Sound Bites: A Lifetime of Listening

By Tom Wilmeth

A lifetime collection of interviews, essays, and reviews of music and the artists who create it.

During a conversation on Bob Edwards’ radio show some years back, longtime CBS News correspondent Mike Wallace indicated that he had forgotten most of the thousands of interviews he ever conducted. Several years before his death, Pete Seeger said that he could remember only a few dozen songs, if that, when he once knew hundreds. Ramblin’ Jack Elliot appeared on T.V. the other night and told the host, “You know why I’m sure I played the Newport Folk Festival? ‘Cause somebody just told me I was there.”  Funny, and yet . . .  .

So before allowing his own memories to evaporate into the nether world of Proust’s lost time, music collector and author Tom Wilmeth wanted to commit some scenes to print while he still recalled them, and to collect some of his previously written articles on music.

The result is this magnificent book, a wonderful collection  overflowing with Tom Wilmeth’s writings on music from 1969 to the present. It includes essays and reviews of concerts and recordings, memorials to departed artists, observations, interviews and so much more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Muleshoe Press
• Release date: Jul 31, 2016
• ISBN: 9780997409192

Tom Wilmeth

TOM WILMETH has been a passionate collector of popular (and unpopular) music since childhood. He is currently a Professor of English at Concordia University Wisconsin at Mequon. Born and raised in Des Moines, Iowa, he and his wife live in Grafton Wisconsin—former home of the Paramount Records label.

Book preview

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Praise for Tom Wilmeth’s Sound Bites

Tom Wilmeth has been reviewing and writing about lots of music, for decades. His jazz knowledge is encyclopedic, but he also branches into other realms besides jazz. He has a knack for finding significant episodes in musicians’ careers and captures these historic events in print. Insightful and gets at the heart of what is happening.

— Gary Burton

Wilmeth’s writing touches a nerve. When I heard Bob Dylan singing ‘Like A Rollin’ Stone’—that was me. I got hooked on Wilmeth’s book more with his pieces on Louis Armstrong. When I heard him blow that horn and the croak in his voice come in, stand back Loretta.

—Hal Holbrook – Mark Twain Tonight!

Tom Wilmeth sent over a big fat sampler of his new anthology—ruminations, observations, book and record reviews, obituaries, and conversations with an impressive variety of artists, from Captain Beefheart to Neil Young to—Jack Benny! Motorhead, the Dark Star Orchestra, James Brown, Bobby Blue Bland, Prince, Miles Davis, Jean-Luc Ponty, Weather Report, Bing Crosby, Montana Slim, Merle Haggard. Bob Dylan, the Beatles, and Springsteen, natch. There’s a piece about an obscure but important record label. A paean to 8-track tapes. An entirely invented conversation with Barry Manilow. And writings about quite a few midwestern artists I never heard of. The man has immense ears and an articulate tongue. I’m learning a lot.

— David Gans

Musician / Author / Radio Producer

Wilmeth’s music writing is filled with all the passion of a lifelong connoisseur, aficionado, enthusiast, evangelist. If he could take you to a concert or sit you down in front of a record player to help you understand, he would. This book is your invitation to the moment when the lights go down or the needle hits the wax.

— Cheryl Pawelski - Producer/Co-Founder, Omnivore Recordings

I’ve had the pleasure of hearing many of Tom’s ‘listening’ musings first hand. Tom’s deep knowledge of and passion for good music makes him a uniquely engaging storyteller. Tom’s prose has a warmth and authenticity that makes you feel as though you’re sitting right there at the concert venue, taking in the vibe and energy and intimacy of the evening. This book is a fun and hard-to-put-down read for lovers of American jazz and popular music.

— Mike Kubicki

Jazz Pianist

Thomas Wilmeth’s writing has a special intimacy that makes you feel like you were at that very concert, and watching it with an old friend. His insightful thoughts go well past the surface, taking you to interesting places in the world of that artist that you probably would not otherwise find. And best of all, you won’t be able to stop reading.

— Ed Roth

L.A. Studio Musician

Tom Wilmeth lives inside the music the way its creators do, seeing beyond genre and industry might, then communicates to the rest of us how it feels there inside the wild. Observant, passionate, and connected, Tom’s writing keeps me falling in love with music’s wide eyed purpose, function, and possibility. Tom pushes cliché off the cliff in expressing what makes music invigorating and ultimately essential to all of us.

