Sevendust, New Era Project Smoke House Of Blues On December 5

By Brian M. Howle

Well, kids, if you’re been a loyal reader and you’ve been paying attention as well, you already know that I strongly contend some of the finest bands known to man have – time after time – originated in that musical hotbed for the Southeast, known to one and all as Atlanta (or more correctly in the local vernacular, Hot’lanta.)

And, doggone it, our peachy neighbors to the south have gone and done it again – well, since 1992 – and now we’re all the better for it. Those in the know have seen them here before and know not to miss this one, as Sevendust – with opening act New Era Project – comes to House Of Blues in North Myrtle Beach, SC on Saturday, December 5, 2009.

Here’s what all the collective folks at Wikipedia say about this very talented band:

Sevendust is an American metal band from Atlanta, Georgia. They were originally signed to TVT Records, but then released their fifth album with Winedark Records (through Universal Music) in the US, and Roadrunner Records overseas. Currently, they are signed to their own label 7 Bros. Records in conjunction with Asylum Records.

The band formed in late 1992 under the name “Tomorrow’s Pain” then switched to “Rumblefish” then to “Crawlspace”, but later were forced to change their name to Sevendust when a group from the West Coast claimed rights to Crawlspace. The band was heavily influenced by Metallica, Faith No More, King’s X and Living Colour.

Sevendust released their first album Sevendust on April 15, 1997, known for its heavy riffs, angry vocals and thrash-like drumming, as the songs “Black” and “Bitch”. “Black” was the opening song for nearly every Sevendust concert until 2004. The debut album also contains the song “My Ruin” from the Mortal Kombat soundtrack album entitled More Kombat released by TVT Records. After they appeared at Ozzfest 1998 and Dynamo Open Air the same year, their self-titled album went gold.

On August 24, 1999, they released their second album, Home. The album peaked at 19 on the Billboard 200 and featured Skin from Skunk Anansie and Chino Moreno from Deftones as guest vocalists. The two singles from the album, “Denial” and “Waffle”, gave the band moderate chart success, and the latter of which was played on the Late Night with Conan O’Brien show . They appeared in Woodstock 1999 and have toured with many bands such as Korn, Staind, Nonpoint Reveille, Godsmack, Mudvayne, Powerman 5000, Creed, Kid Rock, Machine Head, Limp Bizkit, Disturbed, and Metallica. In 1999, they gained European exposure by opening for Skunk Anansie at various shows in Germany. They also joined Slipknot, Coal Chamber and other bands on a tour called “Tattoo The Earth Tour” in June 2000.

In November 2001, the band released their third album, Animosity. This album went gold and gained the band commercial success thanks to the success of singles “Praise” and “Angel’s Son”, which peaked at 15 and 11 on the Modern Rock Chart. The band also made an appearance on Late Night with David Letterman playing an Acoustic Version of Angel’s Son featuring Paul Shaffer on Keyboards. In the same year they are also seen in the Chris Rock movie Down to Earth as a partial clip of “Waffle” is played. Sevendust went on hiatus in 2002 due to the death of Lajon’s brother.

In 2003, Sevendust returned with their fourth album, Seasons. This was one of the band’s best received albums and to-date features their highest charting single (tied with “Driven”), “Enemy”, which peaked at #10 on the Mainstream Rock Chart. “Enemy” was also used as the official theme song for WWE Unforgiven 2003. Other singles released from the album, “Broken Down” and “Face to Face”, met with more moderate success charting at 20 and 22 respectively.

In 2004, for the first time in the band’s career, they released a live album on a CD/DVD double disk package titled Southside Double-Wide: Acoustic Live. Both the CD and the DVD include a cover of “Hurt” by Nine Inch Nails which is dedicated to Johnny Cash.

On December 11, 2004, after playing a show in Columbus, Ohio, it was announced that Clint Lowery had left the band mid-tour, because he wanted to play with his brother Corey Lowery in his new band Dark New Day, who had reportedly just signed with Warner Bros. Records. A temporary replacement was found to fill in for the rest of the dates, and was eventually replaced by Sonny Mayo (from Snot and Amen). At roughly the same time, Sevendust and TVT Records parted ways. Seasons has since been certified multi-platinum.

On October 11, 2005, Sevendust joined forces with good friend Producer/Engineer Shawn Grove and released their fifth studio album, Next, on the Winedark Records label, distributed by Universal Music. In the process, Sevendust also created their own record label, 7Bros Records. The first radio single off Next was the track “Ugly”, released to radio August 9, 2005 followed by the music video. The track “Pieces” appeared on the soundtrack for the film Saw II. Next debuted at #20 in the US, selling around 37,000 copies in its first week. Not much longer after the release of Next, Sevendust’s former label TVT Records released a greatest hits package for Sevendust, titled Best of (Chapter One 1997-2004), the label’s final Sevendust release. Also, an unofficial video for “Hero” was released showing footage of Bruce Lee in many of his famous film roles.

Sevendust (with Shawn Grove again serving as Producer/Engineer), released their sixth full-length studio album, entitled Alpha, on March 6, 2007. The album debuted at #14 in the US, the band’s highest chart position yet, selling over 42,000 copies of the album in its first week of sale. The band also headlined a 57-date tour from February 8, 2007 to April 28, 2007. Boston heavy metal band Diecast, supergroup Invitro, and modern rock Red accompanied Sevendust on that tour. Retrospective 2, a CD/DVD combo including two previously un-released studio tracks, live concert footage never before seen, as well as the new music videos for the songs “Beg To Differ”, “Ugly”, “Pieces”, and “Driven”, was released on December 11, 2007. The song “The Rim” was released on the Alpha CD but only sold in Target retails stores as exclusive 13th track on the Alpha CD. Their songs “Feed” and “Driven” were used in the soundtrack to WWE Smackdown vs. Raw 2008.

Sevendust joined Shawn Grove again, and returned to the studio at the end of November 2007 to finish their 7th studio album, titled Chapter VII: Hope & Sorrow. The record was originally slated for a release of March 4, 2008, but was later pushed back to April 1. The album debuted at #19 on the Billboard 200 and has appearances from Chris Daughtry and Alter Bridge members Myles Kennedy and Mark Tremonti. The first single released was “Prodigal Son” which peaked at #19 on the mainstream rock chart. The second single was “The Past” and the third “Inside”.

On March 26, 2008, Sevendust announced that Clint Lowery, former guitarist and vocalist for the band, has quit his duties as guitarist for Dark New Day and will be returning to the Sevendust lineup in place of Sonny Mayo. On Lowery’s return, Morgan Rose stated “This was extremely tough considering Sonny is our brother and has been amazing to work with. [Sonny] didn’t do anything wrong at all; we just owe it to ourselves and all the folks that grew up with us to put our original band back together.”

In December 2008 Sevendust toured with Black Stone Cherry for a while and then in January 2009, Sevendust geared up to hit the road with Disturbed, as well as multiple shows for US troops in Iraq and Afghanistan in the spring. According to Morgan Rose, the band has finished writing their 8th studio album and will enter the studio for 2 months in October to record it. They are aiming for an early 2010 release. They recently chose Johnny K as the producer for the upcoming album.

Sevendust released a very limited-edition box set in November 2008 entitled “Packaged Goods”. Each five-disc set is personally autographed by the entire band. The box set includes Sevendust’s 2005 release “Next”, 2007’s “Alpha”, 2007’s “Retrospective 2” (CD + DVD), and 2008’s “Chapter VII: Hope and Sorrow”.

As of October 2009, Sevendust are recording a new album in Chicago with producer Johnny K.

Recently Sevendust launched a newly designed website with the same address, promoting the new album they are currently recording in Chicago. The band are currently posting videos daily on their official site and their YouTube channel, with updates on the new album, recording in the studio and also videos of them in the new “house” they are recording from. Stepping out of the box, from regular recording sessions they are showing the fans how the album process is done, and every step in the intricate process.

So far, various tracking has been performed by all members of the band, each working on various songs. It was announced that Corey Lowrey (ex-Stereomud, currently in Violent Plan) has also entered the recording process and will be assisting the band for a brief period.

The current lineup for Sevendust is: Lajon Witherspoon – Lead Vocals (1992-Present); John Connolly – Guitar, Backing Vocals (1992-Present); Clint Lowery – Guitar, Backing Vocals (1992-2004, 2008-present); Vincent Hornsby – Bass (1992-Present), and; Morgan Rose – Drums, Backing Vocals (1992-Present).

Hey, they’re not just for gettin’ rid of fleas anymore (give yourself lots and lots of extree points if you know this one) as Sevendust – with supporting act New Era Project – burn down that storied stage at House Of Blues in N. Myrtle Beach, SC on Saturday, December 5, 2009. Doors open 7:00pm. For ticket info call 843-272-3000 or Ticketmaster 843-679-9333; or visit www.houseofblues.com or www.ticketmaster.com.
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This article also appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, November 22 – December 5, 2009, at www.myrtlebeachalternatives.com .

Megadeth Brings Their Endgame Tour – And Friends – To HOB November 28

By Brian M. Howle

Every heavy metal musician strives for one thing from the first time they hear that first intoxicating, addictive chord, measure, or lyric – to be in a band that breaks through the unmerciful world of music oblivion and then zooms to world-wide adulation and insane quadruple-Platinum sales. So just imagine that you’ve paid a lot of dues, honed your skills and hooked up with such a group – and then just as they teeter on the threshold of superstardom and a seminal debut album – you get fired and sent home on a Greyhound bus – cross country. Alone. What would you do?

Well, if you were Dave Mustaine, you’d just go out and form your own legendary, iconic heavy-metal thrash band, and you’d name it Megadeth. Which is an amazing coinky dink, because Megadeth – with opening acts Machine Head, Suicide Silence and Arcanium – comes to House Of Blues in North Myrtle Beach, SC on Saturday, November 28, 2009.

Here’s a little info on the band and their latest release, for which they are touring in support of for this visit:

Megadeth is an American heavy metal band from Los Angeles, California, formed in 1983. Founded by Dave Mustaine following his departure from Metallica, the band has since released twelve studio albums, six live albums, two EPs, twenty six singles, thirty-two music videos, and three compilations.

As a pioneer of the American thrash metal movement, Megadeth rose to international fame in the 1980s, but experienced numerous line-up changes, due partly to the band’s notorious substance abuse problems. From 1983 to 2002, Mustaine and bassist Dave Ellefson were the only continuous members of the band. After finding sobriety and securing a stable line-up, Megadeth went on to release a string of platinum and gold albums, including the platinum-selling landmark Rust in Peace in 1990 and the Grammy nominated, multi-platinum Countdown to Extinction in 1992. Megadeth disbanded in 2002 after Mustaine suffered a severe nerve injury to his left arm. However, following extensive physical therapy, Mustaine reformed the band in 2004 and released The System Has Failed, followed by United Abominations in 2007; the albums debuted on the Billboard Top 200 chart at #18 and #8, respectively.

Megadeth is known for a distinctive guitar style, often involving complex, intricate musical passages, and trade off guitar solos. Mustaine is also known for his original “snarling” vocal style, as well as his recurring lyrical themes, often involving politics, war, addiction, and personal relationships.

Megadeth has had some commercial success worldwide and has sold more than 20 million albums, with six consecutive albums being certified platinum in the USA. The band has also received great critical acclaim with seven consecutive Grammy nominations for Best Metal Performance. In the band’s 24 active years, Megadeth has had 20 official members, with Dave Mustaine remaining as the driving force, main songwriter, and sole original member following the end of his musical partnership with David Ellefson in 2002, due to personal disagreements. In the mid-late 1980s, Megadeth were one of the “Big Four of Thrash,” along with Metallica, Slayer, and Anthrax, who were responsible for creating, developing and popularizing the thrash metal sub-genre.

As Megadeth’s primary lyricist, Mustaine is known for his often controversial, political, and more recently, personal lyrics. War and nuclear war are common topics, including the military-industrial complex (“Architecture of Aggression”, “Hangar 18”, “Return to Hangar” “Take No Prisoners”), and the aftermath of war (“Dawn Patrol” “Ashes In Your Mouth”). The name Megadeth is a deliberate misspelling of the word megadeath, a term coined in 1953 by RAND military strategist Herman Kahn to describe one million deaths, popularized in his 1960 book On Thermonuclear War. Politics are also a common theme to many Megadeth songs, such as Mustaine’s scathing assessment of Tipper Gore, the PMRC, and music censorship in the song “Hook In Mouth”. Mustaine takes an environmentalist stance in “Countdown to Extinction” and “Dawn Patrol”, and shuns dictators in songs like “Warhorse”, and “Symphony of Destruction”. The UN is criticized for its ineffectiveness in “United Abominations”. Mustaine’s general cynicism regarding politics shines through on tracks like “Peace Sells”, “The World Needs A Hero” and “Blackmail the Universe”.

Controversial and misunderstood lyrics have also caused problems for the band, as the music video for “In My Darkest Hour” was banned from MTV in 1988 when the music channel deemed the song to be pro-suicide. The music video for “À Tout le Monde” was later banned by MTV, again wrongly interpreted as being pro- suicide, when in fact it was written from the perspective of a dying man, saying his last words to his loved ones

Addiction is also a common theme, as in “Use the Man”, “Burnt Ice”, and “Addicted to Chaos”, about a former substance abuse counselor who died of a drug overdose. Recently, some lyrics have taken on religious themes, such as “Never Walk Alone… A Call to Arms”, which supposedly is about Mustaine’s relationship with God, and “Shadow of Deth”, with spoken lyrics taken directly from Psalm 23 of the King James Bible.

Dave Mustaine is notorious for making inflammatory statements in the press, usually regarding feuds and problems with former bandmates and other bands, including Slayer and Metallica. Perhaps most well known is his long standing feud with Metallica members James Hetfield and Lars Ulrich, stemming from his ejection from the band, and the method in which it was conducted, as well as disagreements on songwriting credits.

In April 1988, at a concert in Antrim, Northern Ireland, Mustaine “unknowingly” dedicated the final song to the IRA. Before the final song, “Anarchy in the UK”, Mustaine said, “This one’s for The Cause!”. A fight amongst the audience ensued, as Protestants took offense and, according to Mustaine, the band had to travel in a “bulletproof bus” for the remainder of the tour of Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland. Mustaine later alleged that he had been misled as to the meaning of the expression “the cause” by T-Shirt bootleggers outside the venue where they were performing. This incident served as inspiration for one of Megadeth’s most well-known songs, “Holy Wars… The Punishment Due”.

Also sparking minor controversy was Mustaine’s announcement that Megadeth will not play certain songs live anymore, due to Mustaine’s new identification as a Christian. In recent years Dave Mustaine has become a Born again Christian. In May 2005 Mustaine also allegedly threatened to cancel shows in Greece and Israel with extreme metal bands Rotting Christ and Dissection, due to the bands’ perceived anti-Christian beliefs, which in turn caused the two bands to cancel their appearances.

With over 25 million albums sold worldwide, ten top 40 albums (including 5 top 10 albums), 18 top 40 Mainstream Rock singles, and seven Grammy nominations, Megadeth remains one of the most successful heavy metal bands of all time. Of the “Big Four” thrash metal bands (Megadeth, Metallica, Anthrax, and Slayer), Megadeth is second only to Metallica in sales and commercial success.

As an early pioneer of thrash metal, Megadeth helped pave the way for the burgeoning extreme metal movement of the late 1980s and early 1990s, and is often cited as an influence by later metal acts, including Pantera, Arch Enemy, Lamb of God, and In Flames.

Peace Sells… but Who’s Buying? is considered a landmark in the history of thrash metal, with Allmusic calling the album “One of the most influential metal albums of its decade, and certainly one of the few truly definitive thrash albums,” as well as “one of the best beginning-to-end metal albums ever”. In May 2006 VH1 ranked “Peace Sells” #11 on the 40 Greatest Metal Songs of all time countdown. In addition to this, Rust In Peace was named the 3rd greatest thrash metal album of all time by Metal Hammer magazine. Peace Sells…But Who’s buying? was placed 11th. In 2004, Guitar World magazine ranked Dave Mustaine and Marty Friedman together at #19 on the 100 Greatest Heavy Metal Guitarists of All Time.

The current lineup for Megadeth is: Dave Mustaine – lead vocals, guitar (1983–present); Chris Broderick – guitar, backing vocals (2008–present); James Lomenzo – bass guitar, backing vocals (2006–present); and, Shawn Drover – drums, percussion (2004–present)

Endgame is the twelfth studio album by Megadeth. Released on September 9, 2009, it is the first album featuring guitarist Chris Broderick following Glen Drover’s departure in 2008.

The first preview of any song off Endgame was a six-minute video featuring the band’s English producer Andy Sneap describing the process of mixing the new Megadeth track “Head Crusher” at his studio in Derbyshire, England. In the video, Sneap says, “It’s certainly old-school Megadeth — that’s what I like.” Endgame was recorded at the band’s own personal studio, aptly named Vic’s Garage, in San Marcos, California USA.

Endgame received highly positive reviews and was thought of continuing the success from the band’s 2007 album United Abominations. Chad Bowar, About.com reviewer, stated, “Megadeth is still at the top of their game. Endgame has some old-school moments, but also modern ones. 2007’s United Abominations garnered a lot of critical praise and was on many year-end best of lists that year… Endgame is even better.” Eduardo Rivadavia of Allmusic stated, “…and company’s second release for Roadrunner, Endgame, whose title apparently refers to “coming full circle” rather than any sort of goodbye, and finds the latest iteration of Megadeth — debuting new guitarist Chris Broderick (ex-Nevermore, Jag Panzer) — working primarily within their technical thrash comfort zone (think Peace Sells through Rust in Peace), with only a few latter-day elements and rare experimental diversions.”

Endgame debuted at number 9 on the Billboard 200, selling 45,000 copies in the United States and 8,200 copies in Canada in its first week of release. The album also placed as #1 on the Hard Rock Albums chart and #2 on the Rock Albums chart. Musician Slash gave a favorable review to Endgame via twitter. Hey, what better endorsement do you want, huh?

So prepare to slosh that leetle gray matter mass around your noggin’ as Megadeth – with supporting acts Machine Head, Suicide Silence and Arcanium (no pushing, now, plenty of angry angst for all the kids!) – refine head banging at House Of Blues in N. Myrtle Beach, SC on Saturday, November 28, 2009. Doors open 6:00pm. For ticket info call 843-272-3000 or Ticketmaster 843-679-9333; or visit www.houseofblues.com or www.ticketmaster.com.
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This article also appears at www.myrtlebeachalternatives.com under “Nightlife & Entertainment” in the Nov. 5, 2009 issue. was originally published at: http://bhowle.wordpress.com.

Train Rocks The Tracks To House Of Blues November 14

By Brian M. Howle

When a rock band takes its collective first steps in the world of recording and releases, it’s a tentative time at best for most who attempt to walk the line to stardom. The hard, cold fact is that more hit the express track to obscurity rather than basking in the glory of success and acceptance. But more often than not, when the public gives the “thumbs up” and embraces a newcomer, the rise can be equally opposite in the sense of meteoric arrival … and a good name can really make that express track work for them (in a double entendre sort of way).

