In my mind he’s sitting at the kitchen table writing so diligently the table shakes and the white swivel chair he’s sitting on squeaks. Outside it’s night, and the autumn chill is trying to get in. The television is on; we’re watching some inane ’80s sitcom, and my father is someplace else. As he writes in the kitchen, he’s hearing music, scribbling notes on scrap pieces of paper.
My father, Budd, is a great arranger of band music. He can take a song and compose parts for various wind instruments simply by sitting at the piano, pulling notes from the air and writing them in pencil on the back of discarded paper from the school, drawing the music clefts by hand. A staggering number of students have played his arrangements, though he never got paid for this extra work as the high school band director. When he retired, for the second time, earlier this year, he was still writing out arrangements for the musicians in his bands to perform. Why did he do it? I’m not sure, but I think some of it had to do with that bird called creativity chirping in his ear. Watching him work so hard all of the years of my childhood influenced me profoundly, teaching me to keep at something until you get it right, even if it means going back and revising again and again.
When I sat down to write this column, Joe Jackson’s “The Trial” seemed to leap out at me. I had been thinking of my father and our relationship. So much of what we have bonded over has been music. While he is definitely a student of classical music, I am a disciple of rock. Where we often met halfway was the populist movie themes of some of our favorite composers, like John Williams and James Horner. That this track, a classical piece of film music written by a pop artist like Joe Jackson would come to mind when I haven’t listened to it in years, well, to me that’s serendipity. (more…)
Yesterday was the first day of school, that annual ritual that’s as tough on some parents as it is their kids. We began the morning with French toast and  the flurry of activities we hadn’t done in three months: ironing clothes, packing lunches, Jake doing his CF breathing treatments; Sophie tinkling the keys of the piano; brushing teeth and taking the traditional “first day of school” photo in front of our fireplace. Everything went so smoothly I even had time to water the front bushes. With a short lull before the big walk to school I turned on Sophie’s iPod to play some of the kids’ favorite songs. It didn’t take long until the Ramones’ “My Brain Is Hanging Upside Down (Bonzo Goes to Bitburg)” began and we were all bopping our heads up and down.
For those of you who may think I’m an ultra-hip parent trying to cultivate his children with great protest songs from the ’80s, hold off. This Ramones song, one of our family favorites, is known as the “School of Rock song,” thanks to director Richard Linklater, who used it so expertly in the Jack Black film during the “coming together” montage. (more…)
The Aut-O-Rama Twin Drive-In Theatre located in North Ridgeville, Ohio is like any drive-in you might imagine. One large parking lot with two giant screens and a snack bar and arcade building centrally located. There is a playground area for younger children and flea markets are held on the grounds every Sunday morning. Opened in 1965, I’m glad to say that the Aut-O-Rama is still independently owned and continues to screen double features throughout the summertime. During my formative years in the 1980s, my circle of friends had a pretty good routine: pile as many people into a car loaded with lawn chairs and a cooler, and pay for as few as people as possible, even hiding kids under blankets on the floor, in the hatchback or even the trunk. Cars parked to face the screen of the movie paid for, but that never prevented any of us from turning around and watching the other feature when bored. Once you tuned your AM radio to the special frequency that allowed you to hear the movie’s soundtrack, it was time to settle back in your semi-comfortable vinyl chair, or possibly the backseat of the car, open your beverage of choice and enjoy the show.
The delight of the drive-in was the social factor. Rare was the night when a group of teens actually watched the entire movie. No, you went to the Aut-O-Rama to hang with your friends, maybe score an illegal beer, and possibly try your first cigarette or Swisher Sweet. You also went to the Aut-O-Rama to wander the parking lot with that girl or boy you had a huge crush on and sit with them on the merry-go-round getting to know each other. If by some chance you were lucky, you kissed in the front seat, navigating the steering wheel and gear shift, or better yet, you moved to the back seat where hands could wander in the darkness and occasionally you peeked your eye open to see what was happening in the movie. (more…)
I had an epiphany at a Sammy Hagar concert. That’s right; I had a “sudden manifestation of the essence or meaning of something” in the middle of a Red Rocker show. Hard to believe, I know, but it’s the only way I can describe my moment of clarity amongst thousands of screaming metalheads full of alcohol, pumping their fists in the air.