— Todd Clouser of A Love Electric

Mexico City

"Tom Wilmeth’s Sound Bites: A Lifetime of Listening is a patchwork quilt (in the best sense of the term) of reminiscences, observations, critiques and interviews. These collected writings are highly astute essays from the mind of an absolute music junkie. They follow no one form or approach and traverse the entire spectrum of 20th century music. Wilmeth’s voice is a fresh and eclectic one."

—Michael Cuscuna / Record Producer

There is not anyone I enjoy talking music with more than Tom Wilmeth.

— Tony Davidson

Texas Music Scholar

SOUND BITES: A LIFETIME OF LISTENING

SOUND BITES:

A Lifetime of Listening

Writings on Music

by

Tom Wilmeth

SOUND BITES: A LIFETIME OF LISTENING

Muleshoe Press

Copyright © 2016 by Thomas Wilmeth

www.muleshoepress.com

All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, in any form (beyond copying permitted by Sections 107 and 108 of the United States Copyright Law, and except limited excerpts by reviewers for the public press), without written permission from Tom Wilmeth.

Author services by Pedernales Publishing, LLC.

www.pedernalespublishing.com

Cover design: Barbara Rainess and Jose Ramirez

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016904963

ISBN 978-0-9974091-7-8 Paperback Edition

ISBN 978-0-9974091-8-5 Hardcover Edition

ISBN 978-0-9974091-9-2 Digital Edition

Printed in the United States of America

For Tony Davidson

Special Thanks to Richard Western, an editor and friend in the truest and best sense.

This collection is also dedicated to some remarkably supportive and patient readers:

Ellie Wilmeth, Cindy Wilmeth, Dylan Wilmeth, Orlo Wilmeth, Keith Little, Mike Toft, Pete Onsgard, Al Koch…

…and, of course, ________________________.

(your name here)

Detailed Table of Contents

Part One—Popular (and unpopular) Music: Pop and Rock

Part Two—Jazz

Part Three—Country

Part Four—Beatles, Bob, Bruce, and Barry!

A Word about the Author.....487

A Word about the Writings.....488

Introduction

The Green Door

When I was about 3 or 4 years old, my mother would take me with her when she went out for coffee. For me, the best place to go was to the Masons’ house. I would be sent to their son’s room to play while my mother and Florence chatted. His bedroom contained a variety of boyish possessions such as model cars and baseball pennants. But all I ever saw was his small record player. Every time we would visit, I sat in front of the little turntable and played the same record. Over and over. And still again. It was a 45 rpm single called The Green Door, a #1 hit in 1956 for Jim Lowe.

My mother would later verify this. Oh yes. We would go to the Masons, and I would send you off to listen to ‘The Green Door.’ It kept you happy. The record had been severely cracked, but would play fine if I was careful to align the broken plastic. The flip side was an amusing novelty tune—but the A-side, The Green Door—that song was dark magic. I can hear it right now.

The impact of The Green Door on me was profound. The sound of temple block percussion and an insistent piano; lyrics about a mysterious party held behind an ominous green door; the singer experiencing another sleepless night, wondering what the group finds so funny. He wants to join them.

When trying to peek past the door, he sees an eyeball clouded in thick smoke, staring back. He tries to bluff his way in, saying that a friend sent him; he is laughed at. Smoke, noise, derisive laughter, and especially the music created a vaguely dangerous yet oddly appealing atmosphere—both to the singer and to me.

Even at my very young age, I related to this troubled soul. What lay behind that green door? I had to find out.

Preface

Why Write Here? Why Right Now?

During a conversation on Bob Edwards’ radio show some years back, longtime CBS News correspondent Mike Wallace indicated that he had forgotten most of the thousands of interviews he ever conducted. Several years before his death, Pete Seeger said that he could remember only a few dozen songs, if that, when he once knew hundreds. Ramblin’ Jack Elliot appeared on TV the other night and told the host, You know why I’m sure I played the Newport Folk Festival? ‘Cause somebody just told me I was there. Funny, and yet…

So before allowing my own memories to evaporate into the nether world of Proust’s lost time, I wanted to commit some recollections to print while I still clearly remember them.

The formats are varied. Included are reviews of concerts and recordings. There are book reviews and my interviews with musicians, as well as general essays on music.

I sometimes offer less traditional entries, such as my remarks about concert performances that I did not personally attend. A few encounters are labeled, Hangin’ with the Stars. These are exchanges with famed musicians that actually occurred. Also included are a handful of brief conversations that did not occur. I call these my One Question With interviews, where I ponder what question I would ask a performer, had I the opportunity. In these, I create a response for the artist.

