Valley in the Snow

Volume 22 - Even Though We Ain’t Got Money: Dinghy Rock not Yacht Rock



The origin of the "yacht rock" slur?



I learned a couple years ago that it had become hip amongst the “hipster” kids to call some sub-genres of soft rock by the term Yacht rock.  Michael McDonald, Christopher Cross, and others, like Messrs Loggins and Messina pictured above, who have been treated with reverence here by Dolf and Holiday would likely fit the profile.  These young folks forget soft rock’s contributions to all strata of the socio-economic ladder, but Dolf and Halliday do not, as evidenced by the exchange below.  Forgive the editorial, but the Soft Rock is a music of all peoples in my humble estimation.  It is most interesting that Adolfo should reference yachting as a potential song conceit.  Dolf and Holiday were certainly hipsters in their own day and in their own way.  Read on. – ed.





Dolf:

Money doesn’t always kill art, does it?  I can think of several successful artists whose oeuvre arguably grew stronger with age and success.  A young, impoverished Gordon Lightfoot, still toiling away in an Ontario barroom, would never have had the chance to get on radio “The Wreck of the Edumund Fitzgerald,” a song over six  minutes in length and dealing with such arcane subject matter as a boating accident on the Great Lakes.  Success does allow some freedom, no? 

No Hush Puppie here.

Consider William Martin Joel, a man with the face of a Hush Puppie (a fine shoe, no doubt, but as a mug, nay), yet somehow able to date supermodels like Elle MacPherson and future wife Christie Brinkley.  That kind of success and swagger allowed him to explore his roots and his love of 50’s and 60’s rock ‘n’ roll  with  An Innocent Man, surely not the kind of album that would have gotten any airplay without Joel’s growing cachet—and needless to say “assplay” would most certainly be a non-starter for such a mook.   Would he have become our musical ambassador to Russia, Ronald Regan with a piano, as a poor young man, literally from Hicksville?  No, fame does open doors and allows creative whims to take flight. 

And yet, some of our greatest songs are aged in a cask of poverty and innocence, nay, even blissful ignorance.  So I have to say I love you in a song.  Working just enough for the city.  The coat of many colors Momma made for me.  Love child, love child, never quite as good, afraid, ashamed, misunderstood.  This list goes on and on, but I want to write about “Danny’s Song,” by Mr. Kenny Loggins.  Consider the whole premise of the song as gift.  The meta-poetic nature of Kenny’s undertaking.  You know the story, I am sure.  Kenny, himself without much money, gave the song to his older brother Danny who was about to have a child, and the song’s lyrical content itself confronts poverty and love with a grace oft-imitated, especially in modern (i.e bad—remember Johnny Paycheck’s “She’s All I Got”???) country music, but never repeated.  The song grew and grew. 

It became important again to Kenny when he and wife were expecting, and Canuck songstress Ann Murray, of “Can I Have this Dance for the Rest of My Life” fame, had a huge hit with said song before she ever understood the power of having a child herself.   I am particularly fond of the following verse, open to so many interpretations:

Love the girl who holds the world in a paper cup, drink it up,
Love her and she'll bring you luck.
And if you find she helps your mind, buddy, take her home,
Don't you live alone, try to earn what lovers own.

Dolf responds:



McDreamy knows



Poverty, man, ain’t that a bitch!  No wonder there are so many songs, poems, films, and novels that touch on this subject.  There’s always a war, my friend, but these are most troubling times we live in.  And guess who’s fighting these wars, all wars?   Certainly not that “fortunate son” referenced in the tasty John Fogerty jam.  And money can’t buy one love, Sir Paul, but I do see a lot of rich fellows sporting some nice arm candy!  Depends on your definition of love, I suppose.  And Linda (not to mention Mr. Patrick Dempsey) may beg to differ, Mr. McCartney. 

Yet I appreciate your point and that of Mr. Loggins.  In the prime of my life, my family and I surely live in comfort.  I have been blessed (in so many, many ways!).  Yes, I have a collection of vintage motorbikes and roadsters, not to mention ready access to my father’s sailing sloop whenever the spirit moves me.  But I haven’t forgotten what it’s like to give a meager gift of song to my loved ones.  Yea, I still strive to “earn what lover’s own.” 