Try not to hold it against me, but I’ve been a Hagar fan since the first time I heard “Heavy Metal” over a camp counselor’s transistor and “Your Love is Driving Me Crazy” the following summer. When Sammy jumped in as the lead singer of Van Halen, I thought he kicked ass; as a red rocker loyalist, I sided with him when he exited VH the first time, which is why I was at the Universal Amphitheater during the summer of 1997 with my brother, Budd.
Hagar was touring in support of his album, Marching to Mars, his first solo outing since leaving Van Halen. It’s a tight, well-written collection of songs featuring some inspired work by guest musicians like Slash, Ronnie Montrose and Mickey Hart. Budd and I decided to drive to the show and scalp tickets, upholding an American tradition passed down through generations. We scored seats 18 rows back, smack dab in the middle of diehard redheads: Aging bikers, balding frat guys from yesteryear, and plenty of cougars on the prowl. Together we all witnessed Hagar and his newly formed band, the Waboritas, blaze through a set that reached back to his days with Montrose and covered every period of his long career, including several Van Halen classics. (more…)
We slammed the doors of the Whomobile and left the skater punks behind. Matt and I crossed the street. Approaching Jeff’s house, I felt ready for anything. This kid, a guy I thought was my friend, was about to suffer the wrath of Scott Malchus.
Summer, 1986. It was a significant year for me, as it was the first time I was trusted to stay home alone for the summer. Well, not completely alone. While my parents and younger sister were off touring the country in a camper, my older brother, Budd, was in charge of supervising me. But we pretty much kept out of each other’s way. That summer I was part of a rock band and played paying gigs (pretty sweet for a cover band); I had a cute girlfriend; I drove a cool car (the Whomobile); and surprisingly, I was relatively popular. It was a good time to be a 16-year-old.
My band of choice was the Outfield, the British trio whose song, “Your Love,” was a smash hit. Guitarist/songwriter John Spinks had a gift for the perfect pop hook and bassist/lead singer Tony Lewis’s aching voice was the perfect instrument for Spinks’ songs. Rounding out the band was drummer Alan Jackman, who provided the right amount of power and kick to lift the band above the fray. Every song on Play Deep is a classic that I sang to and played along to for months. “61 Seconds,” the song that closes out side one, has always stood out to me. It’s a departure from the broken-hearted/paranoid lyrics that populate the rest of the album, dealing with the plight of the working man. With its ticking clock and propelling beat, I can only imagine that I listened to “61 Seconds” several times the evening Matt and I drove over to confront Jeff. (more…)
Take a moment to sit back, relax, and listen to the following piece of music. It’s “Clair de lune,” written by French composer, Claude Debussy, performed by pianist John O’Conor on his CD, Piano Classics: Popular Works for Solo Piano.
Debussy originally composed this delicate work in 1889 for his orchestral suite, Suite bergamasque. My classical music knowledge is limited. I was exposed to the great masters through Cleveland Orchestra concerts as a child or hearing classical music while my father drove me around town (he liked to listen to it LOUD); however, my interests were in rock and roll and some jazz. As a teen and into college the most personal attention I gave orchestra music came through the soundtracks from the films I loved. That’s how I came to know “Clair de lune” for the first time — through a movie.
