Vol. 18 - Just Like Me Only Smaller: Barry, Harry, and Sir Rod Explore Childhood Rather than Child-Rearing

As a father, I know that raising children is serious stuff, and that when it comes to child-rearing, even good friends may not see eye to eye.  Perhaps the most interesting thing about this latest post is the lack of real response, and certainly none of the corroboration from Adolfo that we've grow to expect.  I will dig more to find what was troubling Adolfo at this time.  His brief response offers some clues, but I choose to withhold judgement.  Without definitive evidence, I don't care to mischaracterize one whom I've learned to hold in the highest esteem.  In the meantime, enjoy this unique (if mostly one-sided) post.


Halliday begins with a lyric from Barry Manilow's "I Am Your Child:"

I am your child

Whatever I am, you taught me to be

I am your hope,

I am your chance,

I am your child

Dolf, my friend,

My son is nearly four, as you know, and so I decided just the other day that he needs to learn to drive my Peugeot in the event of an emergency.  His mother is not having it, of course, but she is not with our boy 24 hours a day and so, like fencing, masonry, filleting fish, and Esperanto (just to name a few), we have embarked together on mastering a new necessary skill, this time the operation of the manual transmission of a sturdy European sedan.  I take to heart Mr. Manilow’s above words from "I Am Your Child."  If my own Dewey Bunnell Holiday is to be whatever I have taught him to be, then I take my work seriously—sadly, perhaps more seriously than our Soft Rock heroes, it seems.  My research suggest that words and actions, at least as they pertain child-rearing, are two separate things for these otherwise faultless (I hope) men.

So many expectations are put upon children, but you and I are certainly aware that the children of artists have a unique cross to bear, for the expectations placed upon them are as fraught with trouble as the messages they receive while growing up.  Imagine if your dad was Leo Sayer?  What messages is he sending? And would Daddy be able to share your size 6X Garanimals?  Wouldn't that be odd having a pops who could wear your Stride Rites?  Forgive the (over)extended metaphor, but isn't that alone a recipe for a life of missteps?

You Make Me Feel Like Dancing?  Maybe...

What do artists like Barry Manilow or Harry Chapin or Rod Stewart actually teach children to be or not to be?  That is the question, friend.  How did little Josh Chapin, now closing in on 30 years old and the "boy" in Harry's most-loved hit, turn out?   Was he ridiculed for wearing stretch Levi's and turquoise jewelry in kindergarten?  We know that Harry’s daughter became a musician, but will she ever be capable of the soft rock catalogue assembled by her dear old dad during his 38 short years on earth (Godspeed Harry!!)?  And, before he left this mortal coil, did he teach her anything about parenting or just about music and abandonment?  One cannot parent from the proverbial road.  Manilow's own father left him and his mother at a very young age, and (perhaps as a result) Barry has no children of his own, so while he can write, as he does above, from the POV of a child, can he speak for children the way you and I can?  Rod Stewart?  Well, I believe he has at least six kids with four different women.  We’ve seen young Kimberly in the spotlight, and she seems fine, but what about little Ruby or Aiden, what lay ahead for them?  More urban myths about canine semen?  What happens when they need to learn Esperanto or animal husbandry?  If soft rockers can’t be good parents, then who in music can???!!  This fear is what drives me to raise my son to be accomplished in all things.  Is five years too early to talk to him about women?  Or is it too late!???  What if he likes men?  Then when do I start down this road?  Rod seems to allude to this conundrum in his rendition of "Forever Young":

And when you finally fly away

I'll be hoping that I served you well

For all the wisdom of a lifetime

No one can ever tell

But whatever road you choose

I'm right behind you, win or lose

There is no greater love than the love one feels for a child, but there is an inherent narcissism in it all, no?  The laughter my own son elicits from me is never greater than when he reminds me of myself!  Even before his second birthday, he had a gift for the metaphor, the simile.  An accidental poop floating in the tub with him at bath time became a “pinecone,” and thusly all subsequent poops became pinecones or other terms, never just pedantic poops.  At nearly four years of age, in addition to knowing that poop is a palindrome (indeed it is!), he is prone to examining his poops and giving them names based on what they resemble to him.  To prove my point further, just last week he asserted that one of his poops looked like me!  And, you know, it actually did.  His poop was just like me.  The boy must have eaten a large serving of body hair and marshmallows!  Harry Chapin, at least the poet Harry who penned “Cats and the Cradle,” would be proud of me, I suppose:

...My son turned ten just the other day

He said, "Thanks for the ball, Dad, come on let's play

Can you teach me to throw", I said "Not today

I got a lot to do." He said, "That's ok"

And he walked away but his smile never dimmed

And said, "I'm gonna be like him, yeah

You know I'm gonna be like him..