So the 15-year sojourn of one of San Francisco’s favorite bunch of sons will be on stage for all to enjoy, as Train – with opening act Uncle Kracker – comes to House Of Blues in North Myrtle Beach, SC on Saturday, October 17, 2009.

Here’s the recap on their career, culled from their website and Wikipedia:

Train started out in San Francisco, and 1997 they were touring nationally, opening concerts for groups such as Barenaked Ladies and Counting Crows. The original band members – Patrick Monahan (lead vocals), Rob Hotchkiss (guitar, vocals), Scott Underwood (drums), Jimmy Stafford (guitar), and Charlie Colin (bass) – financed their self-titled debut, which cost them a total of $25,000 to produce. Columbia Records agreed to sign Train under Aware Records after hearing their first album. Their song “Free” saw significant airplay on mainstream rock radio, later being featured in the TV show Party of Five. Train then released the song “Meet Virginia” as a single. The song became a major hit on modern adult contemporary radio stations, and became a top 20 pop hit. The success of “Meet Virginia” helped their album graduate from the Top Heatseekers chart and enter the top half of the Billboard 200 album chart.

Prior to the release of their second album, the band issued the single “Drops of Jupiter (Tell Me)”. The song entered the Hot 100 on March 10, 2001, and spent over a year on the chart (53 weeks) before being relegated to the recurrents chart. The song won a Grammy Award for Best Rock Song, as well as a Grammy Award for Best Arrangement.

The album Drops of Jupiter was released on March 27, 2001, and became Train’s first multiplatinum album, due in part to the strength of the leading single. The album was Train’s first top 10 album, peaking at number 6 on the Billboard 200. The album was also a top 10 hit in the UK, where it peaked at number 8.

In 2002, founder Rob Hotchkiss left the band to pursue a solo career, after having contributed to 6 of the 11 songs on the upcoming My Private Nation album.

The band’s third album, My Private Nation, was released in June 2003 with “Calling All Angels” as the lead single. “Calling All Angels” became Train’s third top 20 hit, and was a major hit on the Billboard Hot Adult Contemporary Tracks chart.

The band released their first live album, Alive at Last, in 2004. Also in 2004, Train won a Radio Music Award for best artist.

Train began recording their fourth studio album, For Me, It’s You, in Atlanta during the summer of 2005. The album was the only Train album to include members Johnny Colt on bass (formerly of The Black Crowes original line up) and Brandon Bush on keyboards.

Starting in November 2006, the band took a break from recording and touring to be with friends and family. Lead singer Pat Monahan released a solo album, Last of Seven, on September 18, 2007. Train announced in April of 2009 that the band would be returning to its three original members with the departure of Johnny Colt and Brandon Bush. On August 11, 2009, Train released their first single in over 3 years, “Hey Soul Sister,” from their new album Save Me San Francisco, due to hit shelves October 27.

Over the course of 15 years, Train has made its mark on music history with their Grammy-Award-winning song “Drops of Jupiter (Tell Me)” and chart-topping singles “Meet Virginia” and “Calling All Angels.” Since forming in San Francisco in 1994, the multi-platinum selling band has traveled a long, successful and sometimes arduous journey. Following their 2006 release, For Me, It’s You, the band took a three-year hiatus, and in that time, Train has, for all intents and purposes, experienced an epiphany as a whole. Now, with their fifth album, Save Me San Francisco, Train has channeled their early days, revisiting the roots rock sound that has made the band such a tour de force – and, in turn, the band is united stronger than ever before.

“I think taking time away from each other really made the heart grow fonder,” frontman Pat Monahan says of the break. “We realized how important we were to one another and taking a few years off helped us all really look at ourselves and what we could contribute to this band as opposed to what we weren’t getting from the band.”

When looking back, Train credits the city of San Francisco with cultivating the band’s identity and foundation, so it’s no wonder than the title track of the record would pay homage to the Bay Area metropolis the band holds so dear. “We owe all of our gratitude to San Francisco because they embraced us back when, if they hadn’t have, no one would have,” Monahan explains. “Basically, this album is our way of paying tribute, giving thanks and also recognizing that we kind of need San Francisco to OK this band before anybody else does. Those were the best times of our lives – even though we didn’t know it – living in San Francisco and struggling to make a band work.”

“Save Me San Francisco” is an autobiographical account of Train’s beginnings, and embodies not only the spirit of the album, but also the soul of Train as a band. The song’s lyrics take the listener through the three-piece’s humble start in the mid-90s up through the time when Monahan, in particular, left the City by the Bay. “It’s very related to my existence, but Jimmy, Scott and I have been through a lot together in the last 14-15 years, so it represents a lot to them, too, because they don’t reside in San Francisco anymore, and we all miss it.”

Train spent April and May of 2009 holed up in London’s Kensaltown Studios with producer Martin Terefe (KT Tunstall, Jason Mraz, James Morrison) with whom Monahan credits with helping the band “get back to the roots of the first record.” “It was an incredibly refreshing environment that Martin created for the band,” the singer says. “I’m really appreciative of his approach on things because he’s really great at what he does. I had more fun making this record than ever in my life. I think I’ve made seven records and it was by far the most fun.”

Save Me San Francisco taps into Train’s organic sound, recalling the blues and folk-infused rock that put the band on the map from the start. “It’s pretty basic,” Monahan explains of the record. “But really cool because there’s super catchy riffs and melodies in it, which I think are way more important that any production trick or great-sounding vocal production. It’s kind of us going backward so we can go forward.”

It is befitting that the focus of Save Me San Francisco is as uncomplicated as the record sounds. Monahan explored the age-old concept of love through his signature storytelling lyrics and the album, as he explains, is “about love in every way you can think about it.”

“There are certain songs that, instead of there being an intention, there was almost a theme,” he says. “I think a lot of the way I wrote on this wasn’t necessarily, ‘Hey, this reminds me of a situation I was in,’ but more how I see certain things being lived out in life, whether it’s from myself or someone else’s perspective.”

In this day and age, career artists are few and far between, and after a decade and a half of being a band, Train is ready to present one of their strongest efforts to date. Monahan recognizes the band’s accomplishments, and, as he states so clearly, is more than grateful for the success they have experienced. However, for a band as consummate as Train is, Monahan still sets his goals high and hopes the band’s fans will continue to come along for the ride.

“I still remember what it’s like to paint houses,” he recalls. “I had fun because I loved the people that I worked with, but it’s really not what I want to do – not because it’s a degrading job or anything, but because when I’m on stage I feel so much more connected to who I think I truly am. I just want to stay connected to the highest level myself can be and I think it comes through music. With that said, I’ll never stop wanting to sell out Madison Square Garden, so my goals are very simple, but they’re pretty big at the same time. I think Train fans who have watched the good and the bad, have been a part of all of it and have loved some of the music and not liked some of the music, are really going to like this record a lot — I think, much more than they have in years.”

Personally, I don’t think their fans have anything to worry about – so come on out and see for yourself how they’re doing as Train – with opening act Uncle Kracker (yes, kids, it’s ALL good) – bring their San Francisco-flavored brand of music to House Of Blues in N. Myrtle Beach, SC on Saturday, November 14, 2009. Doors open 7:30pm. For ticket info call 843-272-3000 or Ticketmaster 843-679-9333; or visit www.houseofblues.com or www.ticketmaster.com.
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This article was also published in Alternatives NewsMagazine, October 22, 2009 and is at their website under “Nightlife & Entertainment” at www.myrtlebeachalternatives.com.

Guitar Superstar: An Interview with Steve Senes, Guitar Player Magazine’s Guitar Player of 2009

By Brian M. Howle

As we discovered in the last issue, Murrells Inlet’s resident guitar laureate Steve Senes bested nine other of the best guitarists on the planet to take the prestigious Guitar Player Magazine’s “Guitar Superstar: Guitar Player of 2009” title in San Francisco, CA, on Sept. 12, 2009.

Hot off the big win, Steve flew back home and began sorting through the hectic and fruitful week, and began making plans for taking his good fortune to the next level – which, as any guitarist worth his chops will tell you, is to be signed by a major recording label. But before that happens, this very accessible and extremely down-to-earth young man took the time to grant me an interview.

Howle: So, tell me … how did this long, winding musical road begin for Steve Senes?
Senes: Well, it’s because I have the coolest parents in the whole world … they took my sister and me to see KISS in concert back in ‘77 … and that was my very first concert … and that was it, man! I fell in love with the band and music in general, and rock and roll in particular. My folks bought me a little acoustic and I just beat the hell out of it the first day, you know? (Laughs)
So then when I was 9 or 10, I started taking guitar lessons from a guy, but didn’t really stick with it at the time. But when I was about 15, my friend and I were walking thru our neighborhood – him with a bass, me with my acoustic, like we’re badasses, you know? And this guy sees us walking by and says, “Hey, come over here and let me show you how to play that thing!” Turned out he had a Fender amp and Stratocaster … he taught me a bar chord, and then a major scale, and I was off and running. I got my first electric guitar and amp not long after that, and it’s all been downhill from there! (Both laugh) Everyone gets exposed to music in a different way, but I think it was this guy showing me how to play rock & roll.
One of the first songs he taught me was The Cars’ “Just What I Needed”, and that turned out to be sorta prophetically cool because one of the guys from The Cars was one of the judges in the Guitar Superstar contest. So there I am, vying for this title, in front of a guy who recorded the first rock song I ever learned.

Howle: So what was the biggest influence on you, as far as the genre of music that really got your juices flowing?
Senes: When I was about 15, one of my friends turned me on to Alcatrazz’ Live Sentence , which featured Yngwie Malmsteen on guitar while we were setting up to play at a party. (For you neophytes: In 2007, Malmsteen was honored in the Xbox 360 version of Guitar Hero II. Players can receive the “Yngwie Malmsteen” award by hitting 1000 or more notes in succession). I listened to that and thought, “Man, how the hell do you get a guitar to sound like that?”, and I focused from that point on, on teaching myself how to play in that vein. I played until my fingers were blue, and I realized, “Hey, I can play like that”, and from then on, I forgot about football and baseball and all that stuff I had been into before, and that was it, man! And I was a pretty good baseball player, you know? (Both laugh again)

Howle: Oh, and don’t I know that feeling well, as do a few other million guitarists. So when this fellow was teaching you guitar, did you learn to play be ear, or did you learn to read music?
Senes: Man, sometimes I don’t really know how the hell I learned or what I’m doing. I learned to play a lot of stuff by ear, like Twisted Sister, Iron Maiden or Mötley Crüe, because it’s really not all that complicated. But in order to grow as a musician, I knew I needed to learn the proper way. So when I graduated high school, I went to college and took music courses, and realized a lot of the things I had learned – in how to play – was basically wrong. So then I spent the next ten years or so unlearning that and reeducating myself the right way. But then I realized that pretty much took the rock ‘n roll out of it, and my way of playing and “feeling” it, you know .. so then I spent that time unlearning what I had learned in college, to get back to the way I really needed to play.

Howle: (Laughing) So that was a construction/deconstruction/reconstruction event?
Senes: Yeah, that’s pretty much the way it worked out!

Howle: I’ve seen you play several different types of guitar at your gigs here around the beach. What type of guitar do you prefer now?
Senes: The main ones I play now are made by ESP; the model is a Les Paul knockoff called the LTD EC-1000.

Howle: I first saw you playing a white Carvin, right?
Senes: Yeah, that was actually the electric that I learned on. But about a year or so ago, I found the ESP, and it really changed the way I play guitar. I have two of the them, and the sounds that come out of them when I play are amazing … I mean, there are harmonics and stuff that, in turn, bring out something else in my playing style that the other guitars just don’t evoke. It’s just a great sound that works for me in a very special way.

Steve had to stop for a few minutes to take a call from his buddy at ESP guitars (who flew up to San Francisco for the contest)…

Senes: Hey, that was my friend from ESP … just called to tell me he’s been having fun telling everyone that the guy who won the contest did it on a relatively inexpensive ESP … so now I’m in their official press kit!

Howle: Way cool! Sort of the whole idea of the fringe benefits of winning something like this, huh?
Senes: Actually, remember the guy I told you about, who saw my friend and I walking and taught me how to play? He works for PRS now (Paul Reed Smith guitars) as Quality Assurance Director.

Howle: Small world, huh?
Senes: Really! Anyway, what I was telling you about the ESP … when I was recording my CD, I would pick up any guitar and just do the same thing, you know, just shredding, running scales and stuff. But when I picked up the ESP for the first time, I started playing actual melody lines, you know? All kinds of new, different things started coming out, and I’m telling you, this guitar made it possible for me to make this CD.

Howle: What’s your songwriting process like? Do you have something set in your head, or do you just go in different directions and see what happens, or what?
Senes: It just depends on the material. I had one song on this CD , where I had this riff in my head for probably 7 or 8 years, but I never really sat down and worked the whole thing out. And then, like in “The Swami” there’s that intro loop; I just started that and liked it and then worked everything else around it. I remembered Steve Vai talking about how loops can be an inspiration for creativity. So when I got my gear that came with a bunch of different loops in it, I heard that one loop and started writing a solo over it.
Then I came back about a week later and started the middle break, and then the whole thing sorta wrote itself. And on another song, there was a drum loop that I sorta liked, and I got an idea for a bass line so I picked up the bass and started playing and did the whole bass line all the way through. And in two hours the whole song was completed and recorded. And them sometimes I’ll work on something for weeks and still never develop anything. It’s really weird … I wish I could come up with a reliable method for writing a song! But I guess it all works for the best …

Howle: Well, in my interviews with everyone from Lindsey Buckingham to Johnny Winter to Chubby Checker, the one thing that remains constant in all is that the best thing to do is stay true to yourself, and the way you are comfortable doing things … like they say, stick with who brung ya to the dance, you know?
Senes: And sometimes I’ll have a bass line, like one I had was an industrial sounding thing, and then I started fooling around with tempo changes and the next thing I knew, it had a funk groove to it. Like I said, I wish I could isolate whatever it is that makes it happen!

Howle: And then you could rule the world!
Senes: Exactly!

Howle: So how did you come about entering this contest, sponsored by Guitar Player Magazine?
Senes: Well, I read about it last year, and I thought about it, but I didn’t have anything prepared to submit for the entry process. And then this year I saw it again, and though, “Hey, what the hell,” and figured maybe someone at GPM would enjoy hearing something I played or something, never imagining I would be selected for the finals or anything. And one night at band practice (Steve is a member of Superswamp Heroes), I just mentioned in passing to the guys that I had entered this contest, and there was a date when they were having the finals and I said, “Hey, let’s leave this date open in the unlikely event I happen to get in or something”. And I had to set up an online account to submit the songs (a way to prevent a zillion wannabes who just picked up a guitar from cluttering the field with garbage) that required a fee, and they said finalists would be notified by Aug. 1.
Well, about Aug. 2 or so, I was getting a little tight on cash and was going to cancel that account to save the money. Now, when you click on the part to cancel, it prompts a box that says “Do you really want to cancel this account?” And I thought, “What the hell, it’s only 6 bucks and that’s not going to make or break me, so I’ll leave it there for a few more days.”
And not five minutes later, I got an email telling me that I had been selected for the finals.

Howle: Wow … that close to making a huge mistake, huh?
Senes: Yeah, and I can’t imagine how much I would have kicked myself for canceling and never knowing what would eventually come to pass.

Howle: How many people entered the contest? And how did GPM go about selecting the finalists?
Senes: One of their guys told me they got about 2,000 entries in all. And then the staff divided up the entries among them, and each one weeded out their choices and then they ended up with the Top 10 finalists .. and thank God, I was one of them.

Howle: Hey, when I’m out listening to musicians and I hear someone like you … I know you’re destined for bigger and better things. And it may sound a little odd, but I have to tell you, I’m really not surprised that you were selected – I’m happy for you and all, but I never doubted for a moment that you had that ability.
Senes: (In Steve’s typical, humble manner) Oh … well, you’re too kind .. thanks, man!

Howle: But, back to the details … what was the actual final, live competition like? How did that go down, and what was the time between when you played and when you learned the results?
Senes: Well, I flew out there a day early, to get acclimated to the time change and all and to be rested, so I got there on Thursday. And then I spent Friday practicing over and over, and then we went out Friday night and just hung out with all the other guitarists in the contest. And they were all just the coolest, nicest folks … I mean, really, nobody in the contest had an ego and it was just really cool.
So on Saturday, we all took the shuttle to the Livermore Valley Performing Arts Center in Livermore, California (east of San Francisco) around noon for a soundcheck with the backing band. The contest is the centerpiece of Guitar Player LIVE!, a 3-day celebration of guitars, music, and gear.
We each had about half and hour to get our settings and stuff on our amps and dialing in our sound, you know, and I got the first half of the song, and then the second half, and then my time was done and I was just raw nerves by then. I mean, Ihear all the other guys doing their stuff and I’m wondering, “Man, what in the hell am I even doing here?”
Well, I was scheduled to go on last (out of 10), and I was up in the Green Room, and I had decided not to listen to anyone so as not to psyche myself out or anything, and then someone goes and turns on the TV up there and I was like, “Oh, great”. So I just put my headphones on and started practicing, and it seemed like every time I took them off, they were critiquing a contestant’s performance, and they would be ripping them apart (sorta like the American Idol format of judges), and that added to the nerves, but it was sorta like a Guitar Summer Camp. I mean, whenever they would rip someone, everyone else was like, “Hey, come on, man” … so there’s all the judges, and about 800 people at a sold-out theater, waiting for you to do your thing …
And then when I walked out on stage, all the nerves just went away. And the next thing I knew, five minutes had passed and I was playing like the best guitar I had ever played in my life!

Howle: Sounds like you were in the zone, huh?
Senes: Well, the crowd was so amazing … it was the first time in my life I felt a stage shake with the applause. Man, that’s better than any kind of buzz you can imagine!

Howle: Hey, I can relate to that … that symbiotic relationship with the crowd is what makes it so alluring. So with the backup band – did you have to provide charts to them, or what?
Senes: Well, they would take charts if you had them, but they said you could just submit MP3’s of your song and that’s what I did. One guy gave the band those, and then each member charted out their part. I can attest to how they did on the other guys’ stuff, but on mine, they were freakin’ unbelieveable.

Howle: I would think they would have to be, to take on 10 musician’s songs from a cold start and then play up to each one’s expectations.
Senes: Oh, easily, the best group of musicians I have ever had the good fortune to be on stage with. They were called “Thud Factor”, and man, they were just awesome.

Howle: Well, how long was it before you learned that you had won?
Senes: I was the last contestant to play, and I wandered outside to text message my dad, and when I came back it was just about ready … I’d say maybe 15 minutes from when I finished.

Howle: Oh … (Laughs) Oh, really? Hey, talk about your Karma justice … saving the best for last?
Senes: Actually, that’s what the guy from The Cars said – they saved the best for last!

