Coming in December:
A seven-part series --- K-Tel Records presents the Naterock Samplers.(the most mega of Megaposts here since Musick Around the World...this time it's Musick through Time).
In order to complete this Sisyphean task, the engineer on board has had to delve into that deep dark hole that is the past, looking back through the lens of time on many things best forgotten. But to clarify a point made in the write-up to the first volume, said chronicler...all right...you've guessed it...it is me... start that sentence over... I want to explore the difference between how I now listen to music whereas in those dark by-gone days I truly lived the music. To make my point as to what I mean about that past, let me tell you a story…
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The Skipper & Gilligan's
...I got busted in November 1970 for holding about fifty caps of mescaline. The fuzz didn’t find my weed, which was a good thing. In Pennsylvania circa 1970 weed was hard time, but mescaline was still a misdemeanor, classified as a violation of the Controlled Substances Act. I was offered the choice between two years probation or three months county jail to pay my debt to the State. I didn't like the idea of reporting to a probation officer for the next two years, so I opted for the three months. They let me roam free through the holidaze. Then I dutifully turned myself in on January 3, 1971.
County jail is a breeze & to make things easier, because I was not really a "hard-core criminal", I was made trustee. My duties were cleaning the three-story Court House that adjoined the jail. I buffed the floors, swept the carpets, dusted the court rooms, emptied the trashes, whatever needed done from day to day, six days a week, Sundays I spent reading or playing cards in lock-down. Six days a week I basically was free to roam the Court House, as long as I completed all my daily task & was on call to the Head Custodian of the building...a lazy sod that did as little as possible & bothered me even less. My friends Mole & Neat Pickles would show up every day, track me down, we’d go into the freight elevator, shut it off between floors & smoke weed until someone’s annoying use of the buzzer drove us crazy. Then I'd spray some deodorizing spray I had on hand (work issued to hide any vomit or piss smell in the Court rooms) & surrender the elevator.
So my three months passed easily & quite quick-seeming.
The worst thing was the FEAR OF THE BARBER. Some old codger would come around on random Sundays to cut the inmates' hair. The last time I had my hair cut was the spring of 1967, so it was long-ass or ass-long by this time. The Warden (just a desk-duty town cop) loved to tease me each Saturday afternoon when I returned to lock-down. "Barber might be comin' tomorrow", he'd always say & laugh his greasy laugh. Well the barber never came & March 28th was the last Sunday before my release date (Saturday, April 3rd). I was working over at the Court House on Friday, only one day 'til freedom, when my lazy-ass Supe came to find me. "They're rolling you up early today", was all he said. When I walked into the jail, there was the barber. They had him come in special, just for me.
I didn't have a Samson complex & I wasn't really vain about my mane, but this was just small-town anti-hippie bullshit they were handing me. The barber was really more like a butcher, he had two cuts: the little Lord Fauntleroy look & the kinda half-assed mullet thing. Seeing as I was a long-hair, he said sneeringly, "Number Two fer ya, boy?”"
"No thanks", I said. "Just buzz it all off."
That's not what he was expecting or wanting to hear, but it was just twisted enough that he could get off on it & so he obliged. In a few minute I went from hippie to skinhead, appearance-wise. When I went back to my cell & listened to the whistles & hoots, some existential dread came over me. I hadn't told any of my friends exactly when I was being released & I was glad. I wasn't sure I wanted to see them right then. After three months, no matter how easy the time had been, I was feeling mighty anti-social. I rolled out at about 10am Saturday morning, but it was after 3pm before all the bull-shit paperwork was completed & I was finally cut loose. I tied a bandanna around my shorn pate & headed down Market Street toward the center of town. I had no destination & my mood was lower than the early April temperature. I was trudging along the sidewalk, a million miles away in my mind, when I heard the squeal of tires screeching to a halt at the curb next to me. I looked up & came eye to eye with my good friend Whalebait. The last time I had seen him was over the Xmas holidaze just before I went inside. He was home on Xmas break from school at the Hiram Scott College in Scott's Bluff, Nebraska. Even as close as we were, as many experiences as we'd shared together, I wasn't really sure if I wanted to see him at this juncture in time, but I was wondering what he was doing back in town.
He reached across the seat (of a 1970 Land Rover 88 Series II2, one of his pride & joys), swung open the door & screamed, "Hop in, Doc. We've got places to be & people to do."
Without really thinking, I hopped in. He shoved a brown paper sack into my lap as he whipped a U & headed north on Market, heading out of town. I looked in the bag, only to see what looked like at least a quarter pound of some fine weed. I took a smell of its pungent aroma & asked, "What's this?"
"Matanuska Thunder Fuck", he chortled as he threw a pack of papers at me. "Roll it up."
After we'd gone through the formalities of conversation a bit, about how I had just moments ago got released from jail, about his expulsion from college over "some minor incident" with self-same weed, I had the clarity to query, "Roll it up, you mean roll one up here & now?"
"Not one, Doc, all of it. We're off on a road trip."
One thing I'd learned in my years of friendship with Whalebait is that he has never been know to take no for an answer to any order he's given. I realized I was in for some strange adventure, but the gray cloud that had been looming over me had now become a swirling tornado. I began to roll. Once I had rolled one & we had taken a few hits, the strength of this legendary potent bud made itself known. By the time we finished & I started in on rolling some more, I thought to ask, "Ah, where we going?'
