BOB PROUDLY PRESENTS THE UNTOLD STORIES OF ROCK!

These are the stories

The Untold Stories of Rock.

The stories they dare not share, dare not print, dare not tell

These are the legendary stories of the legendary music and the legendary stars of the legendary decades, the legendary 1950s, ’60s, and ’70s, when legendary music and artists did legendary things, and legendary stories were told and became legendary. …but not THESE stories! These stories are not legendary yet. These stories are still to be told …because right now …right this moment …these stories are about to become legendary because they will no longer be UNTOLD STORIES OF ROCK! They will henceforth become TOLD STORIES OF ROCK! And that means these stories are about to be LEGENDARY!

 

But First

The Holidays, other depressing crap, and the weather and overwhelming obligations and duties have forced me to put aside the last part of the 2019 AMA review (You didn’t miss much). It was nice to see Carol King, Paula Abdul, and Shania Twain, the music was typically meh with a couple of nice moments, (the fashion victims went with giant Christmas Tree Ornament/Bowling Ball shaped gowns, Slit to the Waist Adult Dress-Up sparkly dresses, and Bathing Suit Chic), while the men and boys stuck with culture-appropriated baggy urban duds, metro-male legging pants, the odd suit, the occasional wack-job hat, and one killer neon green ensemble that won the night and made me wish I was still a skinny kid so I could dress like that again and not get booted out of upscale restaurants. The latest Avril/Lordes/Pink/Gaga was crowned, and at 17, was so Uber-Hip she wore her pajamas and later, an outfit consisting of her dad’s old clothes her mother left on the back porch to donate to Goodwill.

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As long as I’m digressing, I might as well tell you our Holiday Hiatus starts a week from this coming Monday, Monday, the 16th of December, and lasts until Monday, January the 13th.

Because of time constraints, a load of dishes, a miserable, busy week, and an irritated bowel, this column is really short, but just crammed with good intentions. Among other things, I will be spending my hiatus attempting to finally finish editing a book of some of my columns, FB Memes, and Hot Dog Recipes.

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Anyway …I promised you some UNTOLD STORIES OF ROCK, but due to the reasons and excuses just stated, there are only two. But fear not, Dear Reader …there will be more in the New Year and maybe even a couple in my pre-hiatus column a week from today.

Here’s a picture of me drinking beer with the New York Dolls.

Bob Drinking Beer with the New York Dolls

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UNTOLD STORIES OF ROCK

NUMBER ONE – THE RUINED DATE

That time John Travolta was going to meet Mick Jagger at Jagger’s exclusive New York Prancing, Mincing, and Sashaying Rehearsal Space and Pout Practice Palace in SoHo, have a few cocktails at the trendy “Bar Famous” (so exclusive, that only 74 people on the whole planet can get in except for the club’s”Has-Been/Ironically Accepted as Still Cool” policy, which allows people like Travolta to still hang out with his friends), with BFs Marty Scorsese, John Oates, Madonna’s Pool Boy and Prince’s Pharmacist, Dale. After a few Fuzzy Navels and Espresso Martinis (and a tri-annually complete blood transfusion for Mick in the bar’s super exclusive Longevity Lounge – known to its regulars as Keef’s Garage), John and Mick were planning a late dinner at Chez Moo Cow and possibly a dance or two at No One Will Find You Here, and maybe a sleepover, makeover, and pillow fight at John’s Manhattan hideaway.

What could have been a Legendary night of two Industry Giants maybe writing a brilliant song or acting up a storm, or coming up with new prances or pouts, and maybe even a new way to pilot a plane in heels, was dashed against the rocks of bad timing in a sea of unexpected disappointments, and never had a chance to be the dream date they had planned.

When John went to meet Mick, with no lights on and Mick wearing earbuds to practice to, they could not see or hear one another, and John left in tears, thinking he had been stood up. Mick too, was crushed. After his last sashay and pout, he noticed the time and felt betrayed, never knowing John had been there on time and waited over an hour before racing out into the cold rainy night alone and in tears.

It wasn’t until 2 years later that this recording from one of the security cameras was discovered by a Rolling Stone lackey drone, and is shared here for the first time. John and Mick have since made up, and plan to make their dream date a reality in 2020. …they might even pick up some chicks.

Good Luck, Fellas!

And that’s another UNTOLD STORY OF ROCK!

Strangers in the Night

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NUMBER TWO – JIMI CALLS THE SHOTS

Sure …we all know than James Jimmy ‘Jimi’ Hendrix spent time in the military, played guitar backing other musicians like Felton “Barn Door'” Washington, and Shy Karbunkle and His Rhythm Waiters, but did you know he had another career before he became the Legendary Jimi Hendrix we all know and worship?

After he was discharged from the Army, Jimi returned to Seattle, he got a job using the only skills he had learned in the army. Peeling potatoes in the kitchen, and playing the three chords he knew on his old, battered guitar behind the strippers, he did double duty at Del’s Pole Paradise and French Fry Emporium in Seattle’s quaint Slum District.

Thinking he was in a dead end job, and taking lots of breaks in the kitchen, he began to take his frustration out by using his battered old Fender Cheapocaster to bat potatoes around like baseballs while cussing them out and pretending they were parsnips, which he hated even more.

One night, after a stripper named Crystal accused Jimi of stealing one of her scarves and tying it around his head to keep the sweat from running into his eyes while he peeled the potatoes in the hot stuffy kitchen, she laid into him like a Kardashian attacks a cheesecake. He was so upset by her mean spirited put-downs and loud, grating, trash talk, like “You will never amount to anything, Potato Boy, you can’t even play more than 3 chords on that banjo, or do algebra!” Her words hurt even more because they were true.