The book is arranged by genre, so chronology takes a back seat to subject matter. The first section is Popular (and unpopular) Music, where I mainly discuss rock, pop, and blues music. The other sections are Jazz, Country Music, and a final section reserved for specific performers, called Beatles, Bob, Bruce, and Barry!

Popular (and unpopular) Music:

Pop and Rock

People will pay to watch people make sounds.

—David Byrne

Concert Commentary

Grand Funk Railroad

Veterans Memorial Auditorium

Des Moines, Iowa

December 31, 1970

One of the first real rock concerts I attended was Grand Funk Railroad, held in Des Moines’ Veterans Auditorium on New Year’s Eve, 1970. A high school friend of mine and I had somehow traded for front row seats. I think whoever originally bought these tickets must have realized how loud the band was going to be. Not the loudest concert I ever attended, but Grand Funk was very very loud. At the end of the show, my friend’s voice sounded oddly distorted, as if he had been inhaling helium. Even the next day at school, the sound of things was not yet back to normal. That’s not good.

Grand Funk, as expected, delivered crunchy thud rock. That’s why we were there. Even so, I remember liking the set most when they cut back on the bombast and calmed down a bit. This was especially true when Mark Farner played electric piano on Mean Mistreater. That the band’s guitarist switched to piano for one tune meant they had no full-time keyboard player. This was the original trio.

The Closer to Home album was their latest release, and the group had seen an edited version of I’m Your Captain get some radio play. It was their first substantial hit single. Still, I was disappointed when they played the tune that night, as they omitted one of the song’s verses, shortening it to the single version. Why? I wondered if this were a mistake or a one-time thing in Des Moines. Years later I picked up a live CD of this tour, recorded just weeks after the Iowa show, where they also played the shortened version of I’m Your Captain. So, I learned, it wasn’t just truncated for the Midwest crowd. A burning question finally resolved!

I clearly remember that Farner was able to get all sorts of wah-wah effects out of his very beat-up Fender guitar, without using a foot pedal. It seemed odd that just by turning the guitar sideways he could get these effects. When I discussed the show the next day with others at school, an influential teacher insisted that Farner was sort of lip-synching his guitar parts to a prerecorded tape. It seemed far-fetched, but this would explain things. I was hanging on the front of the stage at that concert, so I saw it up close—there was no equipment present on the stage to produce those effects. Or so my memory tells me. To this day, I wonder if that guitar was prerecorded or, if not, how did he manage those effects without a foot pedal?

A story concerning that Grand Funk concert would later come from Jerry Silver, the owner of a Des Moines record and head shop. I interviewed Silver about something unconnected to the concert for my high school newspaper, but he was eager to tell me about Grand Funk. Describing the events of the evening rekindled his anger, more than a year after the fact.

Silver was the promoter for the band’s appearance in Des Moines, meaning he put up financing for the show. Silver told me that before the concert began he went backstage and met the band, shaking their hands, exchanging obligatory right-ons and the like. It was 1970, remember. They were cool, he said, and seemed very nice. But then in walked the band’s manager, who grabbed Silver by the collar, threw him against the wall and screamed, NOBODY talks to Grand Funk! Silver said that he was so mad that if the hall hadn’t already been filled with seated concertgoers, he would have pulled out of financing the show. Easy to say, but I thought he meant it; he was still fuming.

Things which gave this story some added credence are revelations that would surface much later about Grand Funk’s business dealings. Their manager, Terry Knight, was apparently ripping off money from the band in a big way. It was likely Knight who grabbed Silver backstage in Des Moines, not wanting any sort of discussions about money to take place between promoter (who would know what he was paying to get the band) and the musicians (who may have been given different numbers). Speculation on my part, to be sure.

A Midwestern group by the name of White Lightning opened this New Year’s Eve show. As I look back, these guys were probably better musicians than the headliners—very tight. They were quite well received and ended their set with a smokin’ version of The William Tell Overture (4th movement only). True. And hot.

Grand Funk Railroad would become increasingly popular during the mid-1970s, but not with my crowd. Most of us soon felt that we outgrew them, but maybe we were just being cool. I thought it was sort of odd when the band released a cover of Little Eva’s The Locomotion, but admitted that their single We’re an American Band rocked hard. Both of these hit records were produced by Todd Rundgren. Frank Zappa produced the band’s final studio album, so somebody still liked them!