Howle: I’ll say it again, Steve … I love ya, but honestly, I’m really not surprised that you won. You are really just that good, my friend.
Senes: Man, it’s disorienting to keep hearing that … all my friends say the same thing, and I’m wondering, “Man, am I the only one who’s surprised?” (Laughs)

Howle: And that’s what makes you so special, bud … So, what sort of things have been happening as a result of winning this puppy?
Senes: Man, it’s ongoing, but I’ve gotten some endorsements from Voodoo amps and Keeley effects … and I’ve been in touch with the guy that handles Gene Simmons … As far as goodies, let’s see … I got: • My choice of one of 3 Mesa/Boogie amps (I chose the Stiletto) • BC Rich Exotic Class Mockingbird in Spalted Maple • D’Addario Prize Package (dunno what’s in there) • My choice of a Seymour Duncan stompbox and pickup set • Voyage-Air Acoustic Guitar • Line 6 Spider IV 75 • Peterson StroboStomp 2 • N-Tune Tuners • Essential Sound Products – MusicCord PRO Power CordDean Markley Prize Package.

Howle: And when will this be in Guitar Player Magazine?
Senes: They print so far in advance, probably not until the first of the year, which is cool because that gives me more time to work on getting my CD mastered.

Howle: So what’s the long range goal now, bud?
Senes: Well, Superswamp Heroes is my main thing, you know .. what I’m really hoping for is to get a little money out of this, maybe get my name out there a little bit, and a recording deal would be nice … but really, whatever happens at this point is fine by me!

Howle: As it would be by all of us out here who are in your corner, Steve. Thanks for your time, and continued success in all of your endeavors.

And folks, that is what you get with this humble, grounded guitar wizard … an easy going attitude without the ego, and I just can’t say it enough … one of the nicest and most talented guys you will ever have the pleasure to meet.

So if you’re lucky enough to live in our little patch of Paradise, make a point to visit Steve’s website and then check out Superswamp Heroes (and his acoustic project, Pale Horse, which plays Wednesdays thru October at Bully’s in North Myrtle Beach). For further updates visit his MySpace site at www.myspace.com/9yu and his website at http://senesmusic.com
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This article also appears in Alternatives NewsMagazine, October 8, 2009 at www.myrtlebeachalternatives.com

Bonnie Raitt’s Legendary Music Comes To House Of Blues October 17

By Brian M. Howle

The stats will tell you that her first breakthrough album was recorded in 1977, and the hit single was “Runaway”. But for me, the signature album was 1982’s Green Light, and the song that caught my ear was the uberbiographical “Me & The Boys”. And with that, I became a huge fan, and I have waited oh, these many years for this iconic musician to visit our fair little village by the sea.

And now my wait is finally over, and I invite you to join me as Bonnie Raitt – with extra-special treat opening act Randall Bramblett – comes to House Of Blues in North Myrtle Beach, SC on Saturday, October 17, 2009.

Here’s the background on Bonnie from her official website:

More than just a best-selling artist, respected guitarist, expressive singer, and accomplished songwriter, Bonnie Raitt has become an institution in American music. The release of Souls Alike, her eighteenth album, marks yet another brave, exhilarating step in a legendary body of work.

Born to a musical family, the nine-time Grammy winner is the daughter of celebrated Broadway singer John Raitt (Carousel, Oklahoma!, The Pajama Game) and accomplished pianist/singer Marge Goddard. She was raised in Los Angeles in a climate of respect for the arts, Quaker traditions, and a commitment to social activism. A Stella guitar given to her as a Christmas present launched Bonnie on her creative journey at the age of eight. While growing up, though passionate about music from the start, she never considered that it would play a greater role than as one of her many growing interests.

In the late ‘60s, restless in Los Angeles, she moved east to Cambridge, Massachusetts. As a Harvard/Radcliffe student majoring in Social Relations and African Studies, she attended classes and immersed herself in the city’s turbulent cultural and political activities. “I couldn’t wait to get back to where there were folkies and the antiwar and civil rights movements,” she says. “There were so many great music and political scenes going on in the late ‘60s in Cambridge.” Also, she adds, with a laugh, “the ratio of guys to girls at Harvard was four to one, so all of those things were playing in my mind.”

Raitt was already deeply involved with folk music and the blues at that time. Exposure to the album Blues at Newport 1963 at age 14 had kindled her interest in blues and slide guitar, and between classes at Harvard she explored these and other styles in local coffeehouse gigs. Three years after entering college, Bonnie left to commit herself full-time to music, and shortly afterward found herself opening for surviving giants of the blues. From Mississippi Fred McDowell, Sippie Wallace, Son House, Muddy Waters, and John Lee Hooker she learned first-hand lessons of life as well as invaluable techniques of performance.

“I’m certain that it was an incredible gift for me to not only be friends with some of the greatest blues people who’ve ever lived, but to learn how they played, how they sang, how they lived their lives, ran their marriages, and talked to their kids,” she says. “I was especially lucky as so many of them are no longer with us.”

Word spread quickly of the young redhaired blueswoman, her soulful, unaffected way of singing, and her uncanny insights into blues guitar. Warner Bros. tracked her down, signed her up, and in 1971 released her debut album, Bonnie Raitt. Her interpretations of classic blues by Robert Johnson and Sippie Wallace made a powerful critical impression, but the presence of intriguing tunes by contemporary songwriters, as well as several examples of her own writing, indicated that this artist would not be restricted to any one pigeonhole or style.

Over the next seven years she would record six albums. Give It Up, Takin’ My Time, Streetlights, and Home Plate were followed in 1977 by Sweet Forgiveness, which featured her first hit single, a gritty Memphis/R&B arrangement of Del Shannon’s “Runaway.” Three Grammy nominations followed in the 1980s, as she released The Glow, Green Light, and Nine Lives. A compilation of highlights from these Warner Bros. albums (plus two previously unreleased live duets) was released as The Bonnie Raitt Collection in 1990.

After forging an alliance with Capitol Records in 1989, Bonnie achieved new levels of popular and critical acclaim. She won four Grammy Awards in 1990—three for her Nick of Time album and one for her duet with John Lee Hooker on his breakthrough album, The Healer. Within weeks, Nick of Time shot to number one (it is now certified quintuple platinum). Luck of the Draw (1991, seven-times platinum) brought even more success, firing two hit singles— “Something to Talk About” and “I Can’t Make You Love Me” —up the charts, and adding three more Grammys to her shelf. The double-platinum Longing in Their Hearts, released in 1994, featured the hit single “Love Sneakin’ Up On You” and was honored with a Grammy for Best Pop Album. It was followed in1995 by the live double CD and film Road Tested (now available on DVD).

After all the awards and honors and decades of virtually non-stop touring under her belt, Bonnie decided to take a break and enjoy some of the well-earned rewards of life off the road. Spending time biking, hiking, and doing yoga, enjoying family and friends, and traveling for fun instead of work brought her a great sense of renewal and purpose. Of course, she never really went too far away, continuing her activism and guesting on numerous friends’ records, including Ruth Brown, Charles Brown, Keb’ Mo, Ladysmith Black Mambazo, and Bruce Cockburn, as well as tribute records for Richard Thompson, Lowell George, and Pete Seeger. She picked up another Grammy in 1996 for Best Rock Instrumental Performance for her collaboration on “SRV Shuffle” from the all-star Tribute to Stevie Ray Vaughan, and continued her “dual career,” performing with her father, John, in concerts as well as on his Grammy-nominated album, Broadway Legend, released in 1995.

In 1998, she returned to the studio with a new collaborative team to create Fundamental, one of her most exploratory projects, signaling her growing desire to “shake things up a bit.” Inspired by the music of Zimbabwean world-beat master Oliver Mtukudzi, Bonnie wrote “One Belief Away,” the first single, with Paul Brady and Dillon O’Brian.

In March of 2000, Bonnie was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame; this was followed by her welcome into the Hollywood Bowl Hall of Fame, along with her father, in June 2001. Over the years, Bonnie has appeared as a guest on over 100 album projects, as chronicled in the discography section of her official website. She continues to stretch the boundaries, performing with artists as varied as Cape Verdean singer Cesaria Evora, and legends B.B.King, Tony Bennett, and Willie Nelson.

All of Raitt’s experiences led her to Souls Alike, her first album ever to bear the credit “Produced by Bonnie Raitt.” The album, again recorded with her close-knit, beloved touring band and ace engineer/co-producer, Tchad Blake, is a collection of songs by lesser-known songwriters with whom Raitt feels a deep affinity and whose work she is eager to champion.

Featuring some surprising new directions and, as she describes them, “thorny, adult themes,” the ambitious and innovative Souls Alike reveals an extraordinary artist who’s never been content to rest on her laurels. “You gotta do stuff that stretches you,” Bonnie says. “I’d hang up my spurs if I didn’t have something new to play.” Sounds ranging from the stark fragility of “I Don’t Want Anything to Change” (written by Liz Rose, Stephanie Chapman, and Maia Sharp) to the swampy electronic loops behind John Capek and Marc Jordan’s “Deep Water” attest to Raitt’s desire to grow and find new things to say. The themes tackled in “The Bed I Made” (also by Batteau and Sharp) or Randall Bramblett and Davis Causey’s “God Was In The Water” are sophisticated, adult, and complex — hardly conventional material for pop songs.

“I Will Not Be Broken,” the Grammy-nominated lead single from Souls Alike (written by Gordon Kennedy, Wayne Kirkpatrick, and Tommy Sims, the team behind Silver Lining’s “I Can’t Help You Now” and Eric Clapton’s “Change the World”) reflects Raitt’s mindset during the making of the record. “There was an element of being pushed to the wall with what was going on in my personal life, my family crises—and then there was the election,” she says. “So that song was like an anthem for me, and for everybody that wants to feel like they can stand up to getting pushed around.”

Souls Alike debuted at #19 on the Billboard 200 in September 2005, eliciting widespread critical acclaim and propelling Raitt back onto the road. (She’s resumed the Green Highway eco-partnership she began on the Silver Lining tour.) On September 30, 2005, Raitt performed a special concert at Trump Taj Mahal in Atlantic City, NJ, which aired as the premiere episode of VH1 Classic’s “Decades Rock Live” series. The innovative concert series pairs celebrated artists of rock and roll with some of today’s hottest recording acts who have been influenced and inspired by these legends.

Raitt has since been selected as the inaugural artist for the companion series of DVD/CD releases. VH1 Classic Decades Rock Live! Presents Bonnie Raitt and Friends Featuring Norah Jones, Ben Harper, Alison Krauss and Keb’Mo’ was released in August of 2006 and features never-before-seen performance and interview footage, including four duets not included in the VH1 Classic broadcast of the concert. With two hours of concert and interview footage, the concert which was filmed in Hi-Definition and is presented in 5.1 audio, features Raitt performing 17 songs with her longtime band – George Marinelli (guitar), James “Hutch” Hutchinson (bass), Ricky Fataar (drums) and Jon Cleary (keyboards). Included are such classic Raitt hits as “Something To Talk About,” “Love Letter” (with Mo’), “You” (with Krauss) and a knock-out encore of “Love Sneakin’ Up On You” with Raitt, Jones, Harper, Krauss and Mo’ as well as highlights from Souls Alike, including “I Will Not Be Broken,” “God Was In The Water”, “I Don’t Want Anything To Change” (with Jones) and “Unnecessarily Mercenary” (a duet with keyboardist Cleary, who wrote the song). The accompanying CD features 11 tracks, including the radio single “Two Lights In The Nighttime” (featuring Ben Harper).

These last few years have also brought some personal challenges as well. After a prolonged illness, her father passed away in early 2005; her mother died unexpectedly from complications from Alzheimer’s just months earlier; and in 2009, Bonnie’s brother finally succumbed to his battle with brain cancer which he valiantly fought with a macrobiotic diet program for eight years.

Bonnie continues to use her influence to affect the way music is perceived and appreciated in the world. In 1988, she co-founded the Rhythm and Blues Foundation, which works to improve royalties, financial conditions, and recognition for a whole generation of R&B pioneers to whom she feels we owe so much. In 1995, she initiated the Bonnie Raitt Guitar Project with the Boys and Girls Clubs of America, currently running in 200 clubs around the world, to encourage underprivileged youth to play music as budgets for music instruction in the schools run dry.

So, for maximum bang for your buck, come spend a memorable evening as Bonnie Raitt – with opening act Randall Bramblett – brings her distinctive musical stylings to House Of Blues in N. Myrtle Beach, SC on Saturday, October 17, 2009. Doors open 7:00pm. For ticket info call 843-272-3000 or Ticketmaster 843-679-9333; or visit www.houseofblues.com or www.ticketmaster.com.
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This was originally published at: http://bhowle.wordpress.com.

Super Swamp Heroes’ Steve Senes Wins Guitar Player Magazine’s “Guitar Player of 2009″ Contest

Steve Senes wowed the crowd at the Bankhead Theater in Livermore, CA. (From Guitar Player Magazine’s website)

By Brian M. Howle

One of the coolest, neatest things about being a music junkie is that from time to time, one gets to savor the moment of realization that you have just witnessed or listened to one of the truly, exceptionally gifted musicians of our time – and that person is a local. It is, in an odd way for someone like me who loves to verbally interpret the sounds I hear, difficult to convey to non-audiophiles how satisfying the discovery can be.

So, when one of those discoveries up and wins Guitar Player Magazine’s “Guitar Player of 2009” contest, you’ll have for forgive me for reminding folks, “I knew that boy was gonna make the big time!”

And Murrells Inlet’s resident guitar laureate Steve Senes did, indeed, make the big time, as he stood above nine other of the best guitarists on the planet to take the prestigious title in San Francisco, CA, on Sept. 12, 20009.

Here’s some background info from Steve’s website:

Steve is currently lead guitrist for his homespun band, Super Swam[p Heroes. Having played with various bands over the years, Steve Senes has amassed quite a large variety of styles ranging from Rock, Metal, Country to Funk, R&B and Soul. Every band Steve has played with has left a mark on his playing and writing style. This diversity is especially evident on Steve’s soon to be released solo instrumental CD, “dE-eVolution oF thEorY”.

So who is this guy? Imagine if you will the soulful, melodic catchiness of Joe Satriani, Eric Johnson and George Lynch; the sneaky, rhythmic quickness of old school Eddie Van Halen and Nuno Bettencourt; the harmonic complexity of Steve Vai and Jason Becker; the insane shred of Yngwie Malmsteen and Paul Gilbert. Now add the drum and bass-heavy crunch of Metallica; the brutal grooviness of Pantera, Disturbed and Sevendust. Toss in a cool Latin journey ala Carlos Santana; even take a trip back to the 70’s on a Starsky and Hutch vibe.

Since discovering the music of KISS at the age of 7, loud pounding Rock-n-Roll has played a central roll in Steveʼs life. Growing up in a rural town fifty miles south of Washington, D.C., out of range of most radio stations (no MTV), exposure to new music wasnʼt easy to come by. Being content with the escape provided through the music of such bands as KISS, Iron Maiden, AC/DC, Van Halen and Ozzy (to name but a few), Steve didn’t actually start playing seriously until the age of 15, after hearing the insane playing of Yngwie Malmsteen.

According to Steve, “I was at a party and my friend Dave said “hey check this out”, and puts on the live Alcatrazz album. As soon as I heard Yngwie’s playing, I committed myself to becoming the best player I could be, right there on the spot!”

Solely self-taught, Steve quickly began building a name for himself, pulling off Randy Rhoads and Van Halen solos by ear, only mere weeks after picking up the guitar. Cutting his teeth playing the local scene, Steve learned early on to love the stage. Driven by this, Steve retreated into an almost unimaginable practice regimen. On days when he actually went to school, Steve was playing guitar 12 to 14 hours a day, sometimes more.

All the heavy practicing began to pay off early as Steve started entering and winning every guitar contest within driving range (including one judged by the legendary Steve Vai). Local gigs grew into regional shows and soon Steve caught the attention of such notable figures as Eric Johnson, Paul Reed Smith, “Dimebag” Daryl Abbot and others. After years of constant touring in pickup trucks, dealing with a withering metal scene, Steve got a wild hair to move to South Carolina and play Country music. Yee Haw!

The Country thing only lasted a few months, but liking his new surroundings, Steve decided to stay. Spending the next decade-plus playing with a wide variety of cover bands, provided Steve with an expansive range of additional influences; a collection far too extensive to list here.
Several years of 300+ gigs a year with various local/regional acts has further transformed Steve, from a guy who just loves to play, to an artist who craves the stage seven nights a week. Through all this, Steve has continued writing music. Over the years this wide range of influences has really begun to show in Steveʼs songwriting. Although heavy grooves and riffs still make up a good number of Steveʼs songs, youʼll notice the huge array of influences.

Steve is currently endorsed by Voodoo Amplification and Keeley Electronics.

Steve is a busy guy, so he also plays in an acoustic band called Pale Horse. You can catch them on Wednesdays thru October at Bully’s in North Myrtle Beach.

You can read firsthand about his win at http://www.guitarplayer.com/article/steve-senes-wins/sep-09/100721

To view a video of Steve’s original composition, “The Swami” (which he performed live in winning “Guitar Player of 2009″) go to http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Or3i2RcVV4

And of course, to learn just about everything you need to know about the man, visit Steve’s site at http://senesmusic.com

Note: Look for my Sept. 21 interview with Steve soon (to be added to this article), and also in the next issue of Alternatives NewsMagazine (Oct. 8, 2009) and then online at www.myrtlebeachalternatives.com

My personal congratulations to a truly gifted musician, made even sweeter by being a local whom I and countless others have supported and patronized by attending live shows all over the Strand and Low Country. Remember – it’s not what kind of music that counts; what counts is that you keep live music live.
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B.B. King To Hold Court At House Of Blues October 3

B.B. King with Lucille

By Brian M. Howle

Rarely will you ever hear me proselytize about the need for everyone to hear this one artist at least one time in your individual lifetimes. Music, much like life, tends to be both abject and objective. So when I think of an artist who bridges all genres, all generations, all boundaries real or imagined – I can only find one, storied name.

And I don’t think you’ll be too surprised to know my choice for this title is B.B. King, which is made even more delectable by the fact that the legendary bluesman will bring his merry band of compatriots to House Of Blues in North Myrtle Beach, SC on Saturday, October 3, 2009.

I’ve attended every show that B.B. has performed at HOB since it opened in 1999, and each one remains ensconced atop my considerably extensive concert attendance record as the most enjoyable – by both the audience and the artist.

Here’s a little of the history of this true icon, from his official website:

His reign as King of the Blues has been as long as that of any monarch on earth. Yet B.B. King continues to wear his crown well. At age 84 (his birthday was Sept. 16), he is still light on his feet, singing and playing the blues with relentless passion. Time has no apparent effect on B.B., other than to make him more popular, more cherished, more relevant than ever. Don’t look for him in some kind of semi-retirement; look for him out on the road, playing for people, popping up in a myriad of T.V. commercials, or laying down tracks for his next album. B.B. King is as alive as the music he plays, and a grateful world can’t get enough of him.

