Thursday, August 5, 2010

Twin Spins (1)

Or, Yet More of the Random Crap Which Infests My Brain.
Or, Even I Can Be Surprised.
Or, Obsessiveness is My Least Attractive Feature

So I'm tooling around the Intarwebs the other day, as I am wont to do, when I run across Covered Up: "A specific form of Older Than They Think where the cover version of a song becomes so iconic that people forget it was a cover at all. The cover becomes the definitive version of the song. To a certain extent, this is generational — if you hear a song before the cover is even recorded, you're less likely to be confused. (It doesn't count if the new version is in a different language.)"

Much of this I knew*, being an Official Old Fart who rode dinosaurs 50 miles to school uphill both ways while fighting off encroaching saber-toothed tigers and glaciers with nothing more than my Australopithecine wits and a sharpened sti--HEY, YOU KIDS, GET OFFA MY LAWN! Mostly my reaction was summed up by this online exchange (and others):

--A vaguely comprehensive discussion, disguised as a bulleted list, about songs you might not have known were covers.
--No it's really a comprehensive list of songs people under 40 didn't know were covers. For people over 40 it's a list of old songs that we didn't know were covered by a new band.

And with example after example I kept shaking my head, thinking, "How can people not know this? Eh, kids today..."

But then I ran across a few items that made me acutely aware of my own ignorance:

--The Clash's version of "I Fought the Law" (I knew this). Even Bobby Fuller's 1964 version isn't the original (I didn't know this). The song was written by Buddy Holly's backing group, The Crickets, in 1959 (I had absolutely no idea and had to go to YouTube for verification). (there's an alternate version by the Dead Kennedys, by the way).

"Wild Thing" was written by Chip Taylor (brother of Jon Voight) (!!!) and originally recorded by the Wild Ones in 1965. A year later, the Troggs covered the song, it stormed to #1 on the charts, and the rest is history (though I've always been partial to the Jimi Hendrix cover).

"I'm Henery the Eighth, I Am" was not written by Herman's Hermits. It is significantly Older Than They Think, having been penned in 1910 and originally recorded by Harry Champion.

Patsy Cline's signature song, "Crazy", was in fact written by Willie Nelson, and later covered by him.

"Louie Louie" was not written by the Kingsmen. Nor was it improved or rescued from obscurity by them. It was written and recorded in 1956 by Rick Berry and the Pharaohs, and was very popular in the rock and roll community around Seattle and Tacoma (and in those communities, the Kingsmen's version wasn't even the most popular - it was the one by the soon-to-be-famous Paul Revere and the Raiders). All the Kingsmen did was to make it visible to the white youth market across the US, and slur the vocals so much that the lyrics could not be understood, making it sound naughty and subversive. The slurring was unintentional: They recorded the song using one microphone mounted on the ceiling, Jack Ely's voice was shot from taking part in an all-night Louie-Louieathon(and he was wearing braces at the time) and, while aware that they had to record in one take, the band didn't know that the tape was running and thought they were doing a rehearsal play through. The FBI actually investigated the "obscene" lyrics with the aid of analysts and linguists and, after 18 months, declared it "unintelligible at any speed", proving themselves unable to determine the authorship of a published song! And while they questioned a number of people in the course of the investigation, for some reason Jack Ely was never brought in and asked to repeat what he had sung. (Nor, apparently, did they notice the actual profanity that a member of the band shouts after missing a cue 53 seconds in.) **

And in one of those truly bizarre examples of serendipity (serendipitous in that just this weekend I'd been suffering from an earworm infestation of this very song), {m}any more people are familiar with Cyndi Lauper's cover of "Money Changes Everything" than the original by The Brains.

That's for sure!
Cyndi's version

So there ya go! Hours and hours of cocktail party conversation all in one little blog post! You. Are. Welcome!

Oh! Bonus trivia. Now, you've all heard this song in movies, on tv, etc.: "Ca plane pour moi" by Plastic Bertrand...



...but was preceded by a, uh, somewhat different version, "Jet Boy, Jet Girl," a singularly disturbing song by Elton Motello...




...and later covered by such wholesome groups as The Damned.

*Examples: "Last Kiss" was first recorded in 1962 by its author, Wayne Cochran. The first hit version was released in 1964 by J. Frank Wilson and the Cavaliers. Then Pearl Jam covered it after Eddie Vedder found a copy of the 45 single at a flea market).

