Vol. 9 - Fred Knobloch: Why Not Me? Love, Dignity, and Forbearance.

This year I was particularly moved by the emotional toughness of Cee Lo Green but also disappointed that his sentiment was not manlier; in fact, in the terms of this project and the manifesto slowly being unfolded by Adolf and Holiday, it was decidedly unmanly.  His ubiquitous hit “Fuck You” showed a man keeping a strong front while he ached inside, but there was no quiet dignity here.  I was reminded of a similar song circa 1980 by Fred Knobloch, perhaps best know, unfortunately, because his name has become a euphemism used when any man has been made the metaphorical bridesmaid at a wedding where he should have played the male lead.  “Poor, so and so,” they say.  “His ex-girlfriend Knobloched him and married his best friend!” Well, again, I am struck at how timely my work with editing the writings of Adolf and Holiday has become.  Even though we have never met, it is often as if we share one mind, and this alone has reinvigorated my search to find them and speak to them.  I am no longer content simply to share their words and draw connections to my own, but I hope you will be content with this arrangement for a while longer.  Trust me when I say that their work knows no genre, racial, or even gender boundaries (Stay tuned for an upcoming exchange about Ann Murray.  Talk about wedding songs!!) but continuing for now in the country vein, Holiday and Dolf share their wisdom about Fred and show us how far we have devolved.  I think you’ll agree that the move from Fred’s resignation to Cee Lo Green’s resentment is quite alarming in the present context. As an added bonus, David Gates of Bread, a man that Adolf and Holiday both hold in highest regard, also gets just treatment here. – ed.

Holiday writes:

Dolf, my friend:



Speak now, or forever hold your peace...



We both have heard a minister say, “Speak now or forever hold your peace, “and no doubt thanked the heavens that no stranger stood to interrupt our nuptials with professions of love for our would-be spouses.  While soft rock is real, that infamous scene from The Graduate is pure fiction.  Nevertheless, no man can see Dustin’s work in said film and not fear this specter.  Thankfully, in the days of our heroes, this never would have happened.  That is not to say, hypothetically, that an unhappy father or inebriated auntie has never interjected that his daughter or her niece might be better served by a nice Jewish boy in lieu of goyim delivery boy, but the real men in the audience would sit in quiet acceptance, perhaps even feel joy in knowing that someone was making their loves happy, even if it could not be them.  I myself have kissed a potential soul mate on the forehead and whispered, Go to him, more times than I care to divulged.  Sensitivity means real sacrifice, not just tight trousers, belt buckles, and turquoise jewelry.  It is human to feel slighted, and Mr. Knobloch was human (perhaps super human in the truest sense: more human than human) as evidence by the lyrics below, but he remained quiet and dignified:

And the ceremony is grand

But old lovers never get to make a last stand

And I held some rice in my hand

I let it fall to the floor

I just don't care anymore

I have no doubt that Fred does indeed care, but he cares truly and unselfishly, cares more than the brides own fiancé, I would assert, nay, more than her own father.  If you love someone, set them free, says the Romantic poet Gordon Matthew Sumner.  Set them free, indeed.

Adolf replies:

Oh, Kevin, I've been Knobloched one too many times myself. The feelings Fred elicits from me are far too great.  I remember a young Irish lass, hair red as the Burning Bush, skin fair like ivory.  Her name is to remain undisclosed for the sake of discretion, but I believe you know the fair maiden to which I allude (Though surely not in the Biblical sense, I pray, for being Knobloched by you would be too much to bare!).   Finding in each other a shared affinity for the arts, film, and politics—especially the Nouveau Roman of Messieurs Robbe-Grillet, Butor and Simon—a great love affair with the aforementioned ginger consort ensued and remained intact throughout my university years.  Imagine the pain and fury, then, when I found a comrade, friend, and roommate had taken interest in this lass!  Far be it for me to have disclosed our torrid affair to him, for that is not our chivalrous way.  But, alas, this lad and lass were together for a time and subsequently joined in holy matrimony.  Yes, my dear friend, I've been Knobloched.  I was the one sitting in that chair!  I was the one wondering why.  I was the one watching.  But, I carried with me in my mind (and on my body) that last moment together, the fresh smell of latex paint and stretch Levis…  The scent of her hadn't wandered far from me in the days since we parted.  Let's just kiss and say—goodbye, we said.  A kiss!  For shame!  As I sat in the chapel and watched her embark on a new journey, my calves still sore from the labors of our love, I wished them both well and, like our Fred, stayed silent and composed, even as blood from the abrasions on my knees—the last evidence that my own “knob” had indeed been “locked” within her paddock—threatened to stain my Native American leggings and complimentary breechcloth.   Au revoir, mon vagabond irlandais!  Au revoir!  Forgive my sordid revelry, Kevin!  I cannot go on!   

Holiday provides this conclusion:

No, I have never Knobloched you, friend, although I must confess I was tempted by your Columbian beauty (tempted by her beauty alone—her wit and substantial carne del suéter (¡Ay, caramba!)—for she certainly did not overtly tempt me in any way)!!   Picturing you in your Native American garb at the nuptials of your former love, gave me great joy for many days.  A necktie is a noose, my friend.  And leather, beaded chaps are… well, I digress.  In further pondering your tale, however,  I was also reminded of David Gate’s [of Bread –ed.] masterpiece “Diary,” a tune for which your affinity is well known, and I pictured not only Fred, but also you and I and other selfless lovers throughout history.  Men who loved so genuinely that, even when jilted, have harbored no ill feelings.  David Gates, a master storyteller, casts such a pathetic protagonist, but not in the way the contemporary idiom would denote, mind you.  This hero is one for whom we feel real pathos in the classical sense, as he is mired in a case of mistaken self-identity.  Picture in your mind’s eye: A beautiful woman smiles warmly at you and you smile warmly back only to notice that the object of her gaze, the real protagonist in this blossoming love affair, stands behind you.  I cannot give David’s words their just due, so humor me as I share them with you verbatim.  From the final verse and chorus of the song:

I found her diary underneath a tree
And started reading about me
The words began to stick and tears to flow
Her meaning now was clear to see

The love she'd waited for
Was someone else not me
Wouldn't you know it?
She wouldn't show it

And as I go through my life
I will wish for her his wife
All the sweet things she can find
All the sweet things they can find

Gates, of course, has the distinction of being a boilerplate, a gold standard for all men of soft rock, but I do think that he and Fred Knobloch (and you and I, alas) are kindred spirits.  They broke the mold, as they say, for could the world actually handle an army of men cast in the image and likeness of Mr. Gates?!  Could that much good hair and tasty guitar picking be tolerated in any age?!  But, again, I digress.  Suffice to say, the sentiment that Fred conveys has a long history in our chosen field of study, and he conveys this sentiment better than most artists, better than most men, and for that alone he deserves his place in the Soft Rock canon!  Farewell for now, my dear friend Dolf.  Do send my regards to your lovely wife and partner.