For more than half a century, Riley B. King – better known as B.B. King – has defined the blues for a worldwide audience. Since he started recording in the 1940s, he has released over fifty albums, many of them classics. He was born September 16, 1925, on a plantation in Itta Bena, Mississippi, near Indianola. In his youth, he played on street corners for dimes, and would sometimes play in as many as four towns a night. In 1947, he hitchhiked to Memphis, TN, to pursue his music career. Memphis was where every important musician of the South gravitated, and which supported a large musical community where every style of African American music could be found. B.B. stayed with his cousin Bukka White, one of the most celebrated blues performers of his time, who schooled B.B. further in the art of the blues.

B.B.’s first big break came in 1948 when he performed on Sonny Boy Williamson’s radio program on KWEM out of West Memphis. This led to steady engagements at the Sixteenth Avenue Grill in West Memphis, and later to a ten-minute spot on black-staffed and managed Memphis radio station WDIA. “King’s Spot,” became so popular, it was expanded and became the “Sepia Swing Club.” Soon B.B. needed a catchy radio name. What started out as Beale Street Blues Boy was shortened to Blues Boy King, and eventually B.B. King.

In the mid-1950s, while B.B. was performing at a dance in Twist, Arkansas, a few fans became unruly. Two men got into a fight and knocked over a kerosene stove, setting fire to the hall. B.B. raced outdoors to safety with everyone else, then realized that he left his beloved $30 acoustic guitar inside, so he rushed back inside the burning building to retrieve it, narrowly escaping death. When he later found out that the fight had been over a woman named Lucille, he decided to give the name to his guitar to remind him never to do a crazy thing like fight over a woman. Ever since, each one of B.B.’s trademark Gibson guitars has been called Lucille.

Soon after his number one hit, “Three O’Clock Blues,” B.B. began touring nationally. In 1956, B.B. and his band played an astonishing 342 one-night stands. From the chitlin circuit with its small-town cafes, juke joints, and country dance halls to rock palaces, symphony concert halls, universities, resort hotels and amphitheaters, nationally and internationally, B.B. has become the most renowned blues musician of the past 40 years.

Over the years, B.B. has developed one of the world’s most identifiable guitar styles. He borrowed from Blind Lemon Jefferson, T-Bone Walker and others, integrating his precise and complex vocal-like string bends and his left hand vibrato, both of which have become indispensable components of rock guitarist’s vocabulary. His economy, his every-note-counts phrasing, has been a model for thousands of players, from Eric Clapton and George Harrison to Jeff Beck. B.B. has mixed traditional blues, jazz, swing, mainstream pop and jump into a unique sound. In B.B.’s words, “When I sing, I play in my mind; the minute I stop singing orally, I start to sing by playing Lucille.”

B.B. continues to tour extensively, averaging over 250 concerts per year around the world. Classics such as “Payin’ The Cost To Be The Boss,” “The Thrill Is Gone,” How Blue Can You Get,” “Everyday I Have The Blues,” and “Why I Sing The Blues” are concert (and fan) staples. Over the years, the Grammy Award-winner has had two #1 R&B hits, 1951’s “Three O’Clock Blues,” and 1952’s “You Don’t Know Me,” and four #2 R&B hits, 1953’s “Please Love Me,” 1954’s “You Upset Me Baby,” 1960’s “Sweet Sixteen, Part I,” and 1966’s “Don’t Answer The Door, Part I.” B.B.’s most popular crossover hit, 1970’s “The Thrill Is Gone,” went to #15 pop.

I know, it almost writes itself .. but come hear the thrill before it’s gone, when B.B. King leaves his legacy at House Of Blues in N. Myrtle Beach, SC on Saturday, October 3, 2009. Doors open 7:00pm. For ticket info call 843-272-3000 or Ticketmaster 843-679-9333; or visit www.houseofblues.com or www.ticketmaster.com.
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This was originally published at: http://bhowle.wordpress.com.

Jason Michael Carroll Will Have ‘Em Swoonin’ At House Of Blues On September 26

Jason Michael Carroll

By Brian M. Howle

Now, when your daddy is a conservative Christian minister who takes a very dim view of any secular music – much less country music – well, one would think it tends to make the odds of you becoming a big-time, everybody-loves-you country music star pretty slim, huh?

Not so when you enter a local singing contest (after getting some positive input from mom), and then when the manager of Hootie & The Blowfish discovers you, life only gets better. And for the short answer to the man behind the riddle, well, my friends, come say hello to Jason Michael Carroll when he takes the stage at House Of Blues in N. Myrtle Beach, SC on Saturday, September 26, 2009.

Here’s a mix of info from his official website and Wikipedia:

The accomplishments are impressive enough for any new artist – Waitin’ in the Country, a chart-topping debut album nearing a half-million in sales, three hit singles from that album (all of which he wrote or co-wrote), a Gold ringtone certification, and opening spots on some of country’s hottest tours. The key to Jason Michael Carroll’s success is evident in every note he sings – live or in the studio – and it lies in his authenticity. Whether it’s the empathy brought to bear on the tragedy of “Alyssa Lies,” the pure passion of “Livin’ Our Love Song” or the youthful exuberance of “I Can Sleep When I’m Dead,” Carroll knows how to connect with fans, and together with hard work, undeniable talent, and good looks, that connection has launched one of country’s most impressive young careers.
Born on June 13, 1978, Carroll grew up in a religious household in Raleigh, North Carolina. It’s a career whose music aptly depicts Carroll as country’s Gen-Y family man, reflecting his generation’s transition from party to parenthood, and able to fully express the joys inherent in both worlds and the tensions that can come in moving from unencumbered freedom to the responsibilities of home and hearth. As a husband and father of four, Carroll sings eloquently about both sides of the equation in songs that recognize the firm foundation that country roots and a sense of community provide in a fast-moving world.
Now, with the April 2009 release of his sophomore album, Growing Up Is Getting Old (Arista Nashville), he fulfills the promise of his first record and takes his career a big step forward. The first single, “Where I’m From,” could have come from the pages of his life, and yet paradoxically enough, given his strengths as a songwriter, it’s one he didn’t write.
“People ask me, ‘Do you only record songs you wrote?’ My answer is always, ‘No, if I believe in a song I didn’t write more than a song I did, I’d record it first,’” Carroll says, “and here I kind of had the chance to put my money where my mouth is.” The tale of two men from seemingly opposite worlds who meet by chance explores the similarities that lie beneath most of our differences.
“No matter where life carries you, and it carries us in all different directions, if you boil it down to the nuts and bolts of it, most of us are really the same,” he says. The song is filled with points that hit home, from the seat he occupied in his father’s church and the fact that his son bears part of his grandfather’s name to the affect cancer has had on those close to him. Its authenticity is ideal to an album that finds Carroll digging deeper creatively and solidifying his place in country music.
“You have a responsibility to your fans,” he says, “not only to record songs that are hits but also to record songs that mean something to you and convey to your fans who you are.”
Those songs are all over Growing Up Is Getting Old. A Carolina-born preacher’s son raised in a strict household, Carroll threw himself whole-heartedly into life and music when he got the chance. The resulting tension between experience and responsibility, and the hard-won wisdom that grows out of the maturing process have always infused the music he makes.
Growing Up Is Getting Old found Jason Michael once again working with producer Don Gehman, known for his work with Hootie and the Blowfish, John Mellencamp, Tracy Chapman, and R.E.M.
“We collaborate really well together,” Carroll says. “Now, we butt heads really well together, too,” he adds with a laugh, “but I think that’s part of a great relationship when you have two people with really creative sides who can find a way to get both their influences into what they’re working on.”

The creative tension behind the teamwork produced an album that showcases both the passion and sincerity in his voice and the talent that brought Jason Michael from the Carolina nightspots where he honed his craft to national attention.

He quickly learned how his music could truly affect lives, with fans regularly approaching him with stories of the impact that “Alyssa Lies” or “Livin’ Our Love Song” had on them.
“My songs speak so much to so many people,” he says. “I really can’t take for granted what I’m doing, and I thank God every day I have the chance to keep doing it.”
But through it all, he remains a young man who has not lost touch with his roots, and it’s obvious he’s embraced the wisdom he received from a superstar touring partner.
“I was hanging out with Brooks & Dunn on the road, and Ronnie Dunn said, ‘Jason, don’t let anything change you. Be who you are. That’s what got you here.’ It’s great advice.”

Naw, he ain’t gonna go change on you, kids. He is gonna stop by and show you where the path has taken him, though, as Jason Michael Carroll takes command of House Of Blues in N. Myrtle Beach, SC on Saturday, September 26, 2009. Doors open 7:30pm. For ticket info call 843-272-3000 or Ticketmaster 843-679-9333; or visit www.houseofblues.com or www.ticketmaster.com.
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The previous article also appears under “Nightlife & Entertainment” in Alternatives NewsMagazine, Sept. 10, 2009, at www.myrtlebeachalternatives.com

Flat Rock Music Festival Set For Sept. 25-27

Awendaw's Danielle Howle will perform at the Flat Rock Music Festival.

By Brian M. Howle

An Emerging Songwriter’s Contest and Showcase and a unique and remarkable musical lineup are the hallmarks of the Flat Rock Music Festival, to be held Sept. 25-27 in scenic Flat Rock, N.C.

The Emerging Songwriter’s Contest and Showcase at Flat Rock is the perfect opportunity for songwriters that desire exposure at a top music festival and are capable of performing on a festival main stage. Festival Music Director, Bob Sinclair, says. “The Finalists at our contest rival anything you will see anywhere in the US – It is always a coming out party for great new talent”. With festival and venue promoters, professional songwriters, studio personnel and other members of the music industry as our judging panel, Emerging Songwriter finalists will have the chance to perform for influential members in the regional and national music scene. In addition, studio and recording time from “In House Recording Studios” and “Four Seasons Records” will be awarded to the the top 2 winners.

The festival features Americana music at three venues, musical and songwriting workshops, open mikes, jams, Kids Village with crafts, children’s parade, food and other vendors, plus camping, boating and swimming.

Artists Scheduled to Perform:
GRAMMY Winner: Jim Lauderdale; GRAMMY Nominee: Lisa Haley and the Zydekats; Lake Street Dive; Now You See Them; Pale Young Gentlemen; The Claire Lynch Band; Hobex; Carrie Rodriquez w/her band; Sam Quinn and Japan Ten (formerly with everybodyfields); Jonathan Scales Fourchestra; Tropic Culture; Michael Reno Harrell; Rhythm Angels; Grayson Capps and The Stumpknockers; Parkington Sisters; Danielle Howle; Dirty Rug Band; Thunderdrums; Drive South; Melanie MacNeil and Asheville Hoops; and Kort McCumber – 2008 Emerging Songwriter Contestant Winner!

Back by Popular Demand: Sunday filled with festival favorites from the past….”Old Home Day!!”: 17 South; The Smokey Joe Show; Moon Shine Babies; Sam Anderson; Anon Dixon Day; Rock Killough; Jerry’s Jam; Gove Scrivenor; and Grammy Nominee Stanley C. Adkins and Low Tide Louie.

The Flat Rock Music Festival is held in the fall each year at 365-acre Camp Ton-a-Wandah, a family–owned summer girls’ residential camp in its 74th year, in historic Flat Rock, N.C. Located just off I-26 at Exit 53 (Upward Road) to Hwy. 25. Featuring musical and songwriting workshops, open mikes, jams, Kids Village with crafts, children’s parade, food and other vendors, chapel service, plus camping, boating and swimming, it is open to all ages.

For info ago to www.flatrockmusicfestival.com
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The previous article also appears under “Nightlife & Entertainment” at www.myrtlebeachalternatives.com

The Incredible Sandwich To Perform At Droopy’s Sept. 23

By Jennifer Gibson

The Incredible Sandwich is an eclectic quartet hailing from Athens, Ga.Their music is a creative, intelligent blend of musical styles such as Latin, jazz, funk and rock, with unexpected educated improv jams that take the listener on a surprising musical journey.

The band is rapidly amassing a strong fan base throughout the Southeast and recently won the award for Best Upstart Band in the Flagpole Magazine’s annual music awards. The Incredible Sandwich will be performing at Droopy’s in Myrtle Beach on Wednesday, September, 23. Show time is 11 p.m.. Cover charge is $2. Ages 21+ welcome.

“The Sandwich,” as they are known to their fans, features Matt McKinney on lead guitar and vocals, Kevin Juneau on bass guitar, Damian Kapcala on keyboards, and Rackley Davis on drums and vocals. It’s all about the live show with this band. The energy generated during their live shows through McKinney’s powerful command of the guitar combined with the thumping rhythm section of Juneau, the intricate percussion of Davis, all accentuated by Kapcala on Hammond B3 and moog synthesizer, continues to convert more and more fans with each performance.

The group released a five-song self-titled EP on the Athens-based Mule Train Records on April 25.

Here’s what the press is saying about this new group:

“After seeing Athens quartet The Incredible Sandwich kick out the jams at the Georgia Theatre, I saw a glimmer of something great, a Southern spaced-out kind of psychedelic prog rock. Sure, Phish, Jerry Garcia and Widespread Panic touchstones were there, but beyond the jam, there were Wilco noodles and Radiohead-tinged space rock abstractions.” – The Red & Black

“The Incredible Sandwich has made quick progress with its friendly and familiar blend of rock, funk, jazz, Latin and jam-band sensibilities.” – Athens Banner

“With a sound that ranges from melodic to psychedelic, The Incredible Sandwich often infuses elements of funk and Latin grooves into itshigh-energy fusion.” - The Flagpole
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The previous article also appears in Alternatives NewsMagazine, August 28, 2009.

QRock Radio Presents The Rock 102 Radio Reunion Concert Featuring Nantucket Sept. 25

Where it all began ... the control board of the original WKZQ studio circa early 1970s, with Station Manager Bill Hennecy stylin’ & profilin’ (right).

The legendary rock band, Nantucket will be headlining the upcoming Rock 102 Radio Reunion Concert on Friday, September 25th. The Paul Grimshaw Band and Billy Wright & Steve Marino will also be appearing. The concert starts at 7:00 PM at Celebrity Square at Broadway at the Beach. Tickets are available online now at www.QRockRadio.com.

For a $15 donation, fans receive a ticket for preferred seating at the show plus 5 tickets for prize drawings during the evening. Additional tickets will be available for purchase at the concert. The grand prize will be a Hagstrom Viking II cherry red electric jazz guitar donated by Star Music of Myrtle Beach. All proceeds from the event will benefit, South by Southeast, a local non-profit organization which assists local music education programs.

Nantucket is a hard rock band that formed in Jacksonville, North Carolina in 1969. Originally known as beach music band Stax of Gold and later Nantucket Sleighride (after the song by Mountain), the six-member group — Tommy Redd, Larry Uzzell, Mike Uzzell, Eddie Blair, Kenny Soule, and Mark Downing — eventually became a powerful and tenacious sensation, amassing numerous fans across the southeastern United States well before its first release – best known for singles like, “Heartbreaker” (if you had a band, you covered this song or you needn’t bother trying to get a booking), “Hiding From Love” and a version of “It’s A Long Way to the Top (If You Wanna Rock ‘N’ Roll)”. Bob Scarborough, one of the driving forces behind Q Rock Radio says, “Having Nantucket headline our reunion concert is just icing on the cake. We’ve billed our online radio station as a place where listeners can relive the greatest summer of their lives. Nantucket provided the music for a lot of those memories for so many in the Carolinas during the ‘70s and ‘80s. It’s going to be a great night.” Again, tickets are available online at www.QRockRadio.com.

For the record, Q Rock Radio launched during Memorial Day weekend earlier this year from studios located at Broadway at the Beach. The station features just about every hit song recorded between the years of ‘68 to ‘88. Q Rock is also known for its all-star lineup of radio personalities including Freakin’ Deacon, John Van Pelt, Pat Milan, Bob Scarborough, Banana Jack Murphy and others.

Q Rock Radio Partners LLC, parent company of Q Rock Radio.com organized The Rock 102 Reunion Weekend, scheduled September 24-27, 2009. In addition to the benefit concert, the four day event will feature a golf tournament, a dinner and other activiites. Radio announcers, newscasters, sportscasters, sales reps, practically anyone who ever walked the halls at Grand Strand Broadcasting between 1973 and 1997 will be taking part in this reunion.

The Reunion Weekend will benefit South by Southeast, a non-profit/charitable organization formed in 2003 by music lovers and educators. South by Southeast’s mission is to provide assistance and support to local music education programs. The group helps offset some of the costs associated with the musical education of young people in our area. More information on this organization can be found at www.southbysoutheast.org.

Information regarding Q Rock Radio can be found at www.qrockradio.com. Studio Location: Broadway at the Beach, Heroes Harbor, Unit 308. On Site Contact: Bob Scarborough 843-222-9189.
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The previous article also appears in Alternatives NewsMagazsine, Sept. 10, 2009, under “Nightlife & Entertainment” at www.myrtlebeachalternatives.com

Rocky Fretz & Will Ackerman In Concert At Litchfield Beach & Golf Resort Sept. 12

By Brian M. Howle

Rocky's newest CD

In the world of music, there are literally millions of players. And there are just so many incredibly talented, exceptional folks out there, all vying for recognition and fame. Having the good luck and fortune to stumble across the best of the best is the consumate listener’s Holy Grail. Well, cue the announcer with the WCW intro voice …

“Let’s get ready to stummmmmbbbllllllllllle!”

Do yourself a favor – find out what it’s like to discover a handful of such gifted people in your own back yard. I absolutely guarantee you, each and every one of you … you will not find any better folks at what they do, than the folks I’m about to introduce to you. And I doubt you will ever enjoy a live performance more than this one.

Local musicians extraordinaire, bassist Patrick O’Leary, percussionist Bobby Gabriele and violinist Robert Napier join special guest Grammy Winning Guitarist and Founder of Windham Hill Records, Will Ackerman to perform live in concert with local contemporary music concert pianist, Rocky Fretz. This will be Will Ackerman’s debut performance on the Grand Strand.

The concert is in honor of and to celebrate the release of Rocky’s new CD, The Path Ahead…and steps then taken. an original, new acoustic, piano music CD produced by Will Ackerman in Imaginary Road Recording Studios, Windham County, Vermont. A “first” for both Rocky and Mr. Ackerman.

Rocky’s CD Release Concert is on September 12, 2009 in the beautifully, intimate Tara Theater in Litchfield Beach and Golf Resort in Pawleys Island, SC. The doors open at 5:30 PM, concert beginning at 6:30 PM. This venue hosts both Rocky and Will for the first time.

Rocky Fretz has been a pianist/composer and dynamic, energetic performer for more than thirty years. Interestingly, Rocky’s solo music career, starting after his 17 year tenure as feature pianist for The Carolina Opry from 1986 when he began as an original cast member, feature pianist and vocal director through 2003 when he retired that full time position, is just now beginning to gain momentum as Rocky’s music and piano concert performances become more globally known.

Will Ackerman performing at Guitar Fest.

Will Ackerman is universally recognized as the preeminent pioneer in the new age music movement, and the founder of Windham Hill Records, Will Ackerman’s career spans more than three decades of remarkable vision, single-minded determination, fervent business savvy, and “a thorough love of the mystery of making music.”