It’s interesting now to read comments of band members, some included on their reissued recordings. Guitarist and lead singer Mark Farner defends the group mightily. Bassist Mel Schacher is very matter-of-fact about their legacy and the uneven quality of their performances at the time of their success. I enjoy the live CD from their 1971 tour I mentioned, and I occasionally pull out my 8-track tape of Grand Funk’s later live album, from 1975, called Caught in the Act. Nothing wrong with either set. Makes me wish I had not been such an elitist; makes me wonder if I still am.

Concert Commentary

The Association

Veterans Memorial Auditorium

Des Moines, Iowa

August 15, 1970

Far from the realm of Grand Funk, The Association were ballad specialists. The group scored just a handful of hits, but they were very big hits. Their vocalists could really sing, and the band could rock out pretty well on its own terms. The opening of their set is where they probably rocked hardest, with a fiery version of Bob Dylan’s One Too Many Mornings followed immediately by their first hit, Along Comes Mary.

This was one of those shows that should have been in a smaller venue. It was a good performance, but the hall’s acoustics were terrible. Lots of echo in a basketball arena. In fact, a comedy team opened the show and it was hard to understand a word they said. The comedians themselves even commented that the hall’s echo was killing their timing.

I owned The Association’s live LP, and was disappointed that the Des Moines concert was shorter than the set performed on the album. I also thought it odd that they did not play their song Dubuque Blues. I mean, how many songs are there about Iowa towns? Not many. And how many times is a big name band in Iowa to play a gig? Probably more than they would like.

The show ended with the megahits Cherish and Windy, and we went home satisfied. But even at this early point I was realizing the difference between a good performance and a good venue. The Association played well, but it was largely lost in that huge room. Like the comedians who opened for them, the band seemed very aware of the acoustical battle they were waging (and losing) all evening.

Many years later, I learned that The Association decided not to record Jimmy Webb’s strange and lengthy song about a rain-soaked cake, MacArthur Park. Bad move; that unique epic might have really rejuvenated their career in the late 1960s, and I think the group could have done a fine job with it. But to be fair, everybody passed on that odd song. Why do you think it was finally recorded by Richard Harris?

Bonus Track

The Association had a fast and furious arc of success. They were invited to open The Monterey Pop Festival in the summer of 1967. Their set was warmly received by the audience and by fellow musicians, including Steve Miller. Just two years later, The Association’s music would have been quite out of place at the Woodstock festival. This speaks more to the rapid changes in the music scene during these years than to the quality of this group. The 1970 live recording I mention above clearly documents that The Association was fine in concert.

Concert Commentary

The Baja Marimba Band

KRNT Theater

Des Moines, Iowa

January 10, 1969

My friend was obsessed with Herb Alpert and The Tijuana Brass. But that group was so big that they were not going to be coming to Des Moines any time soon. So instead, he settled for seeing The Baja Marimba Band. I went along. And while I didn’t find much of the music very memorable, certain parts of that evening stayed with me a long time.

The concert was not well attended. The Baja Marimba Band’s front man first acknowledged the size of the audience in a positive way by saying that we would have our own little party that night. But before long his tone changed. He was openly complaining about how the band had left 80 degree weather in Los Angeles that morning to play a poorly attended January gig in Iowa. Sorry.

At one point, two members of the band did a comedy routine that involved one marimba player following an oblivious trumpet player around the stage. The humor centered on the musician’s misunderstanding of what follow means in music terminology. I didn’t think much about it until I happened to see this group again at the Iowa State Fair (opening for Bob Hope), where they did the exact same comedy bit. It dawned on me that this segment was simply a planned part of the act every night. Choreographed show biz. That’s fine, but it wasn’t very funny the first time. Even to a junior high student.

Opening for The Baja Marimba Band was the group Friend & Lover. Their online biography describes them as having been a folk singing duo, but this was no folk duo; it was a rock band! Their music was quite a contrast to the headliners, as group leader Jim Post even acknowledged. He sullenly apologized once or twice for their high decibel volume level. But that’s the way it’s gotta be, he said. They did one tune about a circus, and closed with their hit single, Reach Out of the Darkness. Sounded just like the record. But they were loud, especially for older people coming to hear marimbas.

Late in their set, Post acknowledged the group’s musicians. He paused as he was about to introduce the keyboard player, finally going over to ask his name. It struck me odd that he would not know the name of his own band member, but it was probably a local guy they hired for this one show. Post tried to cover, saying, This is what your high school dropout is doing, ladies and gentlemen! He’s a professional rock musician!

