What did Walt Know?
Posted by johnglass | Filed under Essays and Short Fiction
Why, what did Walt Whitman know about a group such as Dion and the Belmonts? Their songs did belong to them, and perhaps they do come back to them. But only for a while.
And yet some wonder, did they work? The wondrous doo-wop and fantastic but simplistic rock & roll riffs were eventually drowned by a typhoon of success. Things never remain. There was an explosion in later harmony-was it harmony? –and the fallout bred more fallout. That was what came back to them.
But no, we are told otherwise. The songs that do go back to them are newer, hipper versions. A simple metamorphosis, and for the better. The song is to the singer, and it does come back to him, they say, but this song is better. Everything new in the arts is surely superior to the past. Even music.
What did Walt Whitman know about a group such as Dion and the Belmonts? Because if the music did come back to Dion, it was not without radical alterations. Some of it was good, but most of it was despicable. Eventually, though, it was all considered the same as relativism reached the world of music. Remember, it’s all music.
Walt Whitman would know better, at least if he could compare the phosphorescent echoes of Dion’s doo-wop with all of the later rage and predictable noise. If he could only walk from One Abbey Road all the way to the Seattle grunge and see for himself.
History’s Last Stand
Posted by johnglass | Filed under Essays and Short Fiction
We never really knew what happened, did we? We were just clueless to so much of our past. There was a beauty in the incomplete portrait of what happened to people like General George Custer, and what a magnificent beauty! The absence of everything that happened to General Custer was something that we deliciously appreciated.
But we were unaware. We were simply unaware of the quality of such an abyss, which is why events like Little Bighorn are exquisite. The great giant of 20th century circuitry, however, has filled in all of the blanks and destroyed this fantastic concept of unawareness. Today, Custer would never enjoy the same success that he has had for the past 100 years. Today, all is replayed, everyone is aware, and history will suffer.
For this revolution has none of the makings of a true revolution. This revolution has destroyed. The beauty of life and history has diminished for there is no beauty with convenience.
And now we are aware. We are simply numb to the fervor we once felt at going back to the past because we are consistently aware. We can just envision the plaque, the memorial, or the future conversations. We know that we will eventually look back on this day with trembling emotion. What has yet to happen is already happening with crass anticipation and self-consciousness, and with a hopeful place in history.
All of this is a direct harvest of the seed of the revolution.
The closing years of yesterday’s cluelessness are upon us. Our new reflection will preoccupy most of our energy, and this will be the new reality, the new, inferior history. Our new reflection has seized the day. We will lose what probably happened, along with the unrecorded conversation and the great black-and-white snapshot. History will be quick but dull, close but worn out. History will be the familiarity that breeds contempt.
The great giant of 20th century circuitry has won.
But General George Custer actually got off lucky.
Fox
Posted by johnglass | Filed under Essays and Short Fiction
Wasn’t it a beautiful, cool evening, with a severe storm on the way? It was the kind of night that compelled you to drive the convertible up to a distant plateau off in some dark, empty county. The wind was rigorous but friendly as you held her hand and slowly elicited sugary kisses from her. You then drive back off into the blackness until you came up on one of those forgotten all-night diners, with glowing neon and rain-splattered windows. You sipped coffee and looked at her as the corner juke played that long lost ballad from the 1950’s, And it hit you that this was all magical, dreamy, and sensual, poetic and dark, something akin to that lavender amoeba in the late horizon that you’ve always yearned for. This was what all of those poets prepared you for. Her teeth were glorious when she smiled at you.
But caramaba, you’re left sitting in an IHOP in Plainview, Texas, staring out the window at three in the morning. Hopefully, it is possible that imaginative experience is superior to reality, to what you would actually experience if you actually drove that big sled up to that hill and drank coffee with that little fox. Maybe imagining an experience helps to savor the beauty that you will
one day feel when you really kiss that girl amidst the cold, black wind, engulfed by nothing and yet everything.
No. No, it really should have been “we should learn to know what we imagine.” Get it right, Shelley.
Percussion, Pop, and Pittsburgh (excerpt)
Posted by johnglass | Filed under Essays and Short Fiction
It took me a long time to realize that there was a lot more than just the snare drum. And I mean a long time. There must have been twenty-five drummers in my middle-school class band, and all of them just banged and banged away. I don’t know that any of us realized how noisy it all was. Even with those black rubber pads that we used to practice on, it was just all one big noisy experiment. I don’t know what my mother was thinking when she signed me up for band class.
Middle school became high school, and there was yet more noise. In high school, though, you learn to march with the band in parades and football games. This high school drummer is usually a little more refined. He bangs away as he did in middle school, but he slowly becomes aware of his role as a percussionist. He understands that there is more to percussion than noise, and that percussion plays a melodic role within the world of music. Not all high school drummers understand this, of course.
Indeed, it took me a while to learn all of this. Especially since my Dad was the one who raised me.
-What? I’m in here trying to eat, and you—you’re in here with your-your triangle! Good grief . . . .
_Dad, I was about to leave, anyway. I was just working on this excerpt for my audition. I didn’t know this upset you that much.
-Hmmpphhh. You ‘re not gonna begin playing those cymbals any time soon, are you?
And then there was my cousin, who wasn’t much better.
-Dude, I remember when you used to beat the hell out of your kit!
-Yeah. That was something else, huh?
-But now it’s all about Chi—Chikovkee- or
_Tchaikovsky.
-Yeah, him. Now it’s all about that stuff with you. Your mallets and stuff, and whatever else.