Will comments on Rocky’s performance saying, “I think this story says a lot….I was performing a concert about a year ago along with a handful of some pretty talented people. I invited Rocky Fretz up to do a piece and the audience just went nuts. I’d always thought Rocky was brilliant, but seeing the reaction of the audience went a long way to convince me that the world sees him in the same way.”

On the subject of Rocky’s music Will says…”Rocky moves between heartbreaking gentle beauty and driving rhythm with utter grace, somehow merging these worlds seamlessly in his composition. He is as gifted a pianist as I’ve ever had the pleasure to work with.” This comes from the industry icon who discovered George Winston, Liz Story, Michael Hedges and countless other instrumental music greats.

Another newsworthy note…Rocky’s CD, The Path Ahead…and steps then taken, has been submitted for consideration for a 2010 Grammy Award nomination in the new age category. A definite first for Rocky.

To purchase tickets to the concert or copies of Rocky’s new CD or both visit www.TheConcertHouse.com or email tickets@TheConcertHouse.com or call 1-843-314-4699. Adult tickets have been reduced to $27.00, and children tickets are $13.00. Joining Rocky’s mailing list at www.HomePeep.com entitles the member to an introductory $10.00 CD sales price.
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The previous article was originally published at www.bhowle.wordpress.com

CANCELED: Toad the Wet Sprocket No Idle Threat At House Of Blues On September 12

By Brian M. Howle

(Editor’s Note: HOB has announced that, unfortunately, this show has been cancelled. Contact point of purchase for ticket refunds.)

Whenever any musicians worth their salt start out, one of the most important decisions they’ll ever face is naming the band. It is one of those things you need to put a lot of thought and creativity into, just in case you turn out to actually be a good band. Which was a good thing for these guys, as all of that fell right in line, and way back in the day (late ‘80s, kids), the world gasped and took note of the band with the way-cool name: Toad the Wet Sprocket.

And if you missed them when they broke out in 1989 – or in the twenty years since – you can make up for lost time, as Toad the Wet Sprocket rocks out House Of Blues in N. Myrtle Beach, SC on Saturday, September 12, 2009.

And now, a little background info, gathered from the annals of Wikipedia:

Toad the Wet Sprocket was formed in 1986 at San Marcos High School just outside of Santa Barbara, California, when singer/songwriter/guitarist Glen Phillips was only 14 and a freshman; the other members – guitarist Todd Nichols, bassist Dean Dinning, and drummer Randy Guss – were 17 and juniors. The band drew its name from the Eric Idle monologue “Rock Notes” on Monty Python’s Contractual Obligation Album from 1980, although the name is featured in a parody of The Old Grey Whistle Test on Rutland Weekend Television in 1975. The band’s first public appearance was at an open-mic talent contest in September 1986. The band lost the competition.

Toad the Wet Sprocket’s first album came out in 1989. Bread & Circus was self-financed through their label, Abe Records. The album spawned the singles “Way Away” and “One Little Girl”, which made the Billboard Modern Rock Tracks chart, but did not receive much attention.

The follow-up to Bread & Circus, Pale, was released in 1990 and saw their sound mature. During the recording of the album, Toad signed to Columbia Records while declining the opportunity to re-record Pale, but negotiating to have Columbia Records reissue Bread & Circus. Featuring the singles “Jam” and the Modern Rock Chart hit “Come Back Down”, the album was still not a success; but the singles received heavy airplay on college radio stations and the band’s first music video (for “One Little Girl”) was directed by Mark Miremont and aired on MTV’s 120 Minutes.

The band finally achieved fame with their third album, Fear. The album was released in 1991, and saw the singles “All I Want” and “Walk on the Ocean” reach the top twenty of the Billboard Hot 100. The album became the band’s first RIAA-certified platinum album.

In 1992, the cult classic Buffy the Vampire Slayer featured the song “Little Heaven” and was included in the movie soundtrack.

In 1993, the Mike Myers feature film So I Married an Axe Murderer included the song “Brother” on its soundtrack. “Brother” later appeared on the In Light Syrup compilation album, as well as on the 2004 release of the live album Welcome Home: Live at the Arlington Theatre, Santa Barbara 1992.

In 1994, after years of heavy touring, the band released Dulcinea, their follow-up to Fear. This album spawned the hit singles “Fall Down”, which reached #1 on the US Modern Rock charts, as well as #5 on the Mainstream Rock chart, and “Something’s Always Wrong”, which also charted. Like Fear, this album was certified platinum by the RIAA.

A compilation album of b-sides and rarities, In Light Syrup, was released in 1995; it included the singles “Good Intentions”, which was featured on the soundtrack for the television show Friends, as well as the aforementioned “Brother”. The compilation was certified as a gold album in 2001.

The release of Coil in 1997 acted as the proper follow up to 1994’s Dulcinea. Featuring a more electric, rock sound, it featured the Modern Rock and Mainstream Rock hit “Come Down”, as well as the singles “Crazy Life” (previously featured on the soundtrack for the film Empire Records) and “Whatever I Fear”.

Toad the Wet Sprocket formally broke up in July 1998, citing creative differences. Though officially broken up since then, the band has worked together off and on over the years. Continuing throughout the 2009 summer, the group played a second 12-stop mini tour which started with a show at the House of Blues in Houston, TX.

Here’s their official update, from their MySpace site:

What’s up with the band?
Glen: Earlier this year Glen released an EP called Secrets of the New Explorers, and has played a number of shows supporting it. He also has a new band (still unnamed), which has completed a record that should be out some time in the next year. The album was recorded and mixed by Jim Scott, and the other members are Sean and Sara Watkins (Nickel Creek), Luke Bulla (Jerry Douglas, Ricky Skaggs), Greg Leisz (Lucinda Williams, Wilco), Benmont Tench (Heartbreakers), Pete Thomas (Elvis Costello), and Davey Faragher (Cracker, Elvis Costello). In October, He’ll be co-headlining a tour with Jonatha Brooke, and next January he’ll be on the Cayamo cruise with Shawn Colvin, Lyle Lovett and many others.

Dean: Dean just finished composing and performing his first movie score for the independent film “Desertion”. Dean also wrote and performed 3 new songs for the film. Todd Nichols produced and recorded the score as well as 2 of the new songs. Dean also is the current manager for Toad the Wet Sprocket.

Todd: Todd has been busy producing bands and solo artists at his studio “Abe’s” in North Hollywood CA.. Check out http://www.myspace.com/abesstudio for more info if you are interested in recording with Todd.

Randy: Randy plays the drums.

So harken back to the days of way cool band names, and get a double dip by means of these guys being one of the preeminent, way-cool ‘90s bands, as Toad the Wet Sprocket rocks out House Of Blues in N. Myrtle Beach, SC on Friday, August 21, 2009. Doors open 7:30pm. For ticket info call 843-272-3000 or Ticketmaster 843-679-9333; or visit www.houseofblues.com or www.ticketmaster.com.
(Editor’s Note: HOB has announced that, unfortunately, this show has been cancelled. Contact point of purchase for ticket refunds.)
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The previous article also appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, August 27, 2009.

The Madeleine Haze Plays H.E.L.P. Benefit At Beach Wagon Sept. 6

By Brian M. Howle

If you’re one of the many local residents who emphatically disagree with the Myrtle Beach city politicians who have discriminated against bikers and basic rights, have we got a show for you! (And a way to join in the fight for freedom).

On Sunday, Sept. 6, at 8pm, there will be a benefit concert to promote H.E.L.P. (Help Eliminate Lousy Politicians) and Help For Myrtle Beach, headlined by The Madeleine Haze with special guests The Issues, Sean McKenna and Aftermath. The show will be held at The Beach Wagon, 906 S. Kings Hwy., Myrtle Beach, SC. Tickets are only $5.00.

Philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche believed that humanity is driven by a Will To Power, and that certainly holds true for Columbia, SC-based Hard Rock band The Madeleine Haze. Known for being fiercely political, while refusing to align with any major political party; undoubtedly mainstream, while incorporating complex arrangements and breaking the cookie cutter mold of Modern Rock; the band has adopted their own Will To Power both sonically and conceptually. Born as an introspective acoustic act, the band found themselves growing into a heavier, more powerful unit as they became poised to become a successful national act.

Vocalist Zack Goebbel and drummer Ben Carter developed an aggressive Grunge/Prog-Metal hybrid that was every bit as incendiary as their debut was contemplative. After a few months, the duo brought in bassist Brian Lamb to complete the unit, and the time has come to take the message to the masses. Headlining The Truth Tour, Polygraph Radio’s community outreach event to spark grassroots volunteerism and political activism, the band will debut a full slate of hard hitting material. These songs will make up the bands next album, entitled A More Perfect Union, which is due out in early 2010. Those who can’t wait that long are in luck however, as the limited edition EP “Maxims and Arrows” will give a preview of the new album, and will be sold exclusively at the bands concerts.

About H.E.L.P.:
HELP (Help Eliminate Lousy Politicians) was formed in response to Myrtle Beach Mayor’s and City Council’s actions. Help For Myrtle Beach is a legally incorporated nonprofit nonpartisan organization whose dedicated mission is to register voters, petition for single member districts, petition for a referendum on the 1% Local Option Tourism Development Fee (aka. The 1% Add Tax) and to provide support to competent candidates in the upcoming Myrtle Beach City Election. The concerned members of HELP have sat on the sidelines long enough watching our beloved city being lead in a direction counter productive to our collective interests. By saying our, we refer to anyone who lives, works, or visit’s the city of Myrtle Beach and shares a heartfelt bond with it.

We are going to take back our beach. We need to register voters living in the Myrtle Beach city limits and need petitioners to completely fill out the petition forms. You can mail the completed voter registration form directly to the Horry County Board of Voter Registration. Corporate memberships and completed petition forms can be mailed to: Help For Myrtle Beach, PO Box 3556, Myrtle Beach, SC 29588, or we can pick them up.

For corporate membership forms, petitions for the Single Member Districts and petitions for the 1% Add Tax to be placed as a referendum on the November 3rd city election or if you have any questions please contact Trevor Tarleton: 843-446-9765.

For more information, visit the website: www.helpformyrtlebeach.com
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The previous article also appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, August 27, 2009.

Mississippi Bluesman Johnny Rawls To Play Charleston Beach Music & Shag Festival August 29

By Brian M. Howle

Singer, songwriter, guitarist, arranger, producer and (whew!) bluesman extraordinaire Johnny Rawls will be performing as part of the roster of stars at this year’s Charleston Beach Music & Shag Festival in Charleston, SC, running Thursday-Sunday, August 27-30, 2009. Rawls will perform at 4pm on Saturday, August 29 at The Citadel Alumni House, 69 Hagood Street, Charleston, SC.

As a teen in high school, his band instructor hired him to play in his band. Rawls backed singers like Joe Tex, Z.Z. Hill,Little Johnny Taylor, and the Sweet Inspirations. Determined to form his own blues/soul ensemble, he began backing up touring musicians.

In the mid-70’s, Johnny went to work for OV Wright as Wright’s band director. opening for the likes of B.B. King, Little Milton, Campbell and Bobby Bland. After Wright’s death in 1980, Johnny led Little Johnny Taylor’s band until 1985, when he began touring as a solo artist and made his first solo recording under the Rainbow label.

In total, he has performed on, written songs for, or produced over 40 albums.

Originally recording under Touch Records, Rooster Blues, Rock House, Reach and JSP Records, Johnny Rawls has done it all from producing, songwriting, horn arranging, rhythm, lead and bass guitar, keyboard, vocals and background vocals. Johnny started his own record company, Deep South Soul, in 2002 and has released his CD’s Lucky Man, Live in Montana, and The Best of Johnny Rawls. Heart and Soul was released in October 2006. His collaboration with fellow legend Roy Roberts, Partners & Friends, debuted in 2004 under Rock House. No Boundaries was released under the TopCat, Catfood and Deep South Soul labels in 2005.

His latest release is Red Cadillac (2008), and his music is available for purchase at www.johnnyrawlblues.com.

I caught up with the Mississippi-born artist as he awaited a flight out of Texas, and his wonderfully rich, Mississippi drawl put me at immediate ease. (It’s a Southern thing; some of you will understand, some of you won’t):

Howle: First off, thank for taking the time to speak to me about your upcoming show at the Charleston Beach Music & Shag Festival, Johnny.
Rawls: Oh, well it’s my pleasure and I’m happy to talk to you.

Howle: So tell me … how did you become interested in music; what’s the story behind the musician?
Rawls: Well, you know, I grew up here in Mississippi, and there’s always music going on around here, always has been from as long as I can remember. In church, in school, in the community, and of course, at home.

Howle: And what was the first instrument you learned to play?
Rawls: Actually, I began playing clarinet and saxophone when I was seven or eight years old.

Howle: So how did the guitar come into the picture?
Rawls: Well, when I was about 12 years old, my grandfather – who was blind – just pulled out this guitar one Christmas morning and started playing. I didn’t even know he had one, much less played one – that set the tone for me from then on.

Howle: Was he a blues player, or just guitar in general?
Rawls: He would play a regular guitar style, but was a well-known blues player around Hattiesburg, too. But it got my attention.

Howle: And it didn’t just stop at guitar, huh?
Rawls: Oh no, I learned rhythm, lead, and bass guitar, keyboards, vocals and background vocals, and later on songwriting, horn arrangements and producing. I started up my own recording label, Deep South Soul, in 2002.

Howle: And what is your songwriting process like? Do you go into it with a fully-envisioned song, or do you ask bassist and keyboardists …
Rawls: Oh, no, I have it all in my head, exactly what I want and the way I want it done. It’s the easiest way for me to try and do it, there’s really no other way for me to achieve what I’m after unless I see it all the way through.

Howle: I know you do your own charts for the horn sections. Do you prefer the big blues band with a horn section, or a more basic 3- or 4-piece band?
Rawls: Well, that all depends on the show, and the crowd. If it’s a big stage setup and a huge festival, oh yeah, I want that horn section burnin’ up there with the band. But if it’s a small club, tight, intimate … I just want that stripped-down 3- or 4-piece band, because it’s more personal.

Howle: And this isn’t your first time in South Carolina, is it?
Rawls: (Laughs) Oh, no, I’ve been there for the Blues Bash (in Charleston in February) several times, and for Harriet at the Beach Music  Shag Festival, and over in Camden … I’ve played South Carolina many, many times, and I always enjoy my time there. It’s a good place to be!

Howle: And we can attest to that, Johnny! So, over the course of your career, what’s been the biggest change you’ve seen in the blues scene?
Rawls: Well, you’re a musician so you know, too; when we started out, the blues’ audience was mostly black – as well as the artists themselves. But over the years, white folks have really taken to the genre, and anymore it’s mostly white crowds at the shows we play. And the influx of young people, who have found this style of music and embraced it so much, has been one of the greatest joys to behold – and they are predominantly white, but now there’s a mix of other ethnicities in there, too. So now, the lineage is still true and always will be – the black man may have started the blues, but now the blues belong to everyone. And we’re all the better for it, and there’s just no denying that.

Howle: I couldn’t have said it better, Johnny. I’ll let you go so you can catch that flight; thank you again, and we look forward to seeing you in Charleston on August 29.
Rawls: And I thank you, Brian. And I’m looking forward to being there again!

I do love my job, especially when it allows me to spend some one-on-one time with a truly special someone who is not only a great talent, but a great person. And let me tell you … Johnny Rawls is one of those people.

So if you love the blues and beach music (and how can you not?), make plans on August 27-30 to head on down to the Charleston Beach Music & Shag Festival. On Thursday, Aug. 27, DJ Pat Patterson and his puppets greet you at J.B. Pivots at 7pm; On <Friday, Aug. 28, Angel Rissoff and Rhonda McDaniel open, followed by The Rick Strickland Band at J.B. Pivots.

On Saturday, Aug. 29 there will be a Shag Workshop at noon at The Citadel Alumni House, 69 Hagood Street, Charleston, SC, followed by Fabulous Shades at 1pm, Angel Rissoff/Rhonda McDaniel at 2:30pm, Johnny Rawls at 4pm, and Melody Makers at 6:30pm (then take a break at head back to Pivots at 9pm); and on Sunday, August 30 there is a Shag Workshop at noon, followed by The Catalinas at 1pm, East Coast Party Band at 2:30pm, The Swingin’ Medallions at 4pm, and it all wraps up with The Tams at 5:30pm.

Call 843-571-3668 or Toll Free 1-866-571-9362 for information or tickets, or visit the website www.pivotsbeachclub.com/charlestonbeachmusicandshagfestival
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This article also appears in Alternatives NewsMagazine at www.myrtlebeachalternatives.com under “Nightlife & Entertainment”, August 13, 2009.

Wag This

By Brian M. Howle

When I took this gig, I more or less promised by publisher that this would be a humor/stories-of-life kinda column. Because if nothing else, I’ve experienced a lot of stuff, and I possess my dad’s quick wit. Fortunately for me, I also possess my mother’s gift of words and a love for crafting virtual reality via the King’s English. And I sincerely hope that anyone reading this on a regular basis understands sarcasm, cynicism, dark humor, facetiousness, sub-references and emotional response. ‘Cause today, we’re pushing all the buttons, pulling all the strings, hitting all the raw nerves, and quite possibly burning a few bridges before I’m through.

Awhile back, some Republicans were having a hissy-fit because someone was hummin’ “Blowing in the Wind” near the Oval Office, when lo and behold an actual world-safety situation broke in Iraq. In response, our government – i.e.; the President, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, advisors and congressmen – decided enough was enough and started lobbing a few cruise missiles around ol’ Saddam. And faster than you could say “anal retentive”, the immediate knee-jerk response of those Republicans was to start screaming, “Wag The Dog, Way The Dog, this is life imitating art imitating life”. Apparently, those boys saw the movie, and must have gotten ahold of some bad popcorn laced with LSD, which blurred their ability to distinguish between reality and make believe. What irked me most at the time was the fact that this military response to Saddam was carried out by a president who is a Democrat, dealing with a problem left over by his Republican predecessor’s administration.

I mean, is there anyone out there who honestly thinks that if we just forgot about Saddam – and kept on stamping our feet, shaking a stern finger and arching our brows as we clenched our teeth while admonishing, “Saddam, for the LAST time, put that biochemical weapon down! … I mean it, young man, don’t you dare make me turn this aircraft carrier around!” – that he would just go away?

By the way, I hope you enjoyed that 74¢ a gallon gas we guzzled away in our SUVs, ATVs, Humvees, Jet Skis and BMW M-3s, ‘cause that was the payoff for the Gulf War, not human rights violations. I thoroughly enjoyed the cheap gas, as I drive a POS.

Back to the current world. The Inquisition is over (well, maybe, since Ken renewed the lease on the copiers for another year), Monica has written an excellent accessory for your bird cage, and we were happily settling into a refreshing pattern of slow news days. Then the media god “Overkilleus” smiled down upon the ratings woes, and bestowed Slobodan Milosevic upon them.