Canned comedy segments, band members who weren’t really band members, surly group leaders who apologized for their volume but wouldn’t turn down. It all struck me very odd. This was a different sort of entertainment than the variety shows on TV. I didn’t care much for the music that night, but I began to understand the unique allure of going to concerts.

Concert Commentary

Chuck Berry

Des Moines Ice Arena

Des Moines, Iowa

Fall 1972

Nobody could have predicted it, but in the summer of 1972 Chuck Berry had his first Top 10 chart entry in over eight years. It came in the form of a live recording called My Ding-A-Ling. The song went to #1. Even more amazing—this was Chuck Berry’s first #1 hit ever! Although it was a lightweight novelty number, Berry performed the song with conviction. That fall, the veteran performer had booked himself into a tour schedule that was heavier than usual, capitalizing on his renewed fame.

I wanted to see Chuck Berry, but not because of My Ding-A-Ling. Our local Top 40 radio station played two oldies each hour. It was there that I heard Berry’s biggest hits and made the connection between these songs and some of my early Beatles records, including Roll Over Beethoven and Rock & Roll Music. But I also liked the hits that I knew as distinctly Berry’s, such as No Particular Place to Go and Sweet Little Sixteen.

Because the performer did not appear on television during this era, and me being a child of radio, I admit that I did not know Chuck Berry was a black man until he stepped onto that Des Moines stage. I have been told that this was often true with some members of his audience during his first wave of popularity in the 1950s. So I guess I fit in well with his original fan base.

And speaking of original fans, I think I spotted some that night. While the area in front of the stage was filled with white teens, seated in the bleachers of this hockey arena I saw a few older African American couples patiently waiting. And wait we did. After the two local bands had each played their sets, it was whispered that the star had not yet arrived. One of the bands volunteered to play some more. But the audience was restless, and the group’s initial set had not been well received. Finally, someone announced that Berry’s flight had landed and that he was getting a police escort to the hall.

Chuck Berry was very professional. He acknowledged that this would be a late show. The audience cheered; we felt special. At one point he tried to get a little musical response going between his guitar work and the drummer. But, as usual, Berry had hired a local, unrehearsed band for his backing group, and the nervous drummer was confused about what was being asked of him.

Chuck played the hits I knew, and he played some of his songs that I would later discover. I recall that he often looked at his watch during the performance, but he was friendly toward the audience. When Berry was certain he had performed long enough to satisfy the contract, his fingers burned up the neck of his guitar into the opening lines of Johnny B. Goode. Then he abruptly stopped. I forgot! Wait! He signaled the surprised band to quit playing. This was not a prearranged act; he had truly forgotten to sing his recent hit. Berry then performed an unhurried, crowd pleasing version of My Ding-A-Ling. Then he hit the opening of Johnny B. Goode again, and the audience danced off into the night.

Concert Commentary

I can date my night with Poco to 1971, as I went with my then girlfriend Diane. The show was held at the KRNT Theater, a huge auditorium built by the Shriners in 1925. Foundations of both this theater and the dating relationship would soon crumble. Shawn Phillips opened. Not a lot to say about Phillips except that he was a very enthusiastic performer. He presented a long set while switching between many acoustic guitars. Phillips seemed in a rush to get as many tunes across as possible.

Although his waist-length blonde hair gave him a lot of ‘hip’ status, I thought Phillips played too long. I would later get his album Second Contribution, which was great. I am guessing that he was doing some of those tunes, but I didn’t know his music that night. Late in the 1970s he tried different things, including an instrumental LP (with short hair). He sort of faded away with no real hits or lasting success, but I sure liked that one album.

Phillips played a 12-string guitar during his set, which was new to me that night. Also new was the pedal steel guitar, an instrument used in Poco’s lineup. I had never seen a steel before and was intrigued by the way it was played. The steel guitar would soon become an important part of my country music education, but on this night it was foreign to me. I bought the live Poco album Deliverin’ after that concert and have always liked it. That music still holds up.

Poco was a band that should have been bigger. There were others trying this style of country rock who labored in greater obscurity, certainly, such as the groups Cowboy and Mason Profit. The Eagles would become huge a few years later, essentially performing the style of country rock that Poco was playing that night. Kenny Loggins and former Poco member Jim Messina forged a successful career and produced a couple of big hits that had even more of a Poco-esque good time appeal than the Eagles. Messina had left Poco a few months before the Des Moines show, but he is still with them on the live Deliverin’ record.