I think of Mr. James Taylor, Brother JT, his masterpiece of Soft Rock understatement, “You’ve Got a Friend.”  What better gift to a friend in need than song?  Sure, a few bucks would be nice.  And a parka would surely help when “that old North wind begins to blow.”  But if you can hum your very own personalized tune when the going gets tough, well, to quote Mr. Perry Como, “You’ll have a pocket full of starlight,” which in my estimation is better than a bowl of soup and microwave-ready Hot Pocket any day!  Annie Denver (née Martell) is forever immortalized by her song, and John’s litany of gifts—a night in the forest, a mountain in spring time, a storm in the desert, et al—surely have nothing in common with the baseness of cold hard diamonds or, better yet, cold hard cash.  Give me a song any day, friend.  Call it “Adolfo’s Song.”  And perhaps employ yachting as its central conceit.

Vol. 21 - A Total Eclipse of the Truth: Bonnie Tyler’s Comeback (that Almost Wasn’t) and Heroism in Our Age

Like the David Gate’s Concert on the Mount, soft rock history is rife with important missing episodes.  Because the tastemakers choose not to record certain events for posterity, these events become lost to time.  Holiday and Dolf have uncovered yet another missing piece, this time a little known story about adult contemporary performer and composer Bonnie Tyler, best known for a string of hits spanning 1979’s “It’s a Heartache” to 1984’s Footloose soundtrack.  On a side note, Google up the name Rory Dodd and see this guy’s Soft Rock pedigree! Enjoy! – ed.

Holiday begins in Latin:

Ubi sunt qui ante nos fuerunt?  (“Where are those who were before us?")



Ubi sant...

Dolf:

Have you heard this one, my friend?  I recently ran into retired session singer Rory Dodd.  You may know him as the fella who sang that iconic, “Turn around, bright eyes..” line from Bonnie Tyler’s “Total Eclipse of the Heart.”  Imagine if you could use that on your resume, or at least as a pick-up line in a bar!!!  Anyway, he is a nice chap, a true soft rocker, and totally fine with his minor role in history [if you count Meatloaf and Air Supply backing vocals minor in anyway – ed.] but he told me a tale that I must share with you. 

It seems that Tyler and her band, along with the songwriter Jim Steinman, were asked to perform on the short-lived “Thicke of the Night” talk show hosted by hairtastic Canuck Allan Thicke.  It having been four long years since their success with “It’s a Heartache,” throaty Tyler and crew readily accepted the invite.  During rehearsals prior to the customary taping of the show, Steinman, Tyler and a couple other members of the band, including Dodd, came down with digestive problems, requiring numerous impromptu visits to the lavatory.  When pressed by yours truly, the usually decorous Dodd speculated that it had been a protracted visit to a Sizzler salad bar that threatened to “tear the ass out of (him).” 

Flash forward a few hours:  Likely frustrated by the pace of the rehearsals, the “Thicke” crew, perhaps inexperienced or even arrogant with the show’s early success, got visibly and verbally angry with Bonnie, who—according to several accounts, not just Rory’s here—was not one to take any nonsense from anyone, especially men.   Rory says that Bonnie defended him when he had to leave the stage mid-lyric to use the can, going so far as to threaten to “remove” a production assistant’s “vocal chords” if the young man uttered another word to anyone in her band [It is well-documented that such an operation resulted in Bonnie’s signature rasp – ed.]    Tensions high, the band and crew finished the rehearsal and were then informed of a change in plans.  Mr. Thicke, ever the auteur, decided to go live that evening instead of taping.  Ms. Tyler was insulted by Thicke’s treatment.  She was star!  Four years was not that long to be out of the game!  Nevertheless, after taking Thicke’s invite to a free dinner buffet around the corner, wisely preceded by each afflicted member taking a long pull from the numerous bottles of Pepto Bismol strewn about the tour bus, Tyler and band later returned to perform live.   But, needless to say, they were not happy. 



