La Vie En Robe

Hair Games People Play

Many thanks to my pal Tracy for hipping me to this most hair-tastic clip of Englebert Humperdinck and Tom Jones doing Joe South's "Games People Play" with Billy Preston on keys; no date on this, but I'm gonna guess it was filmed in late '69 or early '70. Eng and Tom were both managed by Gordon Mills, but this is the only time I've ever seen this hirsute duo perform together... which, considering how effortlessly ToJo sings rings around him, probably isn't that surprising.

Baseball Book Update

My friend Heather sent me a message via Facebook today: "How does it feel to be eligible for Super Saver shipping?"

This could only mean one thing, of course: My forthcoming baseball book (awesome cover pictured above) is now available for pre-order via Amazon. Which, considering that I have a very vivid memory of when I first decided I would try and write it (about, oh, ten years ago), feels pretty amazing. To say the least.

It also feels a bit "cart before the horse," as I am currently up to my elbows in going through the copy-edited manuscript and making some final tweaks before it heads off to the printer. But hey, don't let me stop you if you feel like pre-ordering it...and it's apparently coming out in late May, not June as I'd previously mentioned, which means you'll get it in plenty of time for Father's Day...

Coming in June to a Book Store Near You...

Just got a look at the cover of Big Hair and Plastic Grass, my forthcoming book on baseball and pop culture in the 1970s, and I'm stoked I just had to share it. Major kudos to the St. Martin's Art Department, who completely jacked this baby outta the park...

Friday 'Fro: Smokey Robinson

Not long ago, someone on some chat board linked to one of my Friday 'Fro entries, telling their fellow chat-mates that "this is a cool 'fro site, but it's mostly about dead guys." Which has never been my intent, of course, but I made a mental note that I really oughta throw a living 'fro into the mix.

So, today at the office, my colleague Tony was making the afternoon go better with a Smokey Robinson (both with and without the Miracles) collection, and that got me thinking — I'd never seen our "Greatest Living Poet" (to quote Bob Dylan) sport anything beyond the most rudimentary tennis-ball 'fro. Did Smokey ever go for the big hair?

Well, five minutes of internet research turned up very little on that score, except for the above picture from the cover of his 1974 album, Pure Smokey. And, to be honest, I have to call "'fro shenanigans" on it, because that perfectly coiffed afro really looks like the work of the Motown art department, instead of anything remotely "natural". Maybe they were worried that Smokey's old-fashioned romanticism wasn't playing anymore with "the kids," and felt a faux 'fro was needed if he was gonna keep moving units like he used to. Sigh. That's simply no way to treat a national treasure...

Anyway, this all brought back some very lovely memories of interviewing Mr. Robinson for the L.A. Weekly back in 2002, so I went online and checked to see if I could find the article I wrote on him and the radio show he was doing at the time. It's still there, though does omit some of my favorite memories from the experience. I did it right after Thanksgiving, and thus I got to have the surreal experience of watching him try to heat up some leftover turkey and stuffing in his oven; I think the housekeeper was gone for the day, and he wasn't, shall we say, completely comfortable in the kitchen. 

He was super smooth in every other way, though; we broke the ice talking about the Detroit Tigers (I was wearing my 80s-era Tigers starter jacket at the time), and he waxed nostalgic about going to old Tiger Stadium with his uncle back in the 1950s. But from the get-go, he really was every bit as sweet and warm and kind as his records had led me to imagine, and I thoroughly enjoyed every second of our hour-long conversation.

It was also Carole's birthday that day, so as we were wrapping up I asked if he would wish her a happy birthday; without any further prompting, he grabbed my tape recorder and sang a full chorus of "Happy Birthday" to her — then added, "Hi, Carole, this is Smokey Robinson, wishing you the most joyous of birthdays! God bless you!" Pure Smokey, indeed...

Oh yeah — you can read my old L.A. Weekly piece here.

Friday 'Fro: RIP, Mitch Mitchell

The Jimi Hendrix Experience is no more. Okay, I know, Jimi's been dead for 38 years; but with the death of bassist Noel Redding in 2003, and with drummer Mitch Mitchell (pictured above right) passing away this week, all mortal traces of one of the greatest bands of the 1960s (and perhaps ever) have been officially snuffed. And I must confess that makes me a wee bit teary-eyed...

I've been listening to Hendrix for nearly 30 years now, and I'm still surprised, moved and blown away by his playing every time I spin his records. But even musical geniuses need great sparring partners; and while Mitchell didn't always the credit he deserved back in the day, he might well have been Jimi's greatest and most valuable collaborator. Mitchell's loose, rolling, yet hard-hitting style (honed in countless British R&B and jazz combos) and his telepathic ability to sync up with Hendrix on all manner of improvisatory adventures were absolutely key to the Experience's stage and studio magic. And I haven't even mentioned the hair, yet...