"One Tin Soldier" was first recorded by The Original Caste, not Coven
(but who can tell the difference?).

Iconic surfer song "Misirlou" has its origins in folk dance; Dick Dale had learned it from his uncle, a Lebanese folk musician, and originally adapted his version, at greatly-increased tempo from the original, on a bet that he could play an entire song on a single guitar string. It began as a Greek rebetiko song in 1927, as performed by Michalis Patrinos (cite The Other Wiki). True authorship is unknown, as is the case with most rebetiko songs. Nowadays, credit is given to either Patrinos or Nicholas Roubanis (who created a jazz arrangement in 1941), and S. Russell, N. Wise and M. Leeds who wrote lyrics. It's also been covered in various other styles, including Klezmer. And now, of course, a lot of people think of it as "The Pulp Fiction Theme".

**Re: "Louie Louie:

Saturday, July 31, 2010

A Brief Visit to the Buttermilk Trail

The godawful summer heat and humidity of Richmond abated a bit today, so I decided to take a short hike along the Buttermilk Trail.

For those of you who know me as a Master of the Sedentary Arts this may seem out of character and, well, you would be right, but back in March my doctor (actually, my Nurse Practitioner--I haven't actually seen my doctor since 1997) warned me that my weight, blood pressure, cholesterol, and triglycerides were all alarmingly high, high enough that I had a couple of choices: take some proactive measures now or figure out what long-term care facility or place of interment might best suit my future needs.

Not to alarm anyone, but this was not quite the simple choice one might imagine; my life is not so great that prolonging it seems all that reasonable most days. However, the various advances in medical care have made it highly likely I would survive a heart attack, stroke, or aneurysm but be severely incapacitated in the process. Not an appealing prospect.

The short version: since March I have made major changes in my diet and activity level (sadly, there's nothing I can do about stress--my job reaches new levels of suckdom with each passing day and I'm kinda, sorta trapped there).

Which means I've been doing lots of walking. Hell, I even invested in a pair of hiking shoes, socks, and, Crom help me, a sun hat. For a would-be miser, that's commitment!

Anyway, after reading a bit in 60 Hikes Within 60 Miles: Richmond I figured it was worth checking out the Buttermilk portion of the Belle Isle, Northbank, Buttermilk Trail Loop since one of the access points (the south side of Boulevard Bridge) is pretty close to where I live (maybe 5 min. by car depending upon the gazillion traffic lights--park at Barker Field and rile up all the nice doggies--or approx. 50 min. by foot including time to cross the bridge while marveling at the gazillion orb-weavers eking out a meager existence high above the James).

Why, yes, as a matter of fact, I did take pics. Thanks for asking!

Look! Nature stuff!

For scale, the trail is about three feet across here.

A reminder that we're not in deep wilderness--
drainage from Riverside Drive just above us.

What's that up ahead? OMG!

A deer! In the city!

Rock outcroppings abounded.

Quick note: hikers, trail runners, and mountain bikers all use this stretch.
For the most part, everyone I met (and I encountered a surprising
number of people) was very nice; however, the bikers tended to come
out of nowhere and zoom by without giving the suggested "Rider up!"
warning to pedestrians. I like to think this is where karma caught up
with 'em as they banged their be-helmeted heads.

Evidence of trail maintenance.

And it goes on and on and on, but I didn't.

Hot, sweaty, unshaven, and displaying a bit of semi-hipster douchbaggery with
sunglasses on a string, here I am at my turnaround point, an hour and a half along the trail.
Not shown: my lo-tech trekking pole, aka hiking stick--a wooden broom handle fitted with a rubber cane tip (see here). Hey, it's cheap, unpretentious, more in keeping with the Leave No Trace philosophy (carbide tips scar rock), and quite useful, though dorky.

Note to self: next time, take more water! Not that I was in danger of severe (or even moderate) dehydration, what with a residential roadway no more than a hundred feet away, but given how much I perspire even at a relatively mild 85° F. (see above), a quart canteen just didn't cut it.

Anyway, I had a lot of sweaty fun.

Sunday, July 18, 2010

"Very Sparkly..."

Some of you may know I am a casual--very casual--coin collector. I don't have a particularly exciting collection nor is it particularly valuable (well, I have a couple of things collectors might covet) and I don't specialize as most collectors do. I merely accumulate those things that strike my fancy, e. g., micronation currency (Wirtland, Sealand, Conch Republic), American Silver Eagles, early American commemoratives, and so forth and so on.