Gentle, fiercely mustached

Rory is a gentle, fiercely mustached fellow, but even he was not happy with the “Thicke of the Night” folks, especially after overhearing snickering production staff talking trash about Tyler’s “adult contemporary garbage” and her “3 packs a day” voice.

But when show time came, it was Tyler and crew who had the last laugh.  When the moment in the live broadcast came, Rory and the band took the stage, as Steinman passed a note to Tyler, who nearly, perhaps literally, shat herself (just a little) with laughter.  The veteran Tyler quickly composed herself, however, and faced her band.  The delicate piano began play, and Rory Dodd crooned his lovely, “Turn around…”  Tyler’s voice was at its roughest and most affecting.  Rory’s, its most fey.  The crowd was being slowly won over by what would soon become an enormous hit record for the Welsh songstress and her writing partner, Steinman.  Little did the audience, or Alan Thicke and company, know what was coming next.  Brace yourself, friend, for this is not to be believed.  When Tyler reached the titular line of the song, cameras caught her wincing ever slow slightly as she delivered not the expected, “Nothing I can do/ a total eclipse of the heart,” but instead the rather shocking, “Nothing I can do/ I totally shit when I fart.” 

Imagine it!  On live TV!   In 1983!  Thank goodness for the 7-second delay, but it was clear from the crowds’ reactions that something visceral and important had happened.  Tyler is rightly credited by the Urban Dictionary as having minted the term “shart” based on the subsequent interviews she gave about the issue.  Thicke vowed to end her career, which we know didn’t happen.  It was Thicke who was not to continue long on late night TV (going the way of Chevy Chase and countless other also-rans in the late night game).  Don’t mess with a Welsh lassie with a voice and a spirit like that!  The songwriter Steinman was so moved by their conspiracy that he later went on to record a never-released solo album called Caramel Tunnel Syndrome that dramatized events in mock rock-opera form (his label thought it a thin, loose mess).

Too often the public thinks of Soft Rockers like Tyler, Dodd, and Steinman as, well, soft.  Tyler showed another side of our beloved art form.   In a subsequent composition, one from 1984’s Footloose soundtrack, Steinman (along with the gifted performer Tyler) joins the ages in a meditation on mortality and life's transience, earnestly beseeching: “Where have all the good men gone and where are all the gods?/ Where's the street-wise Hercules to fight the rising odds?"  Well, perhaps we’ve been looking in the wrong places.  She was here all the time, our hero sticking it to the “man.”   Leave it to a woman to show how tough we can be!

Adolfo replies:

Kevin:

Believe it or not, this tale came up during an evening’s entertainment some years ago.  I thought it false then, and would still find it hard to believe did I not trust your judgment.  Not to mention the judgment of Sir Rory!  A young protégé was teaching me the joys of a game the youngsters perhaps still play called “Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon.”  On a side note, was he, Mr. Bacon, included in our list of Soft Rock icons???  Did he make anyone’s list at the summit??  At the very least, did the savory cured meat from which his surname is derived?    Tell me we didn’t totally neglect Bacon.   I feel he certainly should be included.  I mean, good hair, hot wife, nice dance moves, a voice like a rustic pilgrim for love.  Well, as is often the case, I digress…   

Deep into the aforementioned game of Six Degrees, we eventually arrived at the pinnacle of Bacon’s film career, none other than Footloose, specifically his iconic “angry dance.”  We both, my young friend and I, agreed that there is no better way to shed one’s anger than to dance!!!   But I then reminded this young buck of a certain John Deere-flavored game of “chicken,” accompanied by Bonnie Tyler’s “I Need a Hero” [Also penned by Steinman. -ed.].  Re-familiarize yourself with this scene, Kevin.  It speaks cinematic and cultural volumes. 