I always felt that Poco got cherry picked. Messina left, and Poco’s front man Timothy B. Schmidt would join a later version of the Eagles to play bass and sing harmony vocals. Schmidt joining Poco’s thunder-stealing nemesis, the Eagles, was sort of like Bill Champlin joining Chicago: going over to the other side.

To my mind, the lineup with Schmidt and Joe Walsh was never really the Eagles. The hits kept coming and band members became major rock stars, but I felt that the group had become less interesting. This occurred around the time Randy Meisner and Bernie Leadon left. Not that these two guys were the dominant front men or the main writers, but the Eagles seemed a more holistic group at the beginning.

I saw the Eagles before they became rock gods. It was at SUNI-Daze, held at the University of Northern Iowa in late spring 1974—our version of a rock festival. I went over to the football field to see Steely Dan play, but they refused to go on because it looked like it might rain. Too bad; I would have liked to see them at that time. I was at a second show later that same year, at the Iowa State Fair, where the Dan were supposed to perform, but they again cancelled—this time because some of their equipment was malfunctioning. Many unhappy people at that concert who had also been in Cedar Falls for the group’s previous no show. You’d a thought George Jones was fronting the band.

The reason this vignette comes to mind is that the Eagles were performing their Cedar Falls set just before Steely Dan was supposed to play. After Steely Dan abruptly cancelled, the Eagles agreed to return for another six songs or so to appease the disappointed crowd. They were a struggling band then—or at least there were no big hits yet. That’s another show I wish I could watch now. The Eagles would have been working hard, no doubt, and playing some tunes during that added section that were probably not in their normal set list.

Concert Commentary

The Sons of Champlin

Ingersoll Theater

Des Moines, Iowa

ca. 1972

Speaking of Bill Champlin, my friends and I were all very much into the first couple of albums by his eponymous San Francisco horn band The Sons of Champlin, for which he played keyboards, doubled on guitar, and sang lead. The first release, Loosen Up Naturally, was especially strong. It had politics covered with the side-long song Freedom, and the band members’ heads were shown to be in the right place with Get High. But in addition to both of these right on anthems, all of the other songs on this double LP were good.

So we were excited to learn that the band was booked for a small Des Moines hall, a former movie theater. The Sons (as they called themselves at this point) had an instrumental makeup very much like Chicago and Blood, Sweat & Tears. Unlike either of these groups, however, The Sons never had a song on Top 40 radio. Too bad. They were a fine group.

The concert was good, but the band had clearly grown weary of their early catalog. When people yelled for the song Get High, guitarist Terry Haggerty would lean into the microphone and say, We are. Clever, but we wanted to hear what passed for an underground hit. Our hip FM station played this song quite a lot, so most of the audience was familiar with it, whether they owned the album or not.

I knew very few of the tunes played at the show and was disappointed that they didn’t touch their first album. It was an unusual concert for me; I had never seen a rock guitarist sit down to perform, but Haggerty remained seated all evening while playing some fine lead lines. What saved the band’s choice of material was the encore—an expanded version of Ricky Nelson’s 1963 hit Fools Rush In.

The Sons would continue to tour and record, still searching for a hit or at least a larger audience. Capitol Records dropped them and they began their descent onto smaller, less well distributed labels—all the while producing good music. I have read in various places that The Sons of Champlin did not court success. I doubt that. In fact, I recall reading an interview with Bill Champlin in the 1970s where he said he would do anything to have the new LP be a hit. Sounds pretty normal to me. Tom Waits once told me to watch out for the ones who say they don’t care about the charts. They are probably watching them closer than anybody.

After The Sons split in the early 1980s, I was surprised to learn that Bill Champlin had joined the group Chicago. With guitarist Terry Kath dead and bassist Peter Cetera gone, this band was a shell of its glory years. Chicago had traded guitar-driven songs for ballads. More than this, I thought that for Bill Champlin to join Chicago was like…like a member of Poco joining the Eagles.

Concert Commentary

The Allman Brothers Band

with Big Brother and the Holding Company

University of Iowa Fieldhouse

Iowa City, Iowa

February 19, 1972

I saw the Allman Brothers in 1972, a unique year for the group. Duane was gone but bassist Berry Oakley was still alive. This one year window of touring saw the band trying to cope simultaneously with huge loss and exploding popularity. The great album achievement of Live at Fillmore East was behind them, and Eat a Peach had been released just the week before this show. With their next album, Brothers and Sisters, they would reach new and unexpectedly large audiences through their one huge radio hit, Ramblin’ Man. But the concert on this winter night attracted the band’s original, album-oriented fan base.