My most recent purchase, "recent" as in 9:00 p. m. this evening, was a 1973 Cook Island dollar I'd been coveting for some time now:


Yeah, kind of boring, but I didn't get it for the portrait of Queen Elizabeth II; I got it for the image of Tangaroa on the reverse:



Amongst numismatists this is known as "the Naughty Dollar."

Yeah, I'm easily amused; what the heck, it keeps me off the streets.

This Gets To Me--Every Time

Guess I need to turn in my Man-Card...

Saturday, July 17, 2010

A Mom Memory

I was cruisin' around MetaFilter the other day reading, of all things, a discussion about olive oil when I came across a slightly off-topic comment/quote:

The scene with the butter wasn't in the original script. The script called for extra virgin olive oil. The truth is, it was Marlon who came up with the idea because the prop department didn't have the butter handy when we were ready to shoot the scene. Bertolucci was fat and sweaty and very manipulative; he was the one who convinced me to do it. I should've called my agent or had my lawyer come to the set because you can't force someone to do something that isn't in the script. I didn't know that at the time. Marlon said to me, "Maria, don't worry, it's just a movie." But during the scene, even though what Marlon was doing wasn't real, I was crying real tears. I felt humiliated, and to be honest, I felt a little raped, both by Marlon and by Bertolucci. After the scene, Marlon didn't console me or apologize. Thankfully, there was just one take.

OMG! Last Tango In Paris! The controversial film of 1972/1973 (maybe of all time, if we are to believe film critic Pauline Kael)! "Pornography disguised as art," said a couple of reviewers, "obscene!" Moral breakdown! Outraged sensibilities! The end of Western Civilization! Unclean! Sodomy! Apocalypse! Gasps and moans and gnashing of teeth! New life for the dairy industry! Won't somebody please think of the children before the Almighty Jeebus kills a kitten?

And my mother--my Mom!--went to see it.

I'm not entirely sure what possessed her--maybe it was Art Buchwald's review, "'Last Tango' Just A Report On Paris Housing Shortage," which she thought was one of the funniest things she'd ever read, but whatever it was, Mom and one of her BFFs drove to Washington, D. C. one Saturday in '73 to see it.

Some quick background here: Mom's friend--let's call her Mrs. O.--was something of an anachronism. In 1973 when women's fashions were finally becoming a little more... relaxed... she still went everywhere dressed in '50s-style white gloves and hat. She was prim and proper and formal and far from what anyone would describe as "worldly" (which is not to diss her; she was a very, very nice lady, loyal to a fault, devoted to my mother, and surprisingly fond of me, which probably makes her eligible for sainthood), so why she wanted to go see Tango remains something of a mystery. Maybe she just wanted to break bad for once in her life.

Anyway, according to Mom, they got to the theater, found some seats, settled in, and began watching the movie. Until. Certain... Notorious... Scenes. Flashed before them.

Whereupon Mrs. Otto began a squirming fit: (stage whisper) "Virginia?* What's going on?" "Virginia, what are they doing?" "Virginia? What are they doing now?" "Virginia? Why are they... (stunned silence)."

Mom's response each time was, not surprisingly, "Shhh!" or "I'll explain later!," which leads me to this recurring, horrific image of the two of them driving back home with Mom--my Mom!-- earnestly explaining the intricacies (I almost wrote "the ins and outs") of anal sex the entire way (equally frightening is my image of the two of them slowly regarding their buttered popcorn as something entirely new and interesting, but that's just silly. Maybe).

Hey, I may have wound up as a drug addict for a while,
but at least I wasn't in
The Island of Dr. Moreau!

Anyway, that's it. As my friend Anne wrote, "No thinky thoughts, no grand proclamations, no fifty cent words," just a random memory about my Mom.

Oooo! Just one more thing! At 17 I thought this was, well, not exactly out of character for my Mom (you have to know her), but it certainly seemed a bit extreme until I learned years later she did a thesis (senior? Master's?) on Ulysses by James Joyce when it was still considered by most people, even academicians, to be obscene, if not outright pornographic.

She continues to surprise.

*Mom's given name is Virginia, which is what she's called by her friends. Her sisters (and parents) call(ed) her "Ginny." My father called her "Jean;" I don't know why.