"Gilligan’s...MC5." was his reply.
Gilligan's (2525 Walden Avenue, Cheektowaga, New York) was one of my favorite clubs. Buffalo was only about 90 miles north of our burg, an easy jaunt. I'd seen the Amboy Dukes & Alice Cooper there before. The club had a great ambiance & a lenient policy on weed smoking once the bands started playing (you could still smoke cigs at venues in those days so they never patrolled the floor once the music started wailing & the bodies started shaking). I'd heard the MC5 many times before & had always wanted to see them.
Back in the USA had just come out the previous year & it was one of the albums I had in heavy rotation. Then the thought hit me, crossing state lines & a QP of bud. Shit.
I'd managed to roll about half the bag so far & we'd smoked three dubes, so I was somewhat out of my funk (& out of my mind & out of my body) when Bait chimed up, "What's with the hair? Or lack there-of?" Nothing like a reminder of my situation to bring me right down.
By this point we were cruising I90 North nearing our destination. We came up beside a car with a freak & his women, obviously bopping to some tunes on the car stereo. Whalebait matched their speed in the adjacent lane, rolled down his window, & signaled the sweet young thing to roll down hers. He yelled over the noise of the wind, the vehicles, & the music exiting their car, "Wanna get high?"
This beautiful flower child smiled back & said, "We'd like to, but we're in a hurry. We don't have time to stop."
"No problem," said Bait to the girl. "Hop in the back, Doc."
It turns out that the Whale's plan was for me to get a joint burning, pass it out the window to the sweet young thing, let the two of them take a few tokes, & pass it back, which we did (at about 70mph) cruising down the highway. Outta the frying pan & into the fire, it seemed, was my lot. But what the fuck. It was hella good fun no matter how foolish. We only live once after all. It turns out the couple was also going to see the Motor City 5.
I crawled back in the front & by the time we arrived at Gilligan's, I had successfully rolled up the weed. I stuffed the joints, save a few for the (hopefully) return trip, back into the bag & handed it to Whalebait.
"You hang on to it, I'll distract them at the door."
Now I was adding smuggling a Federally offensive amount of weed into the club to my growing list of infractions. But true to his word, Bait did cause an immense distraction at the door, using Nebraska ID & proffering a C-note for the $5 admission fee. I easily slipped inside unnoticed (except for a few weird looks at my lack of locks [paranoia???]).
There was no opening act. After a short wait, the MC5 took the stage. Some older dude (John Sinclair, head of the White Panther Party, I believe) made a short anti-establishment introduction that was well received by the rowdy mob, & then the fireworks began. The lights went dark, then came up slowly on Rob Tyner leering from the front of the stage, microphone in hand & we all heard those familiar word,
"& right now..right now...right now, it's time to Kick out the Jams, motherfuckers!" The roar from the crowd was deafening but the music cut through it like a knife. The Motor City mayhem had begun.
From our strategic spot in the middle of the mob, Whalebait & I started lighting joints, taking a couple hits, & then passing them on. When the person on the receiving end tried to pass them back, we'd just wave them on & light another one. We saw the couple from the Interstate & gave then a handful of joints & told them to pass them around. Soon things were abuzz with music & weed. People at the front were passing joints up to the band at regular intervals ("rock 'n' roll, dope, & fuckin' in the streets was their slogan). The music gradually became looser, louder, & freer than imaginable.
At some point in all the hilarity I noticed that DT (Dennis Thompson, drummer for MC5) wasn't getting any weed being kinda isolated in the back. I was in such an elevated state that I grabbed a handful of joints from the bag, handed the rest to Whalebait, & told him, "I'll be back."
I stealthily made my way to the far side of the stage & found a unobserved passageway that provided passage to an area behind the drum riser. I moved up behind DT, lit up a joint, passed it around to him on a roach clip & held it so he could hit it "no hands". He never missed a drum beat. I continued to pass him hits until after several joints, he signaled thumbs up, that he was good. I returned to the floor & joined up with Whalebait. We finished off the rest of the joints & enjoyed the rest of the incredible show. They played on & on, doing three encores, they played the entire
Back in the USA & much more. It was a glorious evening
I felt that we had really done something, for the crowd, for the music, but mostly for myself. The effects of the arrest, the trial, the time in jail, the humiliation of the haircut all washed away in a single evening of Revolutionary Rock 'n' Roll.
We cruised back home without incident, all my fears allayed. Of course my hair grew back, & I looked back on it all & laughed. But I've never forgotten that night. One time in the early 90s in LA I happened to be back stage talking with Wayne Kramer & mentioned that night, not sure if he would remember it, as it was probably important only to me, but he got a huge grin on his face. Mission accomplished, I'd say.
So, here's some music for you all…
Intros / Ramblin' Rose
The American Ruse
Tonight
Rama Lama Fa Fa Fa
It's a Man's, Man's, Man's World
Motor City is Burning
Looking at You
Fire of Love
Shakin' Street
Starship / Kick Out the Jams / Black to Comm
Enjoy...I did,
NØ
