Yesterday I went through all of the private messages I’d shared with Frank Gutch Jr, since I’d first encountered him. It was in 2013, just after I’d begun writing this weekly column, and right from that first message, it was as though we were separated at birth.
And it’s my view. It won’t mention Heart except to say that I knew their days were well past when they became a tribute band (and it was long before The Kennedy Center performance) and it won’t mention Nirvana because, let’s face it, Nirvana has already been mentioned enough (Okay, I might mention them once). I might mention Perry Como, though, because he had the hit with those lyrics and I might mention Bobby Sherman (just for the hell of it). I will mention many artists and bands of evidently little consequence outside of that fair city because I certainly do not hear them mentioned by people outside the Pac Northwest (by the people I know, anyway). But first, should you think Seattle a mere backdrop for movies and TV programs, let us look at what the youth think, and before you start pounding the keyboard in protest, I have not vetted the information and don’t really care (though having lived in Seattle for over thirteen years, I can attest to the fact that everyone does love Dick’s… Drive-In, and how can you not love the fact that they have a train/trolley called the SLUT). I’m just glad to see the youth making this attempt:
Nothing says Christmas like a curmudgeon and nobody is more of one than Jaimie Vernon which makes me wish I knew some of the stories behind his long career in music and, also, in life. Regaling you with tales of chicken wire and whoopee cushions would make this a lot easier to write— nothing like fart jokes to liven up your reading— but it is Christmas season and I must put aside the slings and arrows, as humorous as they might be.
I know it’s true because I have just had an epiphanic weekend (and a few naps) and can see clearly now (with a nod to Johnny Nash, whose I Can See Clearly Now has indeed stayed the same for decades). It has been a flashback in more ways than one. The music, of course, for I have been handed some of the best retro I’ve heard in some time. A few thoughts came to mind too, thanks to Jaimie Vernon‘s reactivated Bullseye Canada Records and a bit of time trying to figure out exactly what happened to the old music industry paradigm, and while I see a bright future for music I see a constant morphing happening as well. The print side of music is also showing signs of life again, though not yet for writers, who will have to suffer the bread lines for awhile longer if not forever.
Please allow me to start this column with an aside. Each year, I compile a list of albums I consider the best. Last year, I picked Lost Leaders‘ self-titled album because it had that indescribable something which made me come back to it again and again. I mean, I love this album!!!
Having given you five chances to look behind the curtains of a life of a rock ‘n’ roller of more stature than most people these days could possibly know— that of Fort Worth’s Jim Colegrove— I have decided to give you a sixth. Call I a bonus, if you will— a chance to experience second-hand an era of music most of you could not possibly know. A chance to see the machinations of an industry, for that is what it became, in its growth stages. So far it has involved a string of names many would recognize— Felix Pappalardi and Gene Pitney and Lou Adler and so many more. Let us add a few more as the band he is in at this point of his career, Bo Grumpus, prepares to spark a major label career.
While working on this weeks column in which I had hoped to give insights into record labels and how they evolved, I realized that much of the music of the past and my attitudes toward it and the business surrounding it needed to be readdressed.
Christmas. It’s the time for joy and camaraderie and faith. It’s the time of giving and sharing and, for most, receiving. Debts are forgiven at Christmas, and people too. Indeed, the power of Christmas could almost save the world and would, according to Hollywood, if given half a chance.
I remember it like it was yesterday, hearing that John Stewart had left us. My heart sank and all that was good seemed to disappear. John and I had been acquaintances, of a sort. We had met when a salesman working for a distributor handling Stewart’s own label, Neon Dreams, brought him into the dungeon at Peaches Records in Seattle for a visit. We were introduced and I liked him from the first handshake. I at first felt intimidated, of course. How could you not be when you considered his background— the Kingston Trio albums and before that, The Cumberland Three, and after that, the incredibly huge string of solo albums.
There are thousands of stories in Music City and this is one of them. It involves a young musician— in fact, a young artist, as Jon Strongbow dabbled in many different arts, possibly even the occult. A musician implanted with an idea which would end up almost destroying him and yet become a central point from which the rest of life would emanate.
If that sounds ominous or convoluted, it should. Strongbow’s existence cannot have been easy, what with sidesteps into mental institutions and through mental windows while the reflection in the mirror of reality kept morphing. And yet he adapted.
Bullseye Records of Canada
Segarini: Don't Believe a Word I Say 