“Oh, thank you, thank you, Overkilleus,” wept Sam Donaldson, struggling to keep a small, seemingly dead animal positioned on his head. “Surely, you have saved us all from cable market loss!” Sam joyously exclaimed.

“But Overkilleus, what have we done to receive such a gift, how have we proven our worthiness to you?” implored Wolf Blitzer in his best Hugh Downs voice.

“Hey, can it, Cable Boy, I still have a follow-up question,” snapped Sam, the ferret on his head snarlingly nodding in agreement.

Overkilleus put his mighty hands between the two men and pushed them apart, frightening the ferret, which lunged for a boom microphone that swung down and hit Wolf in the forehead, reproducing his legendary forehead knot from a hastily prepared live feed from the Pentagon during Desert Storm.

“That’s not fair! Now everyone’s gonna watch CNN to see Wolf’s knot!” screamed Sam as he wrestled to break the ferret’s grip on a transmission cable. “No one will see or hear my from-the-hip, take-no-prisoners drivel!”

“Now, now, Sam,” Overkilleus lovingly consoled him, “Don’t you worry about those ratings. I’ve got Allyson Floyd and Nina Sossamon on your lead-in locals, you’ll get your ratings.”

“Oh, bless you, bless you, Overkilleus,” Sam blurted out as he began weeping uncontrollably again. “What can I ever do to show my appreciation for your generosity?”

“Lose the ferret,” Overkilleus said as he helped a stunned Wolf to his feet.

“Cut me, cut me, Nick!” Wolf deliriously begged a nearby sound engineer. “I’ve gotta do this for Adrianne! YO ADRIANNE!”

“Come on, Wolfie,” chortled Overkilleus as he steadied the cable icon and unwrapped his earpiece from his trench coat epilets. “Let’s go call Connie Chung and pretend to be Newt’s mom blistered on Tequila!”

There was a time when war was taken seriously by everyone. Editorial opinions and political cartoons were just as abundant, but they didn’t consume our every waking moment, and we stayed focused on the gravity of the matter. Edward R. Murrow, Chet Huntley and Walter Cronkite didn’t trivialize the news, they just reported it.

I distinctly remember the birth of ABC’s “Nightline” with Ted Koppel. The Iranians had just stormed the American Embassy and taken the hostages. “Nightline” began as a crisis-coverage production, slated to disappear with the hostages’ release. But as the ordeal dragged on, the world witnessed the advent of the “Crisis du Jour Logo”, complete with immediately recognizable theme music. Theme music – for a crisis update. Oy vey …

Well, I guess it served its purpose in preparing us for the ‘90s. CNN’s haunting string-laden orchestral little number, created exclusively for that judicial travesty known as “O.J.’s Day Off”. No kidding, I actually read in one of the national news magazines at the time, one reporter’s description of the music, something like “the violin’s high, soaring melody symbolizing Nicole’s and Ron’s tragic deaths, contrasted by the cello’s low, ominous presence, representing O.J.’s dark and ominous alibis. OY VEY.

Oh yeah, someone explain this one to me, ‘cause I’m really having problems with this one. During World War II, did we announce to the entire world our military strategies, troop placement options, time tables, troop numbers … stuff like that? Did we ever notify the Axis powers that we were running a little low on specific bombs? Did we send the enemy our public opinion poll results? Or was “Loose Lips Sink Ships” just a clever Yankee propaganda slogan?

Today, if we’re sending in F-117A stealth jet fighters, there’s a blueprint rendering of the plane, complete with vital stats like range, armament, top speed, etc., filling in the “blue screen” over the news anchor’s shoulder, followed by a video clip of where the plane is based, meeting the people who built it, interviewing townspeople on how they feel about “their plane” engaging in such a dangerous mission. And sometimes, they even feature the pilot, time permitting.

Unless, of course, the pilot is shot down and captured, or as has happened as this is being written, soldiers are captured by the enemy. Then you’re gonna learn just about everything there is to know about them. Less than 24 hours after their capture, each of the three American soldiers had their bruised, stoic faces boxed in the color-coded graphic, offering little personal facts about each one’s high school years, favorite music, favorite hobbies … Reminds me of that bio on the gatefold pages of the Playmate of the Month. And that bothers me.

As the NATO strike against Milosevic’s thugs became imminent, Serbian TV psyched up the faithful by broadcasting “Wag The Dog”. Can you imagine that? Frothing up the dogs of war by comparing their impending punishment to a fictitious yarn about a U.S. President fabricating a war in the Slavic Theater of Operations.

I can’t fathom anyone being that desperate to bolster their venom and hatred here in America.

No matter how self-serving, self-feeding or self-glorifying the media becomes, Americans must tolerate it. Regardless of sensationalism or hyperbole or rhetoric, underneath the high-tech production values and eccentric profound revelation lies the very soul of freedom and a free society. Our system isn’t perfect, and may never be without faults – but the beauty of it is that we can change it, if the people so desire. We have the means to change without civil disruption and mayhem, and we call it Election Day. In Kosovo today – as in Bosnia before – Milosevic has not only taken away the Kosovar’s rights, he’s taken away their existence, their lives.

My father served in World War II, a war in which this country heroically committed its sons and fathers, with patriotic determination and complete unity, and ultimately prevailed. My brother served in Viet Nam, a war in which this country tragically committed its sons and fathers, with no stomach for the price of victory and in complete disarray and division back at home, and ultimately failed. The lives of over 50,000 Americans – 50,00 brave and honorable Americans – were sacrificed for a pointless end game, which consisted of no end game.

So, we have two distinct choices to make as Americans. We can continue to lead the world in promoting what is right, because there are some things worth fighting – and dying – for. Or, we can stick our heads in the sand and let the rest of the world fend for themselves. The main drawback to that decision is that one day when we feel a tap on our shoulders and pull our heads up, we’ll find the world overrun with Slobodan’s and Saddam’s soulless followers. Then we would have to kill for the sake of killing, not for the sake of freedom.

Whatever direction our involvement takes, I hope the American people take a united and fervent stand. My personal wish is for some unforeseen intervention – say, the President of Brazil hosting a peace conference where warring leaders could samba their differences away, or even the realization of the prophecies’ accounts of the Tribulation (since we are in the final days of the millennium).

If it’s not the latter, I would look forward to a future encounter between Overkilleus and Arthur Kent, NBC’s “Scud Stud” from Desert Storm, who zoomed from star to oblivion following the Gulf War.

“Oh man, Overkilleus, I can’t believe you’ve called me after all this time!” an uncontrollably excited Kent would gush. “So, what’s the assignment? Beirut? Rwanda? China?”

“No, I have a much bigger task for you, Arthur,” Overkilleus would say, lowering his voice in importance ass he puts his arm around Kent’s leather-jacketed shoulder. “I want you to find out the truth about something the world needs to resolve.” Overkilleus slowly looks up at a map on the wall. “I want you to go here,” he says as his points out Washington, D.C.

“Wow … D.C. … So, what is it? The President? Congress? The Supreme Court? PACs? Sex scandals?” Kent babbles excitedly.

“A ferret.” smiles Overkilleus.
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The previous article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, April 8, 1999.
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Cat’s-Eye Of The Hurricane

By Brian M. Howle

Besides being a “graphic rabbit” (i.e. graphic artist), musician and writer, I pride myself in being an all-around handyman who dabbles in tinkering around with inventions. After years of collecting various electronic components, wires, relays, circuits, tubes and generally what others would consider junk, I recently put the finishing touches on what I believe to be my greatest accomplishment: The Universal Cat Translator.

For the past two years, I have worked tirelessly on my little project during the time between magazine deadlines. It was a hard, time-consuming labor of love sandwiched between pounding out this publication, but as mid-September approached I had finally realized my dream . About the size of a Walkman personal stereo, it contains a standard hard drive found in most computers, capable of recording days of information on a set of AA batteries. While the technical aspects are fairly commonplace, the breakthrough coup de gras was my unraveling the mystery of the cat vocabulary. Most people probably think that cats have a very limited vocabulary, consisting primarily of “meow” and the more emphatic “meow, dammit.” But no one was more surprised than I when I stumbled upon the longlost scrolls of feline phonics while mindlessly surfing the net one night. Akin to decoding hieroglyphics and binary codes, it was an amazingly easy process once I got the hang of it.

I was all set to begin the necessary patent paperwork to share my invention with the world when big, bad Hurricane Floyd decided to put the fear of God into every reasonable human being on the entire eastern seaboard. I set about boarding up my parents’ house at Pawleys Island, removing furniture and household items so as not to relive the horrors experienced by Hugo ten years earlier. Then I repeated the same procedure for my landlady, and finally again for my own apartment. After the last sheet of plywood was nailed up and the yard missiles put away, there was one final task to undertake before I could join the mass exodus of evacuees. I had to round up my little herd of cats – all eighteen of them.

With my array of portable cages securely tied down in the bed of a pickup truck, I covered them with multiple tarps as the first wave of feeder bands from he approaching storm began their ominous onslaught. Ready to roll, I made a last dash through my apartment, gathering up clothes, cat food and kitty litter for the journey inland to the safer confines of Columbia and my beloved. On my way out the door, I grabbed the Cat – Translator and tossed it into the back of the truck – but not before turning it on for the long ride ahead of me. The following is the transcript of my journey, as my kitties chatted among themselves. To clarify who is who, here are the names of my little ones:

Anastasia: Matriarch of the bunch; older, wiser and less prone to freaking out in a crisis; solid black.

Romaria: Oldest daughter of Anastasia; large, lithe, a stately lioness among her peers; bluepoint silver.

Alexander: Oldest son of Anastasia; plush but muscular, dominant male but too sweet to exploit his position; solid black.

Samantha and Sabrina: Twin daughters of Anastasia; one mellow, one devilish; gray tabbies.

Othello and Mercutio: Twin sons of Romaria; noble and kind, they emulate their uncle Alexander; solid black.

Delilah and Monique: Twin daughters of Romaria; soft and supple, they mirror their mother’s grace and style; blue-point silver

Alanis: Youngest daughter of Anastasia; overly-hyper and harboring angst towards any male, but kind at heart; black with white chest.

Guinivere and Lola: Twin daughters of Samantha; slightly wilder than the rest when excited; blue-point silver.

Chanel: Youngest daughter of Anastasia, quiet and calm, but constantly bedeviled by her children; gray tabby.

Howard, Robin, Jackie and Fred: Chanel’s kids, unmercifully rowdy and curious, with irreverence for their peers; black, silver and gray tabbies.

L.C.: My housecat, oldest of the bunch, completely anti-social and having nothing to do with the rest, has a real attitude but is daddy’s little babycat and knows it; orange and white tabby.

Now that you know the players, here is their story as it unfolded:

Anastasia: QUIET?CHILDREN! Stop that screaming! It’s drivin me crazy!

Alexander: But, mom, we don’t know what’s going on! Why did daddycat put us in these little boxes? And where are we going?

Alanis: I don’t care where we’re going, I just don’t want any of you boys near me.

Othello: Shut up, Alanis, no one is even slightly interested in you in the least.

Alanis: Oh sure, I’m so sure … that lying Tom from down the road said the same thing before he dumped me after he got what he wanted. You men are all the same!

Romaria: Alanis, we’ve all heard this before; please don’t shout like that, it just upsets the kids.

Alanis: IT’S LIKE RAYEEE-AINN, ON YOUR WEDDING DAY …

Mercutio: That’s because it IS rain, dumbass!

Monique: Hey … isn’t that ironic, don’t ya think?

Guinivere: Mom, Grandma … Why is the ground moving?

Samantha: I don’t know, darling, maybe your grandmother knows.

Anastasia: Yes, Gwinney, I do know … It’s because daddycat is taking us to a safe place until this storm is over. And tell your sister to come down from the ceiling.

Guinivere: Lola, Grandma said to chill out and come down here.

Lola: GROUND DOESN’T MOVE, I TELL YA!

Sabrina: I’ve heard stories from west coast cats about the ground moving, Lola.

Delilah: That’s probably because west coast cats smoke catnip, Sabrina.

Jackie: SOMEBODY’S HOLDING CATNIP?

Robin: You wish, Jackie!

Anastasia: QUIET! I don’t want to hear anymore about that!

Romaria: Sam, Dee, not in front of the kids, OK?

Howard: I’m just waiting to see some hot lesbo cat on cat action here.

Anastasia: HOWARD! WATCH YOUR MOUTH!

Robin: Grandma, Howard’s obsessed with that, you know.

Howard: Ooofa!

Fred: Ooofa!

Chanel: Boys, BOYS … please, please don’t upset your grandmother.

Monique: Excuse me … Grandma, you never said why the ground is moving.

Anastasia: Monique, darling, daddycat put us in his ironcat, and now he’s taking us to a safer place, away from the storm.

Guinivere and Lola: WHAT? WE’RE IN THAT IRONCAT? HEEEELLLLPPPP!

Alexander: Gwinney, Lola, stop screaming, now. Daddycat is only trying to keep us out of the bad storm.

Alanis: But, we’ve been through storms before and daddycat didn’t put us through all this …

Anastasia: No, children, this is a terribly bad storm, much worse than anything you have ever known. It’s called a hurricane.

Othello: What’s a hurricane, Grandma?

Anastasia: It’s the worst kind of storm, darling. The humancats all fear this more than anything else. The rain comes in ferocious amounts, and the wind blows down the trees and the humancats houses.

Howard: (Peeking under the tarp while the truck is rolling along I-20) So … what’s the difference between that and what we’re going through right now?

Chanel: HOWARD! SHUT UP, YOU MORON!

Robin: Hee Hee Hee Hee Hee Hee Hee Hee!

Othello: (to Mercutio) Geez, she laughs at anything.

Mercutio: I know, day after day after day. It’s sad.

Alanis: Is there a dry litter box over there?

Anastasia: No, darling, just make do with what we have, now.

Jackie: GRANDMA SAID “MAKE DOO!”

Robin: Hee Hee Hee Hee Hee Hee Hee Hee!

Anastasia: DON’T MAKE ME COME OVER THERE!

Guinivere and Lola: Are we there yet?

Howard: Seriously … (looking under tarp again) … I don’t see the difference between this hurricane thing Grandma’s talking about and this.

Romaria: Howard, mom has explained this to you already …

Robin: Hee Hee Hee Hee Hee Hee Hee Hee!

Chanel: Howard, your aunt’s right … and shut up, Robin.

Sabrina: Hey! Somebody stole my lizard!

Othello: You got a lizard?

Sabrina: Lola! Did you eat my lizard?

Lola: Noophh.

Sabrina: SAMANTHA! YOUR DAUGHTER ATE MY LIZARD!

Anastasia: QUIET! There will plenty of lizards when we get back!

Howard: Hey! Look! There’s another cat in this ironcat that’s going by us!

(Everyone looks under the tarp as a station wagon pulls alongside; a snow white cat sticks his head out of a small opening at the top of a side window)

Howard: Hey! That’s Daniel Catver, Grand Catdaddy of the Kat Klax Klan!

Catver: (As the wagon passes) Wake Up, White Kitties!

Mercutio and Othello: Hey, We resent that!

Chanel: (Shaking head) Oh Lord … where’s Wayne Gray when you need him.

Anastasia: Chanel! Bite your tongue, young lady!

Guinivere and Lola: Are we there yet?

Alexander: Mom, make them shut up, please?

Anastasia: Gwinney, Lola … You ask that again and I’m coming over there and scratching your eyes out!

Fred: Ooooooo … Grandma’s gonna kick some butt!

Jackie: FRED SAID “BUTT!”

Robin: Hee Hee Hee Hee Hee Hee Hee Hee!

Lola: ACCCCKKKKK!

Guinivere: Ooooo, gross … Lola coughed up a big hairball.

Sabrina: Is there any lizard in it?

Samantha: Sabrina, let it go, OK?

Anastasia: THAT’S IT! I’M COMING OVER THERE RIGHT NOW!

Howard: Oh boy, the litter’s gonna hit the fan now …

Chanel: HOWARD!

Robin: Hee Hee Hee Hee Hee Hee Hee Hee!

L.C.: (Yawning) God, I hate outside cats.

As I pulled into my beloved’s driveway, they all quieted down and leaned against each other in a big, fuzzy ball. Eager to playback their conversation, I hastily grabbed the Translator as I ran towards the door, anxious to get out of the pouring rain.

Unfortunately, the slippery case slid from my grip and fell against the steps, disabling its recording mode. Although I was able to retrieve the above transcript, I’m afraid the Translator is beyond repair for the time being. Which is really a shame, since the trip back home the next day was in beautiful weather, and instead of the 45 MPH speed I endured in the storm, I was able to drive the posted speed limit of 70.

Now, that would have been a story to hear.
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The previous article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, September 23, 1999
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My Worst Summer

By Brian M. Howle

After recounting the joy and adventure of my days as a lifeguard over the last four issues, I began my annual fight with my memories of other summers past. The fight consists of me trying not to recall the events of certain summers in my childhood, because to this day they still put a shiver up my spine.

The single worst day of any summer found me spending the week with my best childhood friend, “T” B. Gamble, Jr.. Named after his father, Troy, somewhere along the line the nickname “T’ came into being and stayed with him throughout his school years. For all practical purposes, we could just as easily have been joined at the hip. Wherever you saw one, you usually saw the other. We were always on the same tcams (circumstances otherwise would produce bouts of pouting and false bravado), in the same patrol in Scouts, chasing the guy driving the milk truck together (in our daily raid on weaseling some free half-pints of chocolate milk), and bugging our parents to drive us out to the country club so we could take in a relaxing dip in the pool or cheat our way through 9 holes of golf. We were inseparab1e.

In the late ‘50s and very early ‘60s, our parents bought lots at Litchfield Beach, not far from each other. After the houses were built, it was just like it was back in Andrews – just a hundred yards or so from each other’s home. We took our first swimming lessons together from a lifeguard named Eddie at the original Litchfield Inn. Countless hours were spent mastering the art of body surfing in the ocean and sculpting massive, Atalaya-like castles in the sand; countless more were spent on our dock on the canal, slowly pulling up lines of string weighted down with scraps of meat and fishing weights as famished blue crabs hung on for dear life with one claw, while stuffing shreds of meat into their mouths with the other. They would react suddenly upon seeing the blue sky break through the murky marsh water, but not before we would skillfully swoop them up with the submerged net that was stealthily positioned nearby. Nights consisted of putt-putt golf, trampolines, skeeball and anything else we could think of to lessen the weighty burden of loose change from our parents. All in all, life was good.

In the late ‘60s, I entered a radio station contest that would award the winner with ten gallons of ice cream from an ice cream shop at Coastal Mall in Conway. Held early in the school year and requiring the writing of a poem about ice cream, my mother and teachers suggested it just might be up my alley. The big day came, and everyone was listening to mighty WKYB AM radio when the winner was announced. And sure enough, I had won.

Now all I had to do was go to Conway, present my letter of verification, and walk out with ten gallons of whatever combination of flavors my little heart desired. Only problem was, I wasn’t old enough to drive at night.