Unlike Redding, who had naturally curly locks, Mitchell had to get his hair permed to measure up to Jimi's wild 'do. But he took one for the team, at least for a while, allowing the JHE to claim the mantel of "All-Time Greatest 'Fro-Topped Power Trio," at least in my book. C'mon, name a better one, I dare ya...

Alas, I couldn't find a clip of the Experience in action that really did justice to both Mitchell's playing and his short-lived 'fro-age, so I'm gonna go with this incredible 1967 clip from the "It's Lulu" TV show. The back-story behind it is that Lulu was actually supposed to come out half-way through "Hey Joe" and sing a duet (!!!) with Jimi, and was just about to take the stage when the band abruptly switched gears and went into their tribute to the Cream, whose breakup had just been announced. Lulu was apparently quite pissed, but it made for some amazing television. Mitchell gets a ton of camera time, too, so you can really get an eye- and ear-ful of his unique and soulful playing — somewhere between Ginger Baker and Keith Moon, yet more rhythmically grounded than either. He was, as they say, the absolute shit. I'm sure there's a wicked jam session going on in Rock and Roll Heaven right about now...

Return of the Friday Fro (On Thursday): R.I.P., Rudy Ray Moore

Well, as the man himself would've surely said, ain't that a bitttttch? Rudy Ray Moore — aka "Dolemite," the godfather of rap, blaxploitation film auteur, and perpetrator of about 30 of the most gleefully foul-mouthed "party" records you'd ever want to hear — passed away last week at the tender age of 81. Mr. Moore may not have possessed the most happenin' 'fro in the world (it generally looked pretty nappy whenever it bloomed beyond the basic circumference of his head), but his contribution to African American culture was surely 'fro-tastic in the extreme.

Moore was born in Arkansas in 1927, and he never really lost that "just off the hay wagon" vibe, even when he was sporting his finest pimp vines at the peak of his stardom. An older black gentleman I once met at a party lovingly described Moore as "a stone country n*gger"; and on the surface, at least, there was little about Moore's excessive braggadocio — the length and girth of his dick wasn't just a boast in his standup routines, it was a veritable plot point — that you could ever describe as sophisticated. And yet, the rhymes and tall tales that Rudy laid down (both in form and content) actually dated back hundreds of years to the slave-era south, and to Africa before that; so in his own twisted way, Moore was something of a walking, talking cultural artifact.

His no-budget films — Dolemite, The Human Tornado, Petey Wheatstraw — The Devil's Son-in-Law, Avenging Disco Godfather — were a whole 'nother thang altogether. My friend Tracy, who had the pleasure of working with Rudy in his later years, has compared him to Ed Wood, Jr., which is pretty spot-on, except that I'd throw in some John Waters and James Brown, as well. Sure, you could see the microphones in the shots half the time, but Rudy had a finely honed sense of ridiculousness and a deep appreciation for oddball characters (dig "the creeper," aka "hamburger pimp" from Dolemite, the junkie who could barely shuffle across the street yet boasted that he was "so bad, I kick my own ass twice a day"), and exuded a natural comic charisma that made many other blaxploitation stars of the day seem like cardboard cutouts by comparison. I mean, anyone with the balls to call a late-70s album Close Encounters of the Sex Kind has to be some sort of genius in the first place, but these flicks confirmed it — in my warped mind, at least.

In final tribute to the man, I'll just treat you to the original trailer from 1975's Dolemite. Not remotely safe for work — but you simply wouldn't want it any other way. R.I.P., Rudy.

Friday 'Fro 29: Let A Man Come In And Grease You Up Like a Pork Chop

I know, I already gave James Brown's Afro its due a few months back. But as someone who remains utterly fascinated by the many facets of the Godfather, both brilliant and reprehensible, I thought I'd use this Friday 'Fro to not only show another fine shot of Soul Brother No. 1 in his short-lived Afro-wearing period, but also to call your attention to this rather troubling article about the fight over Mr. Brown's estate, which also reveals some interesting details about his, shall we say, sexual peccadilos. "He liked you all greased up  [with Vaseline]," remembers one girlfriend. "Like a pork chop." Mmm-mmm good.

Still, I will say that, while I will never sell as many records or influence as many people as James Brown, I'm somehow comforted by the fact that I learned what "doggy style" was decades before he did...