How fitting that a soft rock icon be unwittingly thrust into the spotlight by a tangled shoelace (or a dirty note via Jim Steinman, as was the case with Ms. Tyler)!  The Bacon character, Ren, wishes to jump from his tractor.   I mean, we see him struggle to do so.   But fate has different plans for him.  In this way he is Christ-like, no?  "Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will, but yours be done."  Just as this role of hero has been thrust upon young Ren McCormack, and in turn Jim Steinman and Bonnie Tyler and Rory Dodd, so too has the role of Soft Rock champions been placed upon us.  Ours is not to question why, friend.  Ours is not to question why.  Thank you for this tale of past heroism, of non-violent protest!  We have much work to do but many places from which to draw strength and inspiration, a historic shart heard 'round the world being one I will not soon forget!

Vol. 20 - The Merm: Mac Davis and Hair, Thick, Beautiful Hair

A return to form: Dolf and Holiday examine a particular grooming trend and its effect on art, sexual politics, and Soft Rock iconography. It's all about the music, sure, but as the earlier Soft Rock taxonomy illustrated quite clearly (See Volumes 10 and 11 of this blog from March and April of this year if you have not yet read them!), it is also about so much more.  Pardon the editorial, but I tend to agree with Holiday and Dolf.  I find our society's preoccupation with becoming hairless a little creepy and oddly related to our youth obsession.  If body hair is a sign of sexual maturity, then what are all these shaved privates really trying to convey?  Scary.  One other side note: kudos to Mac for managing to get the words girl, woman, and child all into the same sentence!!!  Read on, man. -ed.

Dolf begins:

Kevin:

You know, there was a time when chest hair was desirable. A thick coat of coarse hair signified more than just a hormonal imbalance. It conveyed sexual maturity and, dammit, it was just sexy. Sweaty. Coveted. Exposed. Women ran their fingers (and toes!) through it much like stroking a fine mink coat. What happened in the many ensuing years?  I think of one Scott Mac Davis. A superstar of film, television and music, possessing rugged good looks and outstanding hair features. Davis played a huge role in my young life, as you are aware. My father, for a time, emulated the same shaggy locks.  



The Merm or Man Perm (and a lot of denim)

Yes, he sported the Merm, or Man Perm to lay people. Davis was blessed with this iconic shag, while others strove for its power. Like many others, Dad ultimately fell short. His perm maintenance grew tiresome and a sad lack of chest hair hurt the overall execution. Having a wife, three kids, and a Merm proved too much.  I can’t fault him for trying.  In this “gelded” age of less is more (at least concerning personal grooming), I feel we must uphold the natural beauty of what God has blessed us with. Hair, thick beautiful hair. Whether it's on your scalp, chest, back, or “hang low”---let it be. For winter bushes stay green year ‘round.   A tree can still grow in Brooklyn.

Holiday replies:

Dolf, man, Dolf:

Do I have a tale for you!   As if summoned by that charming, knowing smile, I recently was compelled to thumb through my vinyl collection for the Mac Davis classic, Baby Don’t Get Hooked on Me.  What a man!  Is that a perm?  Or Samson’s own coif sent to empower the future?  Mac was a triple threat: grooming, acting and singing. 

The triple threat: grooming, acting, singing.

 I mean, could a lesser man carry that much denim and turquoise jewelry?  Could any of today’s ladies—who are so conditioned to like hairless (Less is more?  Pshaw!)skinny boys—handle that much chest hair and machismo?  What a man!  I remember getting funny feelings as a youth when I watched his short-lived variety show.  Susan Anton couldn’t even move me like Mac (although the young Pointer girls certainly had an effect [Yes, those sisters.  Actual regulars on the show! – ed.]).  No wonder so many men like your dear father took this ill-advised (for many), labor-intensive path.  How many fires of midnight-crazy passion were ignited by hair spray and relaxers?  How many failed attempts, ending with a Bruce Villanch-like post perm whimper?  But the risks are worth it.  However fleeting his flirtation with follicle fame, Adolfo senior did quite well for himself, no?  Did he not manage to land and keep your lovely mother, e il suo grande petto italiano?

