RUDIMENTS, pt. 987
(ground zero for anger)
It was in the seminary that I
first started seeing a lot of things.
This one guy, Mike Bartholomew,
had a record collection of some
late-date jazz, be-bop stuff. It was
where I first actually heard John
Coltrane, Theolonious Monk,
Miles Davis too. All those guys.
There was a small record room
and lounge, out behind the stage,
rear and make-up rooms. Any
of the times Mike wasn't doing
anything of stage work, making
props, rehearsing something, and
the rest, he was in that room and
listening to jazz. Black coffee was
most always on. First I ever had
of that. He always had coffee breath;
it was a signature mark of his. Mike.
also fronted for a small three or
four piece little rock band thing he
had going - this was, remember,
way early on, probably like '62 or '63.
Nothing was really focused yet then,
remember - that whole rock-as-a-
business thing hadn't hit. Mike was
good enough on lead guitar to be
the real attraction - they'd take most
any, everyday, tune and sweep it up
into a loud, three-chord version of
itself as rock music. You'd have to
hear it, but imagine like a Mayonnaise
commercial done up as hard rock.
Mike had a take no prisoners approach
to everything he did. The name of that
little group he kept was 'Laissez-Faire.'
That's an economics concept we'd all
been learning about, but it also, pretty
literally, means, in French, 'hands off.'
That was cool for a little band name,
I thought. In economics, by turn, it
means 'No intervention by the state
or authorities into commerce or the
everyday workings of unfettered
business.' Sort of, but you get it.
Freedom was the call - which was
a little weird because we were in
a seminary for the purposes of
becoming indentured servants to
Christianity, Rome, Papism,
and doctrine and creed. There
wasn't really much of a connection
there, but the seminary went like that
often. They'd have, I guess Fall of
1962 maybe, I forget, Hootenany
nights, outdoors. It was pretty crazy.
Of course, no girls around, so it wasn't
like you could take some cute little
local Piney lassie into the woods for
her Kumbaya moment, while the
others were strumming on the old
banjo, so to speak, but these guys -
all late teens, high school kids,
really, Juniors and Seniors, they'd
be all white-chino'd up, with
acoustic guitars and even some
harmonicas and banjos and other
folkie instruments, trying to be
the Christie Minstrels or Pete
Seeger or Peter, Paul and No Mary,
yelping all those folkies tunes about
trains and hardship, freedom and
slavery and mean, hard times. I
use to scratch my head and just
wonder. These were, for the most
part, soft-assed and privileged
gets gunning for Jesus and little
else. Except maybe the usual
chasing-boys curse, which got
any number of them in the end
anyway; no pun intended. My
motto quickly became 'Keep
away, and not today,' but any
number of these guys were
already chasing dick.
-
Mike's little group was great to
hear; you couldn't sit still. The
great thing was was that they
were tunes of noticeable familiarity
done up in cool ways. That vague
resemblance alone was enough to
draw you in. To hear Old Black
Joe, or Old Folks At Home all
rejiggered was masterful. To
hear some crazy Ipana toothpaste
advertising jingle was crazier still.
There were, as well, maybe once
or twice a year these in-bred talent
show things. You need to remember,
it was the early 1960's, things were
popping outside, though nothing
countercultural had yet gelled. From
our perspective all was rumor. Three
hundred such seminary guys, probably
bored stiff. Anyone who could so
anything gave it a shot, from piccolo
playing to accordian-zither. The ones
who sang were the worse. We had some
guy, Paul Mosca or some sort of name
like that, who was an over-the-top
emotional-bombastic crooner. Of
the Italian street-song type. He'd
always insist on some rendition of'
a high-toned but oh so horrible
version of 'When You Walk Through
A Storm.' I'm assuming you know
the tune. It really should have been
banned from the American consciousness
early on, but this twerp sure picked
up on it: pathos, bombast, loud pride,
misplaced faith in something. What a
dumb-ass song, and worse by far when
done bombastically, and amateurly.
Like a boardwalk singer trolling for
pennies, past Madame Restel's
fortune-telling booth trying to lure
people in. It needed a monkey on
a chain, but, hey, that's Italian!
-
So, it went from that to the
much darker jazz scene. Which is
where I first took my refuge. Mike
was, in one of those plays we were
always doing, the Jim character in
a tendentious version of Huck Finn
that was staged. Another friend,
Kirk, was Huck - very young, almost
girl-like in characterization, as it
was played against Mike's blackface
on the pretend raft and adventure.
Or maybe it wasn't Mike, because it
may have been another guy named
Joe. You see, memories fold over on
themselves in time, and that foldover
makes weird combinations as years
pass. Kirk was from Harrisburg. A
place called Camp Hill, to be exact.
I always thought Mike was too, but
these many years later Kirk
corrected me, that Mike was from
Camden-area NJ. And Joe was
from Plainfield; that I knew.
I think they're all still around, but
Mike may be dead. The news I get
is funny like that. The jazz room
bested everythi9ng else anyway
and that's all that counts for this
episode of my re-telling. When
music came in LP format, you'd
get this really nice 12x12 record
jacket or sleeve. I used to love
that, and, along with listening,
we'd spend time carefully viewing
these sleeves - liner notes, the
production info and the personnel.
The graphics and photos; it all drew
a person right into the character
of what was being listened too.
These dark and shadowy jazz
guys usually had moody covers.
Certainly no whimsey or irony,
nor even joy, for that matter.
It was all a cascade of bleak :
real music made to fight real
dark times. jazz was, in this
period, a be-bop resistance
more that anything - all those
guys fighting chance and drugs
and booze and alcohol, chasing
women, and beating women too.
The parameters were all different
and anything one read about it was
half-violent and always sullen. It was
ground zero for anger. Ask LeRoi Jones.
Any of it was better than this pious
crucifix-kissing junk I was involved
in. I knew I had to get out, and I
already sensed what was calling me.
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