...And as I hung up the phone it occurred to me

He'd grown up just like me

My boy was just like me

Well, what have they learned, what have these children learned by being literally derived from greatness, if not raised in its very presence (and simultaneous absence)?  There, but not there?  I don’t know, friend.   This is not a hypothetical question.  Have they learned that art and reality are separate and that the messages of their daddies’ songs trump their real world parenting skills?  Have we detected a chink in the overall armor?  Is it our legacy to correct this failing?  Are soft rockers not only bad daddies but also philandering, womanizing pigs hiding behind the right words?   Tell me it’s not so.  Let my own smile never dim...

Dolf provides this terse, somewhat cryptic reply:

Really!??  Is this passive agression, Kevin? 

You do know that I have been living at the Holgate trailer, right?  Really?!  This is what you want to write about this month?  Really?  Do me a solid and go back to rhinestones and spring-green fields for a piece, huh?  Really?  Really?

And that is all the reply that Dolf could muster, unfortunately.  I have found no other exchanges about this subject.  I will continue to look, however, for as I said above, I don't wish to misrepresent a man whom I hold in very high regard. I urge you, dear reader, to exercize similar restraint.  Speculation will get us nowhere.- ed.

Vol. 17 - Rot, Heit, und Blau: Cover Versions of the Optimus Prime and Lather & Rinse!

Your editor on the road to Bangor.

Forgive the delay between posts.  I have been on an interesting road trip, and I have come back with some goodies!  Since my last post, I received an intriguing email from a Pennsylvania woman who claimed to own a copy of a rare German recording titled Rot, Heit, und Blau, a benefit album which tried but failed to raise money and awareness about Osgood-Schlatter's disease in German-speaking countries.  She lived in Bangor, PA and asked me to visit, for the disc itself was not for sale (I tried).  She even sent me her cell phone number, which I promptly dialed.  I was greeted by a thickly accented voice.  My first question (and I sincerely apologize to you for this) was, "How quickly can I get to Bangor?"  The woman laughed at me and answered: "Slow down, stud.  It will take a few compliments, some drinks, maybe zee dinner..."  I realized that this was no ordinary woman, and I looked forward to my visit.

She lived in a mountainside chalet overlooking what I assumed was once a beautiful valley, now dotted by Starbucks, Wendy's, a few hotels.  Originally from Tyrol in Austria and claiming to have been married at one time to both Sigfried and Roy (who knew?!) she wished only to be known to my readers as Tiney Heine.  Contrary to her name, she was not short, thin yes, aging well, probably once beautiful.  And she had an incredible collection of imported records, tapes and CDs. An unremarkable packaging hid Rot, Heit, und Blau's bounty within.  Again, I remind you that I was not permitted to purchase the disc.  However, Ms. Heine did allow me to burn a copy to my laptop.  Since this blog is not about me but about Holiday, Dolf, and their soft rock heroes, I will refrain from sharing more of my visit to Bangor, at least for now.

Below you will find two tracks.  The first is a 2004 or 2005 cover of the Optimus Prime's "They Hate Use Because We Love the Freedom" performed by Heir Helmut, a band who recorded briefly on Holiday and Dolf's Taint records.  I think our heroes would have been proud to hear lines like, "Don't turn around/GW's in town," especially since George has been in the news again as the man who laid the foundation for the death of Bin Laden!!  I will refrain from further comment, but once again I am reminded how prescient Holiday and Dolf were (perhaps still are): 

 "Freedom 2005" - Heir Helmut

The second track is a cover of Lather and Rinse's "Paper," which is given a jazzy swing by the Casper Brautwurst Onetet.  I literally hear the sound of ripping paper serving as a primitive rhythm.  The soft rock-worthy subject matter remains intact: "I don't know what else to do, but wrap up my bleeding heart for you/And put it underneath your tree with a little tag 'to you, from me.'"  Very romantic:

"Paper" - Caspar Brautwurst Onetet

I will be back shortly with a new post, an email exchange between Holiday and Dolf about, of all things, children!  -ed.

Vol. 16 - Concert on the Mount: David Gates and The Beatitudes of Soft Rock

As you know, Halliday and Adolfo were immersed in a project not unlike my own.  In addition to their recorded work, they were always vigilant in their quest to uncover more information about their soft rock heroes.  A legendary concert by David Gates, founding member and creative catalyst of soft rock pillar Bread, is the subject of the following exchange.  Like Dolf, I too have heard stories about this renowned, if obscure, Concert on the Mount.  In separate mid-1990’s interviews for my Soul and Fire fanzine,  Lou Barlow of Sebadoh and Charles Douglas of Vegetarian Meat told me tales that were very similar to the Carlos Santana rendition.   Hopefully, this posting will inspire more to come forward and share what they know!  - ed.