I first saw Philip Kaufman’s 1983 epic, The Right Stuff, in the fall of 1989. Kaufman’s adaptation of Tom Wolfe’s famous book is an exciting, inspirational, funny and very human story about the United States race to get manned flights into space. It contrasts the story of test pilots like Chuck Yeager, who were breaking the sound barrier, but were never selected to be astronauts, and the Mercury Seven, the first men trained and eventually shot into the great unknown. Besides the incredible special effects that hold up 25 years later, the masterful work of all five (!) Academy Award winning editors, the exhilarating cinematography by Caleb Deschanel, and the moving score by Bill Conti, The Right Stuff features an ensemble of some of today’s most respected actors who were then considered fresh faces. They include Kathy Baker, Scott Glenn, Ed Harris, Barbara Hershey, Dennis Quaid and Fred Ward. If you have not seen Kaufman’s brilliant movie (he wrote the screenplay, as well), you should listen to my Popdose colleague Jeff Johnson and check it out immediately. (more…)
The Kinks’ State of Confusion was just the second LP I ever purchased. With loose change I’d saved from scrounging around in the couch or picking up from the piles left on countertops (don’t all kids do that?) I came up with the $9.98 required to buy the record soon after its release in the summer of 1983. On my beat-up hand-me-down ten-speed I rode to the Great Northern strip mall in downtown North Olmsted and bought State of Confusion at Record Theater. As it was such a painstaking task to accumulate the money I needed (we didn’t receive allowances and it was always torture for me to ask for cash from my parents), my decision to buy this Kinks album had been thought out well in advance. While the group’s surprise comeback single, “Come Dancing” (with its inspired video) was climbing the charts, it wasn’t the only song I knew. WMMS in Cleveland was also giving steady airplay to the title track and the rocker, “Definite Maybe.” With these three great songs in mind, I figured the rest of the album would be fantastic. I quickly found myself walking around the house singing the opening line of “Labour of Love” (“Marriage is a two headed transplant/Sometimes that’s how it seems”) and humming the poignant melody to “Heart of Gold.” (more…)
The kid from Maple School broke away and dribbled down the court. Just five steps ahead of me, he had a wide open lane for an easy layup. As he lifted the ball for his shot, I plowed into him, sending the two of us into the padding against the gym wall. The ref blew the whistle on me, but I didn’t care. I knew this guy would never make his free throws. I had saved our team two points. And there you have the crowning moment of my basketball glory days on the Chestnut School seventh-grade basketball team.
I suck at round ball, although it took me awhile to admit it. When the seventh-grade coach took me aside to ask why I wanted to play basketball, subtly implying that I would never play because, yes, I was terrible, I only got more determined to prove him wrong. Nope, he was right, and I never joined the basketball team again. Still, for a couple years after that single season of pre-teen basketball I lived with the delusion that those four months qualified me to hold my own on the court. What was I thinking? I’m a hack. I’m not even a good hack; I foul out of games in the first quarter — or I would, if I still tried to play basketball. (more…)
The summer vacation. As I’ve mentioned a couple of times in the Basement Songs, during my childhood, when school let out for the summer, my parents would pack up the family and take us on long voyages around the country. We’d explore the great tourist attractions each state had to offer, camp in an Apache pop-up trailer at KOAs, and spend endless hours on the open road. While my dad drove and my mom worked on her current latch hook rug in the front of the van, my siblings and I would go off into our own worlds. As a young boy I invested hours in the lives of the Hardy Boys or Henry Huggins, then moved on to the supernatural tales of Poe and Stephen King as I got older.
One year, after pestering my parents for a comic book, they surprised me with the oversized “graphic novel,” Superman vs. Wonder Woman. I read that book so many times, it’s in tatters. Eventually I traded some kid from grade school my copy of X-Men #137, “Phoenix Must Die!” for a better copy of Superman vs. Wonder Woman. The X-Men comic is worth a lot of money now while Superman vs. Wonder Woman is a quaint novelty from a bygone era. I don’t regret the trade one bit.
Occasionally, while my brother Budd was stretched out in one of the seats and my older sister Beth read her own books and magazines, I would hang out in the back of the van with my younger sister, Heidi, creating stories with her Barbie dolls while the wheels of the van whirled underneath us on hot black asphalt. The time spent staring out the window as the countryside of the U.S. passed by me developed a yearning in me. To this day, I love to get in my car and just drive. The seed to become a writer was also planted in those summer road trips. (more…)
I’m running through the streets of industrial Los Angeles cursing to myself. My eyes are searching, desperately scanning the sidewalk and disintegrating asphalt for a coat hanger. The sun beats down on me, I’m sweating profusely, and behind me my car is parked with the engine running and the keys locked inside it. Welcome to L.A., baby.
