As always, I was interested in the story behind the album. I watched the docco on the making of it: "The Last Testament". I was hooked after that. I LOVE the back story. It adds so much depth and richness to the listening experience. Have you seen it? If not, have a go...it is well worth it.
So, thanks to George's sniffing around my record collection, I am now knee deep in learning about the Clash...and a better man for it. Hopefully I get a change to flip through George's collection when we meet. Who knows, I may be able to turn him on to something that I think he is missing in his collection...?
We shit sniffers need to stick together.
_____
If you haven't looked at my collection before, please do so. I call it Judd's Juke Joint (click that link). I'm always updating it. You can even subscribe to it and get emails on when I feed the dragon and buy new sounds. There are a few tabs at the bottom of it: CDs & Downloads, Vinyl, DVDs and "The Honour Roll". Have a look at all of them.
You'll find a note atop Judd's Juke Joint. It reads: I do not believe in conventional genres. Genres are used to sell records. I believe in music that is deeply engraved in the background of the music makers; all of of whom are connected by a shared experience that links them inextricably; music with a message and a literal truth. Everything else is a product of the record labels.
Damn straight.
Special note on Judd's Juke Joint: While living in Sydney, Australia, my collection grew not just in numbers but in sheer quality. I owe most all of that to my good mate, Nev...The Kingfish. I've written about Nev many times on The 6149. Nev is the owner and resident keeper of the independent record store chain in Sydney Australia. He taught me more about the blues than I ever could have learned on my own.
Six days of the week you can find him hanging at his shop, Mojo Records, bestowing bits of blues wisdom on bow-down tracks and albums that are ball-tearer's. Stop in and tell him Judd sent you...
Roust on, Kingfish. Long live "Nev's Nuggets"!
Lunch Break Lacquer: The Fatman and The Ragmag (I found my thrill with some Fats Domino vinyl and vintage Rolling Stone mags)
Click here to download:
lunch-break-lacquer-the-fatman-and-ragmag-i-found-my-thrill-with-some-fats-domino-and-vintage-rolling-stone-mags-b4lRQxUxR4jd6VqVYzLt.zip (13002 KB)
Scroll through the gallery to see pics of the mag with Gregg & the Boys
Another beautiful day in London meant getting out of the office on my lunch break to claw through record bins in the eternal search for bow-down vinyl. I stopped into "On The Beat" records to see if anything jumped out at me. Something did...but it wasn't a piece of vinyl. Actually, it was a pile of old papers that got my big toe to shoot up in my boot.
In "On the Beat", aside from the crates of vinyl and other memorabilia, there are handfuls of New Music Express, Melody Maker and old Rolling Stone magazines hanging from the walls. The Rolling Stone mags are the coolest; most of them are in their original tabloid style, paper format.
There two that jumped out at me. One had an article from Hunter S. Thomson (see the post below for details and pics). The other I recognised straight away due to the image (illustration) of Gregg Allman on the cover. HA! YES! I found it!
I always have a list of "finds" when I go out looking for nuggets of buried treasure in shops like this. The list includes pictures, books, vinyl, DVDs and yes, particular copies of Rolling Stone magazine. One of the items on my "List of Finds" was Rolling Stone, issue 149 from 3rd December, 1973.
This issue is important to me because of the cover story on the Allmans. Why? This was Cameron Crowes first "cover" that he wrote for the magazine...at 16 years of age! This is his "Almost Famous" based on a true story experience. I am a massive fan of the movie and admirer of Crowe. He was the right kid, at the right place, at the right time...(envious). This one is going to go up on the shelf right next to my CC signed copy of the Almost Famous script.
I took some pics of the mag and the article.
- Check out that full page spread of Gregg and the band in the middle of the article (reminded me of the scene in Almost Famous where Stillwater got their first t-shirt: Jeff Bebe, "How can you tell? I'm just one of the out-of-focus guys.").
- Gotta love that pic of Dickey getting a tattoo
- On the inside cover of the mag, there was a blurb on how the illustration of Gregg that graces the front came to be
- And then there is last pic in the set from the mag. This appears at the end of the article. Wow. 16!
If you can get your hands on any of these "old 'Stones", do so. It is a trip to read through and get a feel for the times and happenings.
Oh yeah! I almost forgot. I did pick up a new slab of vinyl. I found me a good fats Domino album to help round out the collection: "Getaway with Fats Domino". This is not the Fats album that is on my "List of Finds", but I couldn't help myself.
p.s. the very last picture in this set is from the actual "On the Beat" shop.
Editor's Note: "For Good or Ill" - Hunter Thompson returns to Rolling Stone (1973)
Click here to download:
editor-s-note-for-good-or-ill-hunter-thompson-returns-to-rolling-stone-1973-ivwpaffJjeAqGGtaeqaa.zip (2501 KB)
A few snaps from the Rolling Stone with Hunter's return to form
Bring on the gibberish!
I recently scored a few vintage Rolling Stone Magazine back issues at my local independent record shop. The walls are lined with these suckers. I was in there at lunch time doing my "Lunch Break Lacquer" routine and I spied a couple oldies, but damn goodies.
One of the ones I picked up was from 1963, issue number 128 with Bette Midler on the cover. Nothing against Ol' Bette, but her mug never enticed me to buy a magazine before...and may never, period. The reason why I picked it up was for the Hunter S. Thompson article, "Fear and Loathing at the Superbowl".
Hunter had been absent from the pages of the fabled rock rag for sometime (whereabouts unknown), but returned to the mag and returned to form in one fell swoop. The Superbowl was being played in Los Angeles that year., where the 'Skins" and "Fins" would go head to head in a battle of the bored in what resulted in a nationally televised snooze fest.
The night prior to the game, The Good Doctor was holed up in a San Francisco (up all night, of course) drinking coffee and Wild Turkey, smoking short Jamaican cigars, while getting "more and more wired" on the Allman Brother's, "Mountain Jam" that was howling out of four big speakers hung from each corner of the room".
The next night he made haste to LA to catch the game. He spilt the gory details all over this issue of Rolling Stone. At the bottom of the article there was a note from the editor (see pic). Apparently they were happy to have him back...as I am sure the reader's were as well.
Hunter, back on the gig..."a man on the move and just sick enough to be totally confident"