That’s kind of how it began to evolve. My cousin was as gregarious as Bob Hope at one of those awards shows, but he could still be a thorn in my side. He completely lived up to the part of the everyday “rock star,” or at least the rock stars that I always see: blue jeans, a black snug-fitting t-shirt, a bandana or spiked hair or both, tattoos here and there, piercings. And Brad could not accept the fact that I wasn’t part of his scene anymore.
And Dad was just Dad. He ran a fairly successful lawnmower and small engine repair shop out in our backyard, and he was constantly coming in with grease on his hands, looking around the room, grunting about this or that. He never tried to understand my passion for the symphony, and it was one thing that got to me as I got older. He just didn’t understand any kind of music unless it was Elvis or Chuck Berry, or some other yahoo from the 1950’s playing a guitar and howling away. Dad was old school at its best.
Sam and the Milkshakes (excerpt)
Posted by johnglass | Filed under Essays and Short Fiction
“…and I’m not playing that crazy ‘Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs’ anymore, either!” Bucky said out loud to himself. He reached down and unearthed the Little Richard album from where it lay under Sam the Sham and Vanilla Fudge and the rest of that new stuff. There, he thought, as he pulled the vinyl from the sleeve and slid it onto the turntable and quickly announced what was to be heard.
The fresh crackle from the vinyl could be heard across the room, perhaps even down the hall. Bucky leaned back in his chair, slurped down the last of his lukewarm vanilla shake, struggled to shake off his headache, and listened to the scratchy vocal beauty of one of Georgia’s finest. He gazed at the plain white clock on the wall. Little Richard was one of his favorites, and he was not about to put him behind someone called “Vanilla Fudge,” or anybody else. He stared at the Little Richard album cover and sighed long and hard. His sister had been telling him to relax and be a little more open. She knew that he was going through something.
-Bucky, you’re gonna have to play those songs eventually! Just do it – what’s the big deal?
-You know that I’m going through something. Please.
-Well, I just wish you could be happier. A lot of people would kill to have your job. And people like today’s music! Why can’t you?
His boss became wise early on, and after monitoring him for a few days, he too put in his two cents.
-Bucky, you aren’t changing the rotation of the set list, are you?
Bucky was good at handling his radio station manager, especially since he was an old family friend. He smiled devilishly at him.
-No, of course not. I just get a little confused sometimes. I’ll try harder, okay?
-Fine. I don’t want you going anywhere, so keep on doing a good job. But remember: don’t stray too far from the set list.
The Signpost up ahead: the Archives (excerpt)
Posted by johnglass | Filed under Essays and Short Fiction
So much has been made of what scares man. All of those golden, plump pumpkins every fall are but one piece of a much larger idea that instills fear into man. We have also watched “Cujo,” and observed the citizens of Central America adorn the gravestones of their deceased with an array of skulls and flowers, surely putting fear into the very depth of somebody. When did man first become frightened as a result of popular intent or mischievous fun? Socrates himself probably hid in the shadows and idiomized a Greek “boo” at somebody at some point-
A dandy little essay, he thought, as he skimmed over the rest of the page. It was an upper- level graduate paper written years ago for some psychology class that he had snuck out of the university archives. Arthur suddenly became surprised as he looked up and realized that Telly Savalas actually shares a quiet, civil moment with the doll. Even though he had watched this episode several times as a kid, he had forgotten about this part.
He tossed the essay aside and watched as Telly held the doll and looked at it with curiosity. The civil moment was brief, though, as Telly took his cigarette from the ashtray and burned the nose of the little doll with it. His wife then walked right through the swinging kitchen door and Telly stopped, much like the schoolchild that halts his mischief as the teacher walks in the room. Yeah, Arthur thought, this was a sneaky, sly little part that I had completely forgotten about. He wondered how scary this episode must have been when it first aired. People were probably calling into complain about the Twilight Zone, much like they did when the first Nightmare on Elm Street came out. Arthur wondered if he had that old movie somewhere on VHS.
The screen went black. Arthur picked up the essay and took another long look at it, realizing that it wasn’t what he was looking for. He had grabbed it at the last minute after another long and fruitless search. He glanced over at Jack, who had the same I’m-everywhere look. Arthur then yawned and looked at the kitchen clock. Although he had been going to bed later and later, tomorrow was still another day at work. Arthur went in to his bedroom, turned off the classical music playing softly on his clock radio, set his alarm, and went to bed. He fell asleep starting at the clock’s vivid red lights, wondering why he didn’t feel quite as scared as he thought he should be.
“Ouch!” yelped Arthur, as he scraped his knuckles against the hot toaster. He rubbed his fist and fumed at the old toaster. Telly, meanwhile, was talking to his wife, or at least trying to. She didn’t’ seem very happy with his attitude. Arthur never really knew when the episode was going to come on. Sometimes it was right when he got home at night, or, like now, in the morning when he got up. He yawned, buttered his toast, poured some more coffee, and continued to mull over everything that was happening. He had been awake for about an hour, at times staring at the television screen literally waiting. Even though everything began only a few days earlier, there was a sick kind of anxiety that was beginning to set in. He licked his singed knuckles, sat down, put on his plain black dress socks, and watched Telly and his wife.
He wondered if Mr. Savalas had to embrace some sort of psychological state for the episode as he watched the bald actor take the doll down to the basement, stick it under a drill press, and attempt to crush it with all his might. Arthur dropped the essay on to the table and looked over at Jack sitting upright on the hallway nightstand. He wondered if he could do the same thing to him. After all, that conversation did happen.