And so, fall turned to winter, winter to spring – still no ice cream. But with the arrival of summer’s beckoning call to the beach, my frozen dairy dilemma was soon to be resolved. “T” had invited several friends, including myself, to spend a week or so at his beach house. Which spoke volumes about the tolerance of “T”’s parents. Being responsible for multiples of our little clique was a real faith-testing challenge – but Mr. & Mrs. Gamble rose to the test on countless occasions. It was there in “My Blue Heaven,” the Gamble’s beach house, where someone actually remembered something from school earlier that year – a science experiment. The actual experiment was designed to show how gases – in this case, carbon dioxide – could be used as propellants, and how the various elements and chemicals react. Well, it didn’t take long for us to figure out that if you took a two liter bottle (which in those days was glass) and put a little vinegar in it, then stuffed a tissue down in the neck with your finger to leave a small receptacle for a few tablespoons of baking soda, then screw the metal cap back on real tight and then shake it up and throw it – Viola!

You had your basic bomb.

We did it for the loud boom (which reverberated against houses from one end of the beach to the other in the dead of night); “T”’s folks pointed out the lethal shards of glass (which we overlooked, since we only did this at night and couldn’t see that part of the experiment) and put an end to our scientific pursuits.

One day the subject of my waiting ice cream came up, and something about a prize deadline. Mr. Gamble overheard the conversation and offered to drive us to Conway to collect my bounty. Curtains swayed and loose papers fluttered in the ensuing breeze created by our breakneck dash to Mr. Gamble’s burgundy Fairlane. Drunk with anticipation, we sang and laughed and generally made Mr. Gamble’s attempt at concentrating on driving a real chore. But as usual, he never complained about our rowdy loudness.

Once at the ice cream parlor, a small crisis developed when I showed the scooper-in-charge my little letter of verification. He scratched his head, mumbled “Be right back” and disappeared to the back of the store. A few minutes later, he returned with the owner. Or rather, the new owner. The shop had changed hands since the contest, and legally, I don’t think they were obliged to give me as much as a cone. But the guy was decent enough to honor my winnings, herding us behind the counter to get a good view of our choices. And our choices needed to be perfect, as the prize only came in five gallon containers. Mr. Gamble had the foresight to bring a couple of plastic coolers along, so we packed one with five gallons of vanilla and the other with five gallons of strawberry, and then poured four or five bags of ice over them.

Mr. Gamble made the ol’ Fairlane blow out some carbon on our journey back to the beach, as I nervously watched my winnings slowly melting away. When we reached the house, another frantic dash created another ensuing breeze as we raced for the freezer. All told, only a cup or two had melted, and we reveled in our victory, clanging spoons and bowls as we danced on the counter top in the kitchen. A brace of teenage boys unleashed without constraints upon ten gallons of ice cream – must be a gastrointestinal specialist’s dream come true. We celebrated late into the night, then – bloated on lactose – we retired to our bedroom suite to review the day as we listened to an unending eight-track tape of The Beatle’s White Album. A small, contented smile crossed my lips as I drifted off to sleep to the verses of “Bungalow Bill” and “While My Guitar Gently Weeps”.

The music played throughout the night, weaving in and out of my dreams, which were pretty intense due to the sugar coma that I was in. And then, in the middle of “Dear Prudence”, I heard my very best friend in the whole world; barely audible, seemingly distant and displaced, but crying. And not the normal, “I fell off my bike” cry, either. It was haunting in its cascade, which regenerated itself deeper and louder with each cycle.

Suddenly, I awoke to find Jimmy Moody, one of the other friends, shaking me violently and, trying to scream at me without really being loud. My eyes were open and I could see his lips moving, but the music and the echoes of the screams were still clouding my ability to distinguish anything as I fought to wake up. I think I asked, “What?” once, and the second time my friend spoke, all the sounds came swirling to a stop; all the light focused on his face; and all the words became clear.

“Mr. Gamble is dead”, he enunciated loudly through clenched teeth, trying not to be heard by those outside the room.

“What?” I repeated, as the clarity of the horrible realization gave way to a new wave of confusion and disbelief. “What do you mean? We just had ice cream”.

“No, he got up this morning and was driving back to Andrews when he had a heart attack. He pulled off the road and stopped his car, but he died before the ambulance could get there”, Jimmy quietly said as he saw my reaction beginning to set in.

Now fully awake and alert, my mind began to separate the mesh of sounds that had seeped into my dreams. The music was still playing; car doors were being slammed outside as “T”’s mother returned with our school principal, Mr. Rowell, to break the tragic news to him, as his screams of pain and loss echoed upon hearing those words – now everything gelled to unscramble the confusion.

Jimmy left to attend to something else after he was content that I was awake and aware. I remember sitting there for a few minutes, trying to cope with this life lesson and my sense of grief, for my friend – and myself – physically unable to move. Tears and light trembling abounded, and my sense of awareness was there, but nothing moved. Not my head, my arms, my legs, nothing.

And then I heard my very best friend ask, “Where’s Brian?”.

At his side in an instant, we hugged and cried and screamed out our own loss of innocence. Then his mother and Mr. Rowell came over and whispered something to him. He asked me to drive his car back to Andrews, because he was leaving with his mom right away, and it would be a few minutes before we could clean up and pack before locking the house on our way out.

There were a lot things I thought about on that drive back home. Most of them still reside within my active reminders, the ones that usually go off whenever I’m losing sight of what really matters.

“T” made a promise to himself – and to his father – to become a doctor on that day. He made it his life’s mission. And he did.

Not only did he become a doctor, who began with family practice back in our little hometown when he first graduated med school, but he became a heart specialist.

Now some thirty-odd years later, he partnered in a successful family practice in Columbia, where he treated the love of my life and our sixteen-year-old son on a regular basis at the time. He now works in Florence with the Carolinas Hospital system, as a cardio specialist.

So on those rough, “poor me” days when I find my surroundings to be intolerable, when my opinions of others become vocal, when I just flat out become a pain in the rear, I think about my friend, “T”, and his lot in life.

And then I usually call my dad and put aside my selfishness.

(Note: Since this was written, the extra 35 years that I got to spend with my dad – that my friend did not get to have with his – came to an end in August of 2004. And one of the first calls I received – and without a doubt, the most meaningful to me – was from my friend, “T”.)
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The previous article orginally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, August 12, 1999.
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Let’s Call A Spade A Spade

By Brian M. Howle

(Note: Although this was written in May of 1999, it is still applicable to the mindset of the current elected officials of the City of Myrtle Beach. This Mayor’s administration and City Council passed a series of laws that effectively ran off motorcyclists of all races, creeds, religions and make of bikes from within the fair boundaries of Myrtle Beach proper. These range from aggravation laws (helmets required within the city despite the SC state law that does not) to Marxist control laws (exhaust system decible levels and examination of motorcycle original statistical information plates to confirm adherence to City code) to flat-out strong-arm tactics (denying vendors permits or limiting public access, or astronomically increasing vendor fees and reducing their allowed space). Please note: These tactics are used ONLY by the City of Myrtle Beach; NMB and the South Strand (Surfsides, Garden City, Murrells Inlet, Litchfield & Pawleys Island) do NOT endorse Myrtle Beach’s view of the bikers and the loss of the enormous revenue they generate for the local businesses AND municipalities of the Grand Strand.)

The last “braps” from the few remaining motorcyclcs become fading echoes as the massive crowds of Memorial Day Weekend ‘99 disperse and retreat to their hometowns. Our little resort town exhales a collective sigh of relief as the final hours of the traditional summer kick-off holiday draw to a close, leaving behind an avalanche of trash and debris as the only physical reminders of the much anticipated event.

And now we can start to evaluate the impact and the statistics, to assess the pros and cons, and to come to terms with the myths and the reality.

Or do we really want to?

As a life-long native of the Strand, I am very much aware of the economic DNA of our Golden Goose, and all the wonderful things associated with it. Despite our small town roots, the lifeblood of an increasing number of people depends on the unending waves of humanity that make the Strand their vacation destination. But if we’re really serious about maintaining those waves, it would behoove us all to hunker down and stare the demon in the eye. And this will, in all likelihood, be the most difficult task any of us could ever undertake, because it means looking in the mirror.

In the aftermath of previous Memorial Day weekend celebrations, some have chosen the “sky is falling” approach to confronting the masses. Under the influence of youthful inexperience or youthful ignorance, the Mayor of Myrtle Beach called upon the Governor to dispatch the National Guard to quell the impending apocalypse that he envisioned to unfold. Regardless of whether his decision was a result of political considerations or a matter of conscience, Gov. Hodges is to be commended for his decision not to pursue such a reactionary response.

Now that it’s over, let’s tally up the results and compare them with other events:

• Number of bike-related deaths from MD Bike Weekend: None.

• Number of bike-related deaths from Harley Weekend: One.

• Number of arrests resulting from public intoxication during Harley?Weekend and MD?Bike Weekend: Full statistics not yet released. (Needless to say, common sense would dictate that in both instances, the number is probably pretty high).

• Percentage of the population exasperated with traffic tie-ups from both events: 100%.

• Percentage of the population left nearly stone deaf from both events: 100%.

• Percentage of exposed gluteus maximuses: 100% (female riders only) Note: Comparison to Harley Week in this category would be unfair due to genetic disposition.

• Percentage of population flagrantly prejudiced: Unknown.

Oops. There it is.

Every reason imaginable has been used by officials, residents and media to make the case against the Atlantic Beach Bike Rally continuing as an annual event. That is, every reason but the one that is really the heart of the matter.

Despite incidents of similar behaviors, nobody seems to mind the overwhelmingly white Harley Week.

Despite incidents of similar behavior, no one seems to mind the overwhelmingly white invasion of golfers.

Despite incidents of similar behavior, nobody seems to mind the overwhelmingly white hordes of college students on spring break and summer vacation.

Coincidentally, no one seems to mind the overwhelmingly African American, Hispanic or Asian legions of workers who cook the meals, wash the dishes, scrub the floors, make the beds, collect the garbage and generally perform all the menial labor necessary for all of these groups – and the locals – to enjoy the good life at the beach.

This isn’t confined to the Grand Strand, or Horry County, or South Carolina, or the South, or the United States. It’s just a sad fact that anywhere there’s a white majority, you can bet that there’s an unspoken mood of uneasiness when any minority begins to congregate in large numbers.

Deny it all you want – over the last three weeks I’ve witnessed and overhead the whispers of fear from one end of the Strand to the other. Businesses have chosen to close their doors for the duration of Memorial Day Weekend. Food and beverages have been stockpiled so that there’s no need to venture out of the house. Mini-vacations and long-overdue visits to family and friends away from the beach have been scheduled. The only other event to trigger a similar response, that I’ve witnessed, is the impending arrival of the dreaded hurricane.

So, why don’t we just come clean and call a spade a spade, so to speak. If we’re hell bent on keeping the Coppertone folks behind the wheel of their Mercedes and Lincolns (hey, isn’t it ironic, don’t ya think?), then let’s get serious about it. I mean, if we can put white men on the moon, surely we can keep the Strand light and bright. I don’t claim to have all the answers, of course, but here are a few thoughts for our leaders to chew on:

• Since we’re already in the process of building new roads to the beach, simply install toll booths and impose a surcharge on all Japanese-made motorcycles.

• Pass new zoning laws requiring all Kentucky Fried Chicken franchises to be located west of the Waterway. Amend the law to include roadside produce stands (watermelon vendors only).

• Further amend above law to include all Taco Bell restaurants.

• Ban the sale of all 40 oz. malt liquor and MD 20/20, as well as Kool and Newport cigarettes.

• Further amend above law to include tequila and Corona beer.

• Make possession of any radio, tape deck, CD player or boom box with a power rating of more than 10 watts a capital offense.

• Require all non-whites complying with above laws to swim across the Waterway before admitting access.

• Amend above law to exclude Hispanics; replace with requirement that no vehicle contains more than 4 blackvelvet paintings of Jesus.

• Further amend above two laws to exclude Asians; replace with restrictions against anyone scoring over 1400 on S.A.T. exams.

• While we’re at it, enact zoning laws restricting the number of beachwear stores to only one within a 15-mile radius.

• Abolish the sale or possession of all Judy Garland, Barbra Streisand, Melissa Etheridge or Indigo Girl albums, tapes and CDs.

• File a class-action suit against God for creating a rainbow.

• Allow the “He needed killin’” defense in confrontations that begin with “Yo, Yo, Yo”. “Que pasa?” or “Well, the way we did it up North …”

Well, I’m sure some of vou can extend this list on and on. But until the powers that be consider these options seriously, we should all extend an enormous debt of gratitude to the tireless efforts of the mini-army of law enforccnient, the Friendship Committee, and all the normal folks out there who accept the world in which we live, with all of its imperfections.

Because it is the existence of these people that, in the final analysis, will prevent the Grand Strand from being compared to South Africa’s “Sun City.” And for some, replacing ignorance and prejudice with enlightenment and compassion will be too much to ask. But you could at least try. In the meantime, pass the Coppertone.

It would be mighty white of you.
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The previous article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, June 3, 1999.

This Is Your Brain On Bikes

By Brian M. Howle

Those little neurons that fire off signals to your brain’s memory section must have an interesting genesis. Everyone has them – but I believe some of us have more than most. While washing my car a few weeks ago, I observed a young boy venturing from the safe confines of his driveway to take that inaugural plunge into worldly freedom. His cautious, methodical peddling – tempered with momentary gyroscopic corrections to maintain balance – began to slowly increase in speed. With a determined focus, his eyes were set on the next three feet of asphalt awaiting him; bottom lip firmly in the overbite of concentration. For a few brief seconds, only he and I existed in our little corner of the world. Upon reaching the recognizable border of his next door neighbor’s yard (the grand total of about fifty feet), the realization of his first solo ride cut through the concentration. His little face lit up like a Vegas marquee, and he very carefully negotiated the U-turn maneuver. Then he began screaming to his mother, who was sweeping their garage, “Mamma! Mamma! MAMMA! Look, LOOK … I’m riding WITHOUT training wheels! LOOK!! And Mamma smiled and congratulated him, and as he hopped off his bike she gathered him up in her waiting arms and hugged him amid squeals of delight from both as they made their way inside for a celebratory treat.

I hope his mother keeps that little moment tucked away in her accessible memory, for her to retrieve and relive at her fancy. Because I know for sure the boy will.

In the few nanoseconds after they disappeared inside their home, my mind had transported me back to the day when I, too, had broken the surly bonds of stabilization assisted bicycles. No one was around that day, for reasons unknown, and I sat on the steps at the end of our side walkway, giving my training wheels the evil eye. A serious decision had to be made, and since I apparently had nothing but time on my hands (being a little kid and all), I turned my attention to my dad’s tool box. Now, this signaled two important things:

1) – I was actually motivated to do something, and;

2) – I must have been motivated to plunder through dad’s tool box without his supervision. Hey, I was five, maybe six years old – the difference between a wrench and say, a hacksaw, seemed of little importance at the time. And besides, I had already established that I had time on my hands, so the diversionary task of seeing how many sawable surfaces our yard contained didn’t ruin my time table. And days later, when dad discovered a toothless hacksaw in his tool box, I learned two more important things:

1) – Hacksaws should not be used on steel and masonry unless you use specialized blades, and;

2) – It’s hard to sit for a few days when you do.

Well, after the hacksaw lost its novelty (and its teeth), I again turned my attention to removing the training wheels. It took little while – maybe an hour or four – but I figured out which fit the nuts that held the wheels in place. With the yard littered with wheel pieces, tools and assorted items sawed from their points of origin, I climbed up on the seat, gripped the squishy plastic handlebar grips, put my head down and pushed off from the top of our driveway. A small slope led to the street, and initial inertia always helps when you’re a kid doing something for the first time. It also helps to close your eyes, which I did, and when the driveway bottomed out and the only sound I heard was the rushing wind dancing over my ears, I opened my eyes and languished in the moment of victory of self-reliance. Then it occurred to me that the rest of the world shouldn’t he denied enlightenment to this accomplishment, and I swooped into the big, wide, easy turn to head back to the house to share the news. Aglow in pride, I accepted my parents’ congratulations and encouragement as I stood beside the now tamed beast and reveled in triumph.

Not long after mastering the two-wheeler, a predictable series of events were set in motion. First, every little boy has a genetic code interwoven into his heart and soul, into his very being, that requires him to seek maximum speed in all forms of propelled movement. Second, the same DNA dictates that once top speed has been ascertained, the brain begins to crunch the numbers required to achieve release from the grip of gravity, be it ever so brief.

My friends and I began constructing ramps for free-flight jumping, utilizing such high-tech materials as bricks and two-by-fours. At this point the learning curve is very much in play, as the DNA leads us to discover some of the basic principles of physics: i.e., the concept of weights and leverage, and diminishing or increasing points of fulcrum shift – as when a board’s length exceeds the fulcrum line, resulting in your bike becoming a lawn dart. We learned that when you nail together two or more boards for a longer ramp, always make sure the nails don’t project upwards, ‘cause tires ain’t cheap. Through the painful but rewarding attempts at trial and error, we managed to ride our winged beasts a grand total of maybe four feet – that is, to assure no great injury would be risked. The big, heavy bicycles of the day were simply not destined to fly.

That all changed in the mid ‘60’s when s bicycle designer borrowed front the look of drag racing and invented the “Spyder Bike”.

The Spyder was a gleaming, sexy and seductive sight to behold. Built upon a small frame, it featured highrise handlebars (just like the hippie motorcycles), a “banana” seat with a “Sissy Bar”, a small, thin front tire mounted on an extended fork (again, just like the hippie bikes), and a wider rear tire that was akin the the dragsters’ big, fat racing slicks . The smaller wheel configuration allowed for a better torque ratio for lightning fast acceleration. You couldn’t pedal one wide open for very long, but there was one thing in particular you could do with the greatest of ease:

Pop a wheelie.

Yep, these babies were born to imitate a unicycle, no doubt about it. When I walked into the living room on Christmas morning and saw my metallic copper Schwinn Spyder, I could beel the sensation of weightlessness that awaited me. I walked around it several times, the way a dog does before it beds down, running my fingers over every inch of sparking metal. The bright copper color was offset and highlighted by tons of chrome – the rims, the handlebars, the chain guard, and the fenders; the rear of which were upturned and flared, again … just like the hippie bikes. I momentarily hesitated when urged to take it out for a ride, not wanting to soil its virgin tread. Five seconds later, I was rolling down the driveway.

Well, everyone now had a new bike, and the race was on to perfect the “wheelie”. To avoid embarrassment and humiliation, we practiced these moves alone if at all possible . After a few days of countless falls, I began to get the hang of it. Feeling confident and wanting to show off for someone, I rolled over to visit Louise, a neighbor across the street on the next block. At this point in my life, it was far less humiliating to fail in front of a girl than in front of the guys. For my sake, it turned out to be a wise move.

“Hey, Louise, wanna see something cool?” I suavely inquired as I circled around her big, clunky girl’s bike.

“If you insist,” she retorted, feigning disinterest (I’m telling you, they start that stuff early – it’s in their DNA). “What’s so cool?”