Dickey Betts carried the guitar load all night, and the group was very good. Still, an air of sadness hung over the Iowa City Fieldhouse that evening. Opening the concert was Big Brother and the Holding Company. This San Francisco band had once included Janis Joplin, but was now disintegrating and in its final days.

Big Brother without Janis, and the Allmans without Duane. It was becoming increasingly clear to this still young audience that time would not forever be our friend.

Bonus Track

Interviewer to Duane Allman, concerning the Layla album:

How are we supposed to know which guitar is you and which is Eric Clapton?

Duane: I’m playing the Gibson; Eric’s on the Fender. Oh...Thanks?

Book Review

Midnight Riders: The Story of the Allman Brothers Band

By Scott Freeman

Little, Brown, and Co., 1995

Like the Allman Brothers Band itself, Midnight Riders is best when Duane is present. As soon as the band became big, the major players died. Or such was the oft-heard lament. Unfortunately, this assessment rings sadly accurate throughout this new biography. Scott Freeman’s account is balanced, with his focus generally remaining on the music itself. Although the band members’ involvement with drugs and groupies is not ignored, the author wisely truncates these accounts, so the book rarely reaches the level of sensationalism. And with the Allman Brothers, describing the excesses of rock stardom could easily dominate the account.

Freeman portrays the unlikely rise of a southern garage band. He points to the Allmans’ various obstacles, including their geographic location. Ultimately, the group trailblazed a music path from Macon, Georgia, that would be followed by many others. As the author correctly insists, the Allman Brothers were an innovative band. Freeman steps over the line a few times in his attempt to make his subjects appear a bit more than they were, such as when he credits the group with introducing drum solos to rock music. However, he does an especially good job of showing the band’s blues roots, as well as their unconventional forays into sustained instrumental passages.

Midnight Riders reminds the reader that this was a band that, in its prime, could present complex musical interplay and keep things interesting—even on lengthy numbers. And here is where the sadness lies: the Allman Brothers had such a brief time to really shine, with Duane Allman at the helm. Freeman should be credited for portraying Allman as a human being, possessing both pleasant and ugly traits. Concerning Duane’s guitar skills, the biographer sometimes leans toward a true fan’s unsupportable rhetoric, as when Freeman puts Allman toe to toe with Jimi Hendrix as an innovator on the instrument.

Sloppiness occasionally creeps into the book in both writing and research. Freeman tends to repeat himself at times, not for emphasis but for a lack of editing. He fails to differentiate the dates of various 1971 Fillmore East shows, leading the reader to believe that all the material on Live and Eat a Peach is culled from a single weekend stand. Also, he omits a solo LP or two from his generally thorough discography.

In spite of some correctable flaws, Midnight Riders does justice to the Allman Brothers Band, and it avoids what could have easily become tabloid journalism. The work is intelligent, insightful, and written with a discerning ear. Freeman can’t help it that as his book continues, it must describe the unravelling of a once great band.

Concert Commentary

Elton John

Hilton Coliseum

Ames, Iowa

October 14, 1972

I was first made aware of a wild piano player named Elton John by my friend Jim, so it was only appropriate that he and I should see Elton together. The concert was at the field house in Ames, about 30 miles from Des Moines. I had to play sousaphone in my high school marching band that night, so Jim was waiting in the parking lot with his car. When I was freed from the half-time performance we high-tailed it to the concert, knowing that we would be a bit late. I recall changing out of my cumbersome band uniform in the car as Jim sped northward.

We arrived at intermission. A group by the name of Family had played first. From what I later heard, we missed little. However, I have always been grateful that they opened that night, since it allowed me to see the entire set by Elton John, which was perfect from first note to last.

Elton came out to center stage alone, thanked the audience for attending, sat down at the grand piano and played Tiny Dancer. This was no stripped-down version; he gave it a full length treatment, which would be true of each song he played that night. And as others have noted, few of Elton’s John’s songs were short. Years later, during my college days in Cedar Falls, a local band began to assemble a medley of some of his numerous hits. It became way too long to be a reasonable part of a set, so the idea for a medley was abandoned, and each song was played as an individual piece. Better that way, anyhow, I thought.

After the impressive solo performance of Tiny Dancer, bassist Dee Murray joined John for Your Song. Drummer Nigel Olson entered for the third tune, and they played as a trio for a few more upbeat numbers. Then Elton introduced the guitarist, Davey Johnstone, who had just been added to the band. Johnstone’s slide technique was useful in replicating the sound of their new single Rocket Man, and he was also great throughout the rest of the concert. Honky Chateau was Elton John’s current LP. I thought it was OK, but I really liked the previous release, Madman Across the Water, far better. Madman was more maudlin; less pop.