Let me relay a little Mac Davis-inspired social experiment I undertook about a year ago.   On a lazy morning not long after listening to one of Mac’s classic albums, a day when my wife and son were visiting with out-of-town friends, finding myself bored yet somehow inspired, I decided to assume the signature look of our Mr. Davis and parade said look through the streets of my suburban hamlet.  One call to the local hair salon saw me on my way.  Mildred, the octogenarian proprietor of Mildred Hairstylist, had me in the chair reading Cosmo within the hour (not to mention turning me on to some primo tea).  Imagine my face as I first gazed upon my new hair!  I had added some blond highlights at the urging of Gladys, one of Mildred’s regulars, and I did not regret that decision, I tell you!  Although, I must admit, Gladys, who was already smitten with me, became even more enamoured, and she wasn't too keen on me going anywhere too soon.  Mac's lyrics were running through my mind as I settled the bill and tried to make my exit:

Girl you're a hot blooded woman child
And it's warm where you're touching me
But I can tell by your trembling smile
You're seeing way too much in me...

...Baby, baby don't get hooked on me
'Cause I'll just use you then I'll set you free
Baby, baby don't get hooked on me

After refusing another cup of tea, it took some extensive, albeit gentle and tactful, pleading with Gladys and repeated reassurances that I would soon return in order for me to leave the confines of Mildred's salon. 

Finally out on the street I realized I needed a new wardrobe to compliment my look.  Do you know that people actually donate superior clothing, duds still riding the crest of forward fashion, to the Salvation Army??  If our compatriots only shopped here and not the mall, our entire Soft Rock revolutionary army would be battle-ready for pennies on the dollar.  At any rate, as I stood at the racks and paged through the history of denim washes, I paused briefly at a crisp, unwashed ensemble but then soldiered on to another decade, finding at last the perfect blue jean jacket and matching hip huggers.  Shoes?  No.  Barefoot was my choice.  Shirt?  Nay.  I let my own chest hair, also highlighted by Mildred (with Gladys’ smiling consent) so carpet matched drapes, burst from between my unbuttoned Levi lapels.  I considered a perfectly sun-faded floppy hat for a moment before remembering the 100 or so dollars plus tip that that I had just dropped on my luscious head of hair!

An epic, pheromone-rich puff:
Another icon showing how it's done

Out onto the streets I again strutted, no expectations but ready for anything.  I am not one prone to cat calls and find that behavior in the proletariat degrading to the softer sex, but I had certainly been known to whistle approval at a fine specimen in my younger years, thinking it mere appreciation.  Imagine my surprise when my look elicited like calls from a group of ladies dining al fresco at the Subway!   I felt like a hirsute, hair-helmeted piece of prime rib!  My experiment was too good to be true.  This was no “stupid human trick.”  I was truly like Velcro!   People of all kinds were quickly stuck on me.

Moving on from the sub shop, I got my first of many direct propositions from a young man at the Starbucks who mistook my look as an invitation for chaps of his persuasion.  Imagine!  Closer to home, an attractive neighbor who rarely speaks to me, invited me for a swim in her pool (I had to decline.  Again, I just spent 125 dollars on my hair!).  What a life Mac must have led.  If your dad had but a fraction of the experience I was having that day, I can’t believe he abandoned the Merm at such a young age.  What a day!  But by mid-afternoon, the world began to blur.  My chest was sun-burned.  It pained me to walk due to the chaffing from my snug denim trousers.  Before blacking out, I recall an admirably-mustached police officer dropping me home.  In fact, I think he kept my jacket!

As I slept that evening, coming off the high from whatever Mildred and Gladys had slipped into my tea, my wife must have attached the Flowbee and switched on the vacuum.  In her defense, she was also kind enough to ice my swollen feet.  When I awoke the next morning, I looked more like Sir Patrick Stewart than our Mac!  Perhaps it was all a dream?  One I will never forget, though.