Friday 'Fro 28: Fancy

Had the distinct pleasure this week of interviewing Jesse Chaton, lead singer of French electro-glam combo Fancy. Not only was the cat funnier and more articulate in his second (or third) language than most American-born artists I've spoken to, but I got to observe his absolutely killer afro up close. "I am part African and Moroccan," he told me, "so I don't have to do anything special to get my hair this way. I just let it grow!"

Now, I'm all for flagrant 'fro display, under any circumstances; but as a rule, I don't feature folks in the Friday 'Fro unless they've made some kind of significant contribution to the worlds of music, sports, politics or pop culture. So despite his fantastic mane, I wouldn't be mentioning Monsieur Chaton here if he and his equally androgynous bandmates hadn't recently come out with Kings of the Worlds, one of the most addictive records I've heard in ages.

The album, which is already out in Europe (but has yet to find a US label or distributor) sounds like a giddy cross between 70s post-glam casualties The Quick and Nick Gilder, and contemporary French electro artists like Daft Punk and Justice. (Chaton actually co-wrote the latter's "D.A.N.C.E."). Kings of the Worlds is uplifting, funny and sleazy in just the right amounts, and it puts me in a fine mood every time I spin it — even during a brutal commute on the L.A. freeways. (It also lends a distinctly cartoonish tinge to everything that happens to be going on outside my windshield.) If Fancy makes it big, it just might restore my faith in humanity. Here's the video for their song, "Seventeen":

Have a great weekend, mon petits choux...

Friday 'Fro 26: Phil Lynott

Here we are at the official advent of Spring, which — combined with all the Thin Lizzy love I've been sharing this week, and Bob's earlier salient comment about the brilliance of Phil Lynott's 'fro — makes me think it's about time to give Mr. Lynott his tonsorial due.

Not only did Phil Lynott front the baddest band to ever come out of Ireland, but he surely sported the Emerald Isle's most bad-ass afro. The son of a black American sailor and a white Irish lass, Phil came by his curls naturally. Sometimes his 'fro was wild and nappy, sometimes it was as perfectly smooth and rounded as a microphone windscreen — either way, it looked absolutely killer on him.

The Spring thing comes into play because, for nearly twenty years now, I've had a personal tradition of playing the first Thin Lizzy album on the first day of Spring. Released in 1971, Thin Lizzy doesn't bear much sonic resemblance to later Lizzy classics like Jailbreak or Bad Reputation, but it's a really wonderful record in its own right. Pretty much splitting the difference between Van Morrison's Astral Weeks and Jimi Hendrix's Cry of Love — the obvious musical touchstones for a groovy black rocker with poetic tendencies who came of age in late-Sixties Ireland — Thin Lizzy is raw and rough in parts, but also incredibly tender, soulful and wise.

I was introduced to the album in 1990 by my dear friend and all-time soul brother Jason, on one of those early spring days in Chicago where the sun had come out for the first time in months, and the icicles outside the window were just starting to melt. Consequently, I've never been able to hear the opening acoustic strums and mellotrons of "Honesty Is No Excuse" without picturing melting ice glowing in the sunshine, and without feeling my heart melting right along with it. 

Now that I'm living in the semi-perpetual sunshine of Los Angeles, the coming of spring is neither as dramatic as it was in Chi-town, nor do I await it with the same utter desperation that I once did. (I also no longer sport the large silver hoop earrings I used to wear in loving emulation of Phil, which almost caused my lobes to come clean off from frostbite during a couple of bitter Chicago winters.) But "Honesty Is No Excuse" still sounds as great to me in the here and now as it did back then.

Honesty_is_no_excuse.mp3

R.I.P., Phil. Goddamn, you were good.

Friday 'Fro 25: Buddy Miles, R.I.P.

Legendary drummer Buddy Miles sadly passed away this week at the tender age of 60. The man experienced some serious ups and downs in his life, and his career literally veered from the sublime to the ridiculous — he played drums for Jimi Hendrix during the latter's short-lived but incredible Band of Gypsys period, but he also contributed lead vocals to the risible California Raisins "Heard It Through The Grapevine" ad, as well as their two subsequent LPs. I admit that I'm not the hugest fan of either the Electric Flag or the Buddy Miles Express, but there are a lot of folks out there who rate their records (and Buddy's multi-instrumental contributions to them) rather highly. And, of course, he was known in his day to sport a pretty hefty 'fro.

I only saw Buddy play live once, when he jumped onstage for a few numbers at a mid-90s P-Funk gig. He just played the cowbell that night, but he sure beat the living shit out of that cowbell. And he radiated a totally positive vibe, like a walking testimonial to the words of one of the Band of Gypsys songs he played on: "With the Power of Soul/Anything is possible."

power_of_soul.mp3

R.I.P., brother Buddy. Hope you and Jimi are having a wicked jam in the next world.