After concealing his anger and pain as long as he could, Jimi picked out the biggest potato he could find, and, assuming the Captain America legs apart, heroic stance favoured by Super Heroes, Rock Stars, and Baseball’s Legendary Baba O’ Ruth, Jimi hit that potato right through the door that led to the showroom, like a bullet, or rocket, or extremely hard hit, fast moving, potato.

Feeling the anger subside thanks to the satisfying ‘PLONK’ of the sweet spot on a  guitar coming into contact with a well tossed potato, he was about to again set to peeling, when a stranger in an expensive suit burst into the kitchen.

Looking around frantically and out of breath, the stranger espied Jimi and addressed him.

“Hey kid! Yeah …you with the scarf tied around your head and that guitar hanging off your shoulder like a fanny-pack for a shoulder and that potato in your hand, did you see who threw that potato through the door?”

Jimi, who was raised to never tell a lie unless you killed someone, looked at the man and said, “Did that potato kill anybody?”

“NO!”, said the stranger.

“Well in that case”, intoned Jimi, “it was me …but I didn’t throw it. I hit it with this here guitar.”

The expensive-suited stranger, all dropped jaw and bulging eyes, stared at the young Jimi in disbelief. “Let me get this straight. YOU hit that potato with that guitar through that door into that showroom, right? …is that what you’re saying?”

“Depends”, Jimi mumbled,, in a quiet, almost foggy haze brought on by everything happening so fast, “Are you SURE no one got killed by the potato we’re talking about…the one that went through that door into that showroom just a minute ago?”

“Yes. That very potato. That door. That showroom.”

“Well, yeah. In that case, it was me.”

“Kid, do you know who you hit with that potato?”

“Jimi’s eyes got big, and a terrified look came over his face, “I THOUGHT YOU SAID NO ONE WAS KILLED!”

“Calm down kid …say …what’s your name?”

“Jimi.”

“Jimmy?”

“No, Jimi.”

That’s what I said.”

“No …you said Jimmy. It’s Jimi, not Jimmy”

“What’s the difference?”

“My name is special. You called me J-i-m-m-y, Jimmy, not J-i-m-i Jimi. I don’t answer to Jimmy …just Jimi. Call me Jimi, and don’t ever call me Jimmy again.”

“Okay Jimi. Sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Awww, that okay Mr. …say what’s YOUR name?”

“Kevin. Kevin “Cleats” Colitis. I’m the manager of the Seattle Seaweeds, the New York Yankees Triple D farm team.” He paused. “Do you know who you hit with that potato? You hit our star centre fielder and the home run king of the entire Pacific Northwest Idaho and Montana Baseball League. You knocked him cold. He’s going to be out for hours and we have a play-off game in less than 30 minutes.” He paused again. It was becoming a habit. “Listen kid, I need you to bat for him tonight. If you can hit a baseball with a bat like you hit that potato with a guitar, You have a career ahead of you as a Major League ball player!”

Jimi thought for a minute. He hated his job, he wasn’t making much money, and it will take years before he learns all those other chords and stuff to make it in the show biz, sooo …

“If you want me to come with you and play, I’ll have to quit this job. How much does ball hitting pay?”

Kid, you hit those baseballs like you hit potatoes, you can write your own ticket!”

“Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go, Mr. Colitis!”

Jimi’s mind was getting hazy again. An almost purple haze began to well up as he got excited about hitting baseballs. “This haze”, he thought, “why …it is almost as if it were purple.” He filed the thought away, hoping to think it again when he wasn’t so busy and excited.

Later That Same Day ….

Jimi won the playoff game that night, and the Seaweeds advanced to the finals. His record of 5 home runs in that game is a record that would still be standing if the Seaweed Stadium and Offices hadn’t burnt down in 1966, wiping his achievement and the existence and history of the Seaweeds from the history books for all time.

As for Jimi’s time in the bigs, he was let go after a season because his fielding skills were non existent. During the full season he played in centre field, he only ever caught two fly balls, and one of his throws to first went wild and killed a duck.

After his dismissal, Jimi learned all the other chords and stuff, and, well …the rest is history.

Fortunately, when Colitis passed away in 1986, his bookie found a photograph taken during Jimi’s last at bat the first night he played.

His confidence at an all time high after hitting 4 dingers in a row, Jimi had boldly taken a move out of Baba O’Ruth’s playbook and pointed to right-centre field fence to indicate where he would hit his 5th homer. And hit it, he did.

This is that picture. And this concludes another UNTOLD STORY OF ROCK!

Baseball Jimi

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Segarini’s regular columns invite you to walk like an Egyptian 

dbawis-button7giphyBob “The Iceman” Segarini was in the bands The Family Tree, Roxy, The Wackers, The Dudes, and The Segarini Band and nominated for a Juno for production in 1978. He also hosted “Late Great Movies” on CITY TV, was a producer of Much Music, and an on-air personality on CHUM FM, Q107, SIRIUS Sat/Rad’s Iceberg 95, (now 85), and now publishes, edits, and writes for DBAWIS, continues to write music, make music, and record.

2 Responses to “BOB PROUDLY PRESENTS THE UNTOLD STORIES OF ROCK!”

  1. Greg Simpson Says:

    Wow. I thought I knew everything. Thanks for filling in some holes in my education…and making me laugh.

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