If there is a Horatio Alger rite-of-passage story in my life, it takes place during the summer of 1991. For three months I worked as an intern for Alterian Studios, a special effects company in Hollywood. I was a 21-year-old kid — or at least I felt like a kid.
In my mind he’s sitting at the kitchen table writing so diligently the table shakes and the white swivel chair he’s sitting on squeaks. Outside it’s night, and the autumn chill is trying to get in. The television is on; we’re watching some inane ’80s sitcom, and my father is someplace else. As he writes in the kitchen, he’s hearing music, scribbling notes on scrap pieces of paper.
Yesterday was the first day of school, that annual ritual that’s as tough on some parents as it is their kids. We began the morning with French toast and  the flurry of activities we hadn’t done in three months: ironing clothes, packing lunches, Jake doing his CF breathing treatments; Sophie tinkling the keys of the piano; brushing teeth and taking the traditional “first day of school” photo in front of our fireplace. Everything went so smoothly I even had time to water the front bushes. With a short lull before the big walk to school I turned on Sophie’s iPod to play some of the kids’ favorite songs. It didn’t take long until the Ramones’ 
The Aut-O-Rama Twin Drive-In Theatre located in North Ridgeville, Ohio is like any drive-in you might imagine. One large parking lot with two giant screens and a snack bar and arcade building centrally located. There is a playground area for younger children and flea markets are held on the grounds every Sunday morning. Opened in 1965, I’m glad to say that the Aut-O-Rama is still independently owned and continues to screen double features throughout the summertime. During my formative years in the 1980s, my circle of friends had a pretty good routine: pile as many people into a car loaded with lawn chairs and a cooler, and pay for as few as people as possible, even hiding kids under blankets on the floor, in the hatchback or even the trunk. Cars parked to face the screen of the movie paid for, but that never prevented any of us from turning around and watching the other feature when bored. Once you tuned your AM radio to the special frequency that allowed you to hear the movie’s soundtrack, it was time to settle back in your semi-comfortable vinyl chair, or possibly the backseat of the car, open your beverage of choice and enjoy the show.
I had an epiphany at a Sammy Hagar concert. That’s right; I had a 
We slammed the doors of the Whomobile and left the skater punks behind. Matt and I crossed the street. Approaching Jeff’s house, I felt ready for anything. This kid, a guy I thought was my friend, was about to suffer the wrath of Scott Malchus.
Take a moment to sit back, relax, and listen to the following piece of 
The Kinks’ 
The kid from Maple School broke away and dribbled down the court. Just five steps ahead of me, he had a wide open lane for an easy layup. As he lifted the ball for his shot, I plowed into him, sending the two of us into the padding against the gym wall. The ref blew the whistle on me, but I didn’t care. I knew this guy would never make his free throws. I had saved our team two points. And there you have the crowning moment of my basketball glory days on the Chestnut School seventh-grade basketball team.
The summer vacation. As I’ve mentioned a couple of times in the Basement Songs, during my childhood, when school let out for the summer, my parents would pack up the family and take us on long voyages around the country. We’d explore the great tourist attractions each state had to offer, camp in an Apache pop-up trailer at KOAs, and spend endless hours on the open road. While my dad drove and my mom worked on her current latch hook rug in the front of the van, my siblings and I would go off into our own worlds. As a young boy I invested hours in the lives of the Hardy Boys or Henry Huggins, then moved on to the supernatural tales of Poe and Stephen King as I got older.
I’m running through the streets of industrial Los Angeles cursing to myself. My eyes are searching, desperately scanning the sidewalk and disintegrating asphalt for a coat hanger. The sun beats down on me, I’m sweating profusely, and behind me my car is parked with the engine running and the keys locked inside it. Welcome to L.A., baby.