Halliday begins-

Dolf:

I recently stumbled upon an interesting article in a now-defunct fanzine called Rose Petals, Incense and a Kitten, purportedly produced by the Association’s Jim Yester.   The Yester-scribed article chronicled a unique historic event that, in my estimation, rivals Woodstock or Altamont for its cultural significance.  The fact that it has been buried in history, that it was not and has not been the subject of mainstream media, of films and novels, speaks volumes about how undervalued Soft Rock was and continues to be.   Instead of sharing the article, for I hope to see you in a fortnight to conclude the mastering and sequencing of Little Flower, let me try to explain the content to you. 



...for they shall not sweat or chafe in Heaven.

It seems our friend David Gates, riding the success of his single from Neil Simon's Goodbye Girl, delivered an all-acoustic show on the shores of the Sea of Galilee near the Chapel of the Beatitudes.  Not blind to the symbolic setting, of course, he delivers (perhaps tongue in cheek, perhaps not) the Ten Beatitudes of Soft Rock.  His whole demeanor, as described in Yester’s eyewitness report, is Christ-like, perhaps filtered through Jesus Christ Superstar’s ubiquitous influence on Gate’s (and Yester’s) generation—at once godlike and a man of and among his people.  He wore simple robes sans undergarments, which afforded the audience enticing peeks at his impressive physique.   He allowed a beautiful, Israeli backing singer to wash his feet, as well as the feet of several impromptu (?) visitors to the stage who wore nothing but body paint and flowers.  He even passed around free, loose joints, which by all reports seemed to appear in a never-ending tap on the shoulder and two-finger pass from the left.  I am sure you can picture this desert tableau yourself, so I will no longer delay in sharing these blessings with you.

The Ten Beatitudes of Soft Rock:

Blessed are those who laugh to keep from crying, for they pose for compelling album cover photos.

Blessed are the hirsute, for body hair, even back hair, is beautifully human, a link to our shared past.

Blessed are the "blessed", and those who understand that a woman needs foreplay, for their members and patience are both gifts from God; and those who speak humbly but carry a big stick, and who act selflessly in love, are truly blessed in His eyes.

Blessed are the drummers, for they are not all easily replaced dumb ex-jocks.

Blessed are those who sing the names of “Baby” or “Lady” or “Girl” in reference to lovers, for they have extra syllables with which to preserve iambic pentameter.

Blessed are those who mourn lost loves, for they shall be comforted by newer, younger loves and thusly turn tragedy into gold records and easily treatable venereal diseases.

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for a spiritual awakening through any and all chemical or natural means necessary, for they shall find and lose their bliss many times over.

Blessed are the clean of criminal record, for it is not easy to avoid the Man's talons, especially while seeking ones bliss.

Blessed are those who dress in suede or leather, who accessorize denim with more denim, for they shall not sweat or chafe in heaven.

Blessed are the peacemakers, those who embrace gentleness and rebuke aggression, for they have capitalized on a creative goldmine and may earn a primetime variety show or guest spot on The Love Boat.

Adolfo responds:

Dear Kevin:

Yes, I had heard of these lost works, but never had an opportunity to gaze upon them. I thank you, friend.  I look forward to our meeting and to the sharing of fine drink and uplifting tales of soft rock’s too brief moment in the desert sun.   

Woodstock or Lake Kineret?

I remember speaking to Carlos Santana sometime ago, and he relayed the story of Gates' odyssey to me. For this is a concert worthy of the lore it has inspired! Carlos recalled arriving to the event via camel with nothing but an satchel, acoustic guitar and several African women he met at a “market” of some sort. Carlos, deeply spiritual at this time, tells of the event with a grand reverence. Carlos gushed over how Gates primped and preened, how his coif was a-flow with golden locks. Robes white as the accompanying women’s teeth. The crowd was torn between those who truly believed and those who were there for said “free loose joints,” but all were converts by daybreak. If only a master recording was made or photos documenting this event surfaced! Oh joy!  The gospel according to Gates.

Halliday replies:

Dolf:



The Devil's Tower for Kevin Halliday?



I woke this morning from a dream and etched the attached image into my nightstand.  My wife was none too happy but, alas, she never stands in the way of art. 

Neighbors may point and laugh at my front porch, which I have turned into a life-sized diorama of Gates and company heating challah over an open fire, but I care not what they say.  Honestly, I feel like Dreyfuss in Close Encounters!  I am compelled to book a Holy Land tour to the shores of Lake Kineret!  Jim Yester’s journalism and your Santana story have bolstered my spirit, and I shall return to our work with renewed vigor. 

Until we meet and embrace, friend.