Elton’s set was close to three hours in length with no break—unusually generous for the era. He did a great expanded version of Levon and of Madman. He later pulled out the minor yet brilliant Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters, a high point of Honky Chateau. Late in the concert, I was thinking that he had pretty much played everything I came to hear. Then he went into Country Comforts—a jewel I had forgotten about. Loved it, and surprised by it.

After the final numbers of the lengthy main set, the band returned for an encore. Elton said he knew of Americans’ reluctance to hear unfamiliar songs at concerts, but he would like to close with two new numbers that would appear on his next album. He then sang Daniel and Crocodile Rock. Wow. Those songs were great, even on first hearing. But I look back on them now as somewhat bittersweet, for to me they would come to represent a major turning point in Elton John’s career. And not for the better.

Elton would hit superstar status with his next few albums. He was at his commercial peak during my college years, but I had pretty much stopped paying attention to him after Honky Chateau. John would eventually fall from favor with audiences and critics a few years after this and then fight his way back. He was big when I saw him in 1972, no doubt about it—he filled the Hilton Coliseum, after all—but soon he would become well known for his flamboyant extravagance rather than for his music.

I would meet a lot of people in college who attended that memorable concert in Ames and would attest to its power. Two friends had odd reactions: One always complained that Elton didn’t play Burn Down the Mission. I guess I was fortunate not to expect it. I had the live album entitled 11/17/70, on which Burn Down the Mission is an 18-minute set closer. Even at this stage of my musical growth, I knew that when a performer features one tune as such a huge signature piece during a tour, the song is often removed entirely from the following tour.

Witness Jimi Hendrix’s career-making version of Wild Thing at Monterey Pop. After a while he dropped the tune completely and replaced it with other concert closing rave-ups—at Woodstock, for example. When Elton’s concert included extended versions of both Levon and the slower Madman Across the Water, I assumed (even as he played them) that these were the replacements for his Burn Down the Mission feature. That was understandable, and fine with me. But my friend could never talk about that night without faulting Elton for not playing Burn Down the Mission.

Another friend who had also been there was worse. He had seen some brief footage of an Elton John concert on TV about two weeks before the Ames show, and said there had been a dozen women dancers who came on stage at the end. He said in Ames we got four women. I don’t disagree with his count, but I didn’t care about the number of dancers at the close. It did not matter in the least to me, but this was a real sore point with my friend. Sorry. What I do remember is having the foresight to take along a pair of binoculars. Helped a lot, as we were pretty far back. The binoculars also allowed me to see that during the last number, lyricist Bernie Taupin was on stage dancing around. Only one Bernie Taupin though.

Post Script

Memory is a funny thing; it’s odd what resides in the backwaters of our minds. I recall clearly how much I had liked the downsized four-piece concert arrangements of several songs that had originally appeared on his studio LPs as lush orchestral works. Elton’s decision to recast these songs for his small group meant that the sound would often have a much harder edge. This was always a sticking point with some Texas friends who went to see Elton in New York City shortly after the first album came out. They wanted the chamber pop string sound of The Left Banke, but instead got a hard rockin’ piano trio on the lines of Jerry Lee Lewis. They complained endlessly about that.

Thirty-four years after that concert I bought the two-CD Elton John set called Rare Masters. It includes tracks like B-sides of singles and alternate takes. Worth having. One of the studio outtakes is of the song Madman Across the Water. The minute I heard it, I thought, THAT is the way he did it when I saw him. The recording is edgier than the official release, with Mick Ronson on a more prominently mixed guitar. Taken at the same dirgeful tempo as its counterpart, this longer, alternate version served as the template for John’s concert arrangement. I remember that guitar part clearly; I rarely remember my passwords.

Hangin’ with the Stars #1

Over the years, I have had a few encounters with some famous musicians. The Hangin’ With the Stars entries in this book are not interviews, but brief and unplanned exchanges. I find them worth recounting, as they often illuminate unguarded personality traits of the performer. Here is my first entry.

A few years after that Elton John concert in Ames, I had a brief interaction with the man himself. I was selling admission tickets at the main gate of The Iowa State Fair. Elton John was scheduled to play the grandstand. That afternoon, an unusually nice limousine arrived at the fairground gates. I had the feeling