Dolf provides this coda:

Oh, Kevin:

I know those funny feelings that rose deep within you. For I surely feel the same way each time I watch replays of Smokey and the Bandit on late night television. Mac and Burt [Reynolds – ed.] personify all that was right about being a man. Today’s depilation-crazed youth with their gelled spikes, manicured eyebrows, chinstrap beards, and waxed chests could never understand. When you are hanging six in excess of an epic, pheromone-rich puff of pubic hair, women swoon and other men aspire. I truly enjoyed hearing of your social experiment and regret that, due to my busy schedule and the relevant decency laws, I could not have joined you during my own early-90s grooming tests.  They were no dream, I tell you.  I have the pictures, which I will share.  Until we write again, adieu…

Vol 19. When You Get Caught: Christopher Cross, Sailing, and Finding the One

I have spent many late nights digging through piles of paper, but I have located a missing piece in the previous questions raised by Adolfo's last message to Halliday.  I needed to find this.  I felt terrible for leaving the Manifesto in a state of confusion.  Questioning Dolf and Holiday's commitment in word and action to the mission made me question my own mission here.  Thankfully, it appears that Adolfo has found his way back to central New Jersey from wherever he had gone, assisted in no small measure by one of their Soft Rock heroes.  Holiday, of course, happily welcomes him back and further expands on the gifts of Christopher Cross.  Enjoy! - ed.




Artifacts from Dolf's blue period

 Dear Kevin:

I am blessed (As you know, for that is what probably got me into this mess!!) but more blessed than I could have ever hope for.  Even though I have been through a rough time in my life, I realized today that I am truly happy.   Mr. Christopher Cross has always been a poet of truth, and he’s spoken nothing more truly than when he said, “Oh, the canvas can do miracles.”  Unemployed and living in the trailer, but slowly patching things up with wife and family.  I have even had several job interviews.  Yes, I wore a belt and a noose of brilliant paisley around my neck for a few short hours!  But today, dressed in my powder blue Sperry and matching boat shoes, I went sailing with my father!  Oh, how Christopher sings the truth.  “It’s not far back to sanity, at least it’s not for me/ and if the wind is right, we can sail away and find serenity.”

As we cut through the inlet, fear and exhilaration coursed through my veins.  Birds dived and fish gorged on fleeing baitfish.   The cycle of life played out before us.  If we had our fishing poles, we would surely have cast into the melee and supped that evening on nature’s bounty.  The seas and my ensemble were equally sporty, I tell you.  I was alive!!

Sporty wheels for an equally sporty chap.

But it was the return trip, entering my home port again.  Seeing that familiar lighthouse beckoning me home.  Tying ropes to dock, battening, fastening, securing.  I realized my place was home.

Embracing my dear father, admiring his denim leisure suit, I mounted my 1956 Mars Monza and headed for the Garden State Parkway.   I write you now from the garage, where I am tuning the Maybach boxer twin while my little Aubrey plays house at my feet.  I hope Gwen let’s me sleep inside tonight…

Holiday replies:

Welcome back, dear friend!  I thought we’d lost you!  Chris knows his stuff, I tell you: 

It's not far to never-never land

No reason to pretend

And if the wind is right

You can find the joy of innocence again.

The winds have seemed to change for you.  All is right!  No longer caught between the moon and New York City, I dare say!!  Picturing you there with your little girl, tinkering with your beloved machine (talk about “a dream and the wind” carrying one to freedom!) brought a smile to my face and, strangely, a lump to my button-fly Ocean Pacific corduroy shorts.  I care not to dwell upon that, however.  Suffice it to say that I am happy for you and your family.  I wish you a speedy return to domestic bliss. 

Knowing first-hand the trials of sleeping in the tool shed, the garage, the study, the studio, I know your aching back is a constant reminder that to stray is to pay.  But consider “Arthur’s Theme” (which Chris co-wrote with that feathered and hair-sprayed messiah, Mr. Bacharach):

Once in your life you'll find her
Someone that turns your heart around
And next thing you know
You're closing down the town
Wake up and it's still with you
Even though you left her way across town
Wondering to yourself
Hey what've I found?

You have to remember what if feels like to find true love, I know it’s crazy but it’s true.  But when you get caught between a newer, tighter, shinier moon and good old central New Jersey, the best that you can do is fall in love. Again.  With your wife, I mean. Do send good old Gwen and little Aubrey my love.

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.