“Hey … Watch this.” I coolly stated, as I swung around behind her to position myself to pass by her in Napoleonic splendor once up on one wheel. I shifted into low gear, straightened out the front wheel and then stood up on the pedal and kicked down; simultaneously pulling back on the handlebars to attain the proper alignment of balance. I was about to learn that the code did not always prepare you for “variables” in the quest for bicycling bravado personified. I failed to allow for adrenaline.

Wanting not just to impress my friend but to absolutely stun her with my ability, I was a little too “pumped” for my wheelie premier. I kicked far too hard, pulled back far too quickly, and proceeded to virtually propel myself backwards into the unforgiving street. The bike shot up in the air as I tried to impale myself – or rather, the back of my skull – into the asphalt. This was not a fall; this was the equivalent of having Mickey Mantle use your head for T-ball batting practice. Completely and utterly disoriented (which I later learned is normal when experiencing a concussion), my one and only coherent thought became inexplicably twisted between thought and spoken word.

“Bike, get my Louise out of the street!” I shouted repeatedly, as I stumbled through the world of cartoon birdies swirling around my immediately aching little head. Louise obliged and rolled my bike over to her yard, then she walked back over to me. I was still trying to get my brain to stop sloshing around my head, but I could sense her growing concern over my well being.

“Brian, you should get out of the road, a car might come by,” she implored, constantly checking both directions as she leaned over me.

“Bike, I am doing what do you think?’ was the best I could manage as I was beginning to abandon any attempt at cohesive thought and speech in favor of moaning in searing, dull pain.

I eventually crawled off to the side of the road and lay prone in Louise’s yard for about half and hour. Shortly after regaining the ability to speak, I struggled to my feet, collected my bike and bid Louise good day. I wobbled back to my house, parked the bike and took a very long nap.

Some time later, I did finally master the wheelie, and would ride with my friends for blocks, all of us peddling along on the back wheel. This soon grew boring, and while sipping on a Coke at the Drug Store one day, I was thumbing through a car magazine when I came upon it picture of a motorcycle jumping over it car. The shot was taken just as the bike was leaving the ramp, and as I looked at the picture and then looked at my bike parked outside, a little light went on inside my slightly dented head.

I immediately proposed my hypothesis to my colleagues, and we raced back to our neighborhood to dust off the old ramp building materials. In a jiffy, we had the ramp up and ready; not too long, not too steep. Since the revised concept was my baby, I was allowed the first attempt. With the imprint of Farr Ave. still freshly embossed on my head, I envisioned the jump before making the attempt. I took long, deep breaths; I reminded myself not to kick the bike out from under me before I had even started; I lined up the ramp and the landing ramp (oh yeah, we were confident: a full six feet away, with the same degree of incline as the takeoff ramp) and saw myself sailing heroically across the great chasm and landing softly but safely on the other side. I shook out my fingers one last time, grabbed the handlebars and started for the approach. Speed was good, alignment was good, and right up to the point of being airborne, everything looked good. However, once again, adrenaline missed the pre-jump meeting and showed up at the worst possible time.

Just as I reached the top of the ramp, I gave it it little extra “umph” to get me across. I didn’t account for that “umph” coinciding with the rear tire leaving the ramp at the exact same moment. With no resistance against it, the wheel spun freely – and all the force I put into that foot pushing down continued. But without the ground to stabilize it, the bike pulled up under me, as my foot shot off of the pedal and directly into the rear spokes, where my foot was an unwelcome intruder, responsible for removing roughly half of the spokes before stopping. In the fractions of a second that this all occurred, the pain of that intrusion paled in comparison with that which came with touchdown. Now having some surface to grip and counteract the direction of my foot, the wheel reversed itself at the speed of light. It snatched the full weight of my body forward, which pulled my foot through the other half of the remaining spokes. All in all, considering the foot wasn’t actually severed from my ankle or anything, it was pretty cool.

The worst accident I ever had came while I was alone. For some reason I had decided to break out into an all out sprint on my bike. I was standing up on the pedals, leaning forward, pumping my legs furiously as I labored to breath and maintain top speed. I was leaning forward so far, my chin was only inches from the front wheel. And then, the single most surrealistic thing I ever witnessed took place. As I peddled and hung forward over the handlebars, I looked straight down. Unbelievably, and for a brief few moments seemingly suspended in slow motion, I watched in horror as the wheel disengaged itself from the front fork, and with the next pedaling motion that resulted in a slight pull upon the handlebars, it made its way free from the fork and proceeded to pull ahead of the bike.

My small, battered little brain was still trying to process all this when the front fork fell victim to gravity and dug into the old, craggy pavement. I had my eyes open, but remember none of the next minute or so. I knew I was stunned, and I knew that I had just had a pretty bad accident, but I was relatively calm. The whole thing took place a street over from mine, in front of my best friend “T’”s house. Running on emergency backup circuits, my brain guided me to their door, where I politely knocked and waited for Mrs. Gamble to let me in. When she opened the door, she took one look at me and turned white as a sheet, and started muttering those “mom” things that always include a lot of “Oh, Lord “ and “Help me, Jesus “ mixed in there. Confused by her reaction, I stepped back from her as she attempted to put a towel to my forehead. “Let me wipe some of this off, Brian,” she said while trying to steady me, “let me get a good look at it.”

“A good look at what?” I wondered to myself, “What on earth is she talking about. And what’s this warm stuff running down my face and neck?” I reached up – for the first time since the wreck – and felt my forehead. It stung a little, no big deal. And then I looked at my hand and saw the blood. I had finally gone and done it – split my head wide open. At that moment, all of my other senses – especially the one that detects pain – kicked in.

People came running from up to six blocks away, each seeking the source of the mega-decibel screams. My brother, sitting on the walkway steps to my house – no more than 200 feet away – was oblivious to the sound. He and a friend wandered over only after noticing the small crowd gathering in Mrs. Gamble’s driveway. I vaguely remember the trip to Dr. Harper’s office: punctuated by the very strong recollection of receiving stitches while Dr. Harper spun his unique bedside manner that we all came to know and love: “Now, I’ll ask one more time before I close this up … You’re sure he didn’t leak any brains out there in the street, did he? ‘Cause I know this boy, and he’s gonna need all he can get”. Dr. Harper hovered over me, peering over his horn-rimmed glasses and desperately balancing a chewed and worn cigar between his teeth as he looped the sutures shut. “Does that hurt?” he queried, stopping for my answer. I nodded in the affirmative. “Good”, he said as he leaned back in for another stitch, “that means you’re gonna live”.

Sometimes, whcih I watch how our children now stay glued to the television or video game or computer, I worry the simple joy of riding – and crashing – a bicycle might disappear for their world. And that would truly be a shame.

Because nothing prepares you for life like a bike.
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The previous article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, March 9, 2000.
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Ultimate Recycling

By Brian M. Howle

Everyone seems to agreee that life in our area just feels better than somewhere else. It’s hard to single out just one reason, but the natural beauty of the coastal plain is unquestionably the star of the show. And how could it not be? Wide, white sandy beaches, lush dunes, wild myrtles and oaks, rich fertile soil, extensive waterways – combine these with the sub-tropical climate and the “for sale” signs almost impale themselves into the ground for you.

Older folks in this area can tell you right quick how “things used to be” if you’ve got a minute to spare. In fact you don’t really have to be all that old to know what’s been happening over the years to our precious little strip of earth known as the Grand Strand.

I’ve always been fond of hanging around what the less respectful refer to as “old timers”. Information comes with patience and time, and most kids can figure that out pretty early on in the game. Unfortunately, most make the mistake of forgetting about as they become more involved in learning how to “grow up”, though, and only later in life does it come thundering back into their consciousness. But of the few things I actually got right in those early days of decision making, sticking close to the older crowd was one of the smartest moves I ever made.

As a child, I quickly learned that the adults who were actually interested in having any form of conversation with you, as a rule,:

(A) Would not speak to you in “baby talk”, or in general assume that you had the attention span of a Cocker Spaniel;

(B) Would not hold out an open palm in your face while holding up the index finger of the other hand in that “just a sec” mode as they swing their attention to something far more important – like a commercial on TV;

(C) Would actually answer 99.9% of all questions asked, with detailed sidebars about the subject matter, the likes of which your small undeveloped brain would never have accessed in a million years.

Armed with this knowledge, I set about getting as much information about everything that I could. The first decision was to stake claim to prime info-gathering real estate. In a small rural Southern town, this was probably my very first “no-brainer”: the steps of the church, before and after the morning service. To me, those granite slabs were the equivalent of the Internet. A wisely timed tying of the shoe, a long, lazy yawn, a casual pause here – all were integral components of delineating the crowd. Yep, there was treasure to be gleaned from these folks, and I learned many a life lesson by listening to the older folks as they spoke to me.

I should confess, I should have listened more attentively a few other times back then, but I guess some life lessons have to be learned the hard way. Occasionally, a couple of times seemed necessary to get the point. So much for the disclaimer.

I first entered the job market as a teen, starting off with part-time jobs. I learned another amazing fact: There weren’t always older folks around. Understand, at the time, my concept of “older folks” was 60-80 years of age. And yes, I did think anyone over 30 was “old” in terms of hipness, but I didn’t think they would be as wise or as interesting as the older people. And I couldn’t have been happier over the discovery – after all, it meant more free information.

During my college years, my appreciation for these people really escalated. One of my very first summer jobs was construction. Laborer jobs, then as now, were plentiful but woefully low paying. I nosed around and found out form carpenters made good money, so I decided I was a form carpenter. I got my tool belt and all the usual carpenter’s tools and put everything in the belt’s little pockets and holders and got it all just right. Then I put the whole thing in the driveway and ran over it with my car 20 or 30 times, giving it that “worn with experience” look. Confident of the ruse, I applied for the carpentry job amid a flurry of misinformation.

Worked like a charm.

When I ventured out on the job site for the first time, I surveyed the other workers quickly. I spotted the oldest looking man right away, and made it my mission to befriend this grisled veteran of the sawdust wars. I confided in him that I had bluffed my way into the job and that I really needed the money (which was true). Well, to my good fortune, this fellow took a liking to me right away and proceeded to show me all the tricks of the trade. It was amazing. He taught me two year’s worth of apprentice training in two months, and it was apparent to me that he enjoyed teaching and showing me the ropes immensely. My experience was never questioned, and I was able to contribute quality work to a major project. A project which, to this day, I always point out to whomever’s in the car with me as I pass by the site.

Originally a Journalism major, I stumbled into the production aspect of the business purely by accident. In search of another summer job during college, I answered a classified for a printing press operator. The owner of the printing plant was very polite in letting me down, explaining how complicated and cantankerous a Goss Community Offset Press can be, and that only years of working with it would enable anyone to tackle the job.

But he saw my enthusiasm for the industry – and my disappointment at losing the press job – so he offered me a job as a “utility worker”. They would train me in all aspects of pre-press production work, as well as post-press operations. Pay-wise, I would be at the bottom of the food chain, but when you’re young and hungry any port will do in a storm.

First day on the job, I was introduced around to all the folks in the shop. Quiet, demure housewives; quiet, unassuming country boys, and weathered middle-aged folks abounded on the premises.

Then the doors from the darkroom swung open, and out walked the wildest looking, craziest talking old guy I had ever met. His name was Bill Faylor. He was loud. He was effervescent. And, oh, he loved to pick on the young’uns. Which, of course, consisted mainly of me.

Every morning, my day began with a boisterous tirade from Bill, asking out loud (for everyone in the shop to hear) how drunk or high I had gotten the night before, how many women I had slept with, how many warrants were out for my arrest – all before I ever had a chance to even mumble “Morning” to anyone. He was on me like a shadow, and I couldn’t get enough of it. He was one of the funniest men I ever knew. And in between all the picks and rants, he took the time to painstakingly detail the processes of each of the tasks I was to learn. The first four months of my graphics career were the most enjoyable four months of my adult working life. And to this day, I still contend that I received about five or six years worth of hands-on experience under his tutelage.

I later learned that Bill’s wife had been very ill for years. Outside the office, he was the quietest, most reserved person you’d ever see. The illusion projected at work was a mask to ease the daily pain of his life, which he never spoke of, never complained about, and never allowed to interfere with his work or his ability to work amiably with his co-workers.

But his attitude and outlook on life and work and death, along with the natural attraction to this field of work, propelled me into a career that I love as much today as the first time I ever touched a T-square and a keyboard.

25 years later, it is rewarding to know the lessons that these men – and countless others – bestowed on me were imparted on the younger kids I have worked with. Sharing knowledge requires no special talent that I can think of.

Except maybe, patience.

I guess it’s funny, that while I understood the importance of an older person’s experience and wisdom, I really never considered my own parents “old”.

Which means in the final analysis, I can take a pretty good shot at appreciating the patience my parents gave me back then. And it probably quadruples the appreciation for the patience they continue to show.

But at least now I’m in it position to let them know.
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The previous article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, January 28, 1999.

Get A Rise From Drive By Truckers At HOB Aug. 21

By Brian M. Howle

Someone, somewhere once made a claim to un accredited fame by exclaiming, “The South shall rise again.” I have no idea what their concept was at the time, but for our purposes let’s say it was a precusor to the formation of one of the brightest new bands of the current generation.

And that the phrase was a harbinger for the arrival of Drive By Truckers, who will performing (along with opening act Tift Merritt) at House Of Blues in N. Myrtle Beach, SC on Friday, August 21, 2009.

Here’s the take from Wikipedia:

Drive-By Truckers are an alternative country and Southern rock band based in Athens, Georgia, though three out of five members (Mike Cooley, Patterson Hood, and Shonna Tucker) are originally from The Shoals region of Northern Alabama. The current lineup includes Brad Morgan on drums, and Jay Gonzalez on keyboards. Their music is noteworthy for its “three axe attack”, or three guitars as well as bass and drums.

Drive-By Truckers was co-founded by Patterson Hood (son of bassist David Hood of the Muscle Shoals Rhythm Section) and longtime friend, former room-mate, and musical partner Mike Cooley in Athens, Georgia, in 1996. The two had played in various other bands including Adam’s House Cat which was chosen as a top ten Best Unsigned Band by a Musician contest in the late 1980s.

Together with a revolving group of musicians, Drive-By Truckers put out their first two albums, Gangstabilly (1998) and Pizza Deliverance (1999). Following their second release, the band embarked on a nationwide tour, resulting in a live album called Alabama Ass Whuppin’ (released in 2000 by Second Heaven Records, re-released in 2002 by Terminus Records).

After three years on the road a tight-knit group of musicians emerged and they began work on 2001’s Southern Rock Opera. Southern Rock Opera is a double album executed as a song cycle. The album uses the rise and literal fall of Lynyrd Skynyrd as a magnifying glass for the cultural fall of the South as a whole during the 1970s.

Southern Rock Opera, originally released independently on Drive-By Truckers’ own Soul Dump Records on September 12, 2001, garnered praise from fans and critics alike. In order to meet new demand brought on by, among other things, a four-star review in Rolling Stone, Southern Rock Opera was re-issued by Mercury and Lost Highway Records in July 2002. Soon after, Drive-By Truckers were named Band of the Year by No Depression.

Before Drive-By Truckers could record a follow-up to Southern Rock Opera, they ran into a problem when they were left with only two guitarists (Cooley and Hood) following the departure of Rob Malone in late 2001. It was during this time that the band added fellow Alabamian guitarist and songwriter Jason Isbell, originally from Greenhill, Alabama. During his five years with Drive-By Truckers, Isbell’s compositions became as highly praised as those of Cooley and Hood.

After signing a new deal with Austin-based record label New West, Drive-By Truckers set about recording the follow-up to Southern Rock Opera. The result was 2003’s Decoration Day, which, like its predecessor, received critical praise. It was another concept album, containing characters who are faced with hard decisions about marriage, incest, break-ups, revenge, murder, and suicide.

After years of producing and playing with Drive-By Truckers, bassist Earl Hicks left the band on December 22, 2003. Hicks was immediately replaced by studio bassist Shonna Tucker, then wife of guitarist Jason Isbell. Tucker had previously guested on Decoration Day playing upright bass on the Cooley-penned track, “Sounds Better in the Song”.

In 2004, Drive-By Truckers released The Dirty South. Like Southern Rock Opera, The Dirty South was a concept album. The Dirty South further explored the mythology of the South, with songs focusing on Sam Phillips and the Sun Records crowd, John Henry and his hammer, and a three-song suite about Sheriff Buford Pusser.

After touring throughout 2004 and 2005, Drive-By Truckers found their way to the Fidelitorium Recording Studio in Forsyth County, North Carolina during late 2005. These recording sessions, once again produced by David Barbe, resulted in the band’s seventh LP, A Blessing and a Curse. Released on April 18, 2006, A Blessing and a Curse showcased Drive-By Truckers’ ability to branch out into new territory, and can be seen as the band’s attempt at shaking labeling by critics, detractors, fans, and followers, particularly the Southern rock label that has haunted the band since Southern Rock Opera. The album sounds less like Skynyrd, and more closely resembles the bare-bones British rock of the early 1970s such as The Rolling Stones and Faces. Tom Petty’s influence on the band’s sound is more prominent on this album as well.

In 2006, Drive-By Truckers reunited, both on-stage and on-record, with Athens-based pedal steel guitarist, John Neff. Neff first played with the band on their 1998 debut LP, Gangstabilly, and played pedal steel on three subsequent albums, 1999’s Pizza Deliverance, and 2003’s Decoration Day. Neff was featured heavily on the 2006 release, A Blessing and a Curse. During the next year, Neff began touring with the band as an unofficial sixth member.

On April 5, 2007 Jason Isbell announced that he was no longer a member of the band. The following day, Patterson Hood confirmed the break on the official site. In his letter to the fans, Hood described the parting of ways as “amicable” and expressed the hope that fans would continue to support Drive-By Truckers as well as Jason’s solo efforts. In the same letter, Hood announced that John Neff would become a full-time member playing both guitar and pedal steel. Shortly after Isbell’s departure, on April 20, 2007, Patterson Hood announced via the band’s website that a longtime friend of The Hood Family, Spooner Oldham, would be joining the band playing keyboard for a string of acoustic performances called The Dirt Underneath Tour.

Drive-By Truckers performed as backup musicians for Bettye LaVette’s 2007 album, The Scene of the Crime. The album went to #1 on Billboard’s Blues Chart and was nominated for a Grammy Award for Best Contemporary Blues Album.

On January 22, 2008, the Drive-By Truckers’ eighth album, Brighter Than Creation’s Dark (named after a line in a Cooley song entitled “Checkout Time in Vegas”), was released in the US and went to #37 on the Billboard 200 album chart. Once again, David Barbe produced the album and artist Wes Freed provided the artwork. The album has nineteen tracks and features the first song contributions from bassist Shonna Tucker.

Drive-By Truckers backed up Booker T. Jones on his album Potato Hole, which was released on April 21, 2009. They performed with Jones as “Booker T and the DBTs” at the Bonnaroo Music and Arts Festival on June 14, 2009. on 1 September 2009, New West Records will simultaneously release a CD/DVD package called Live From Austin, TX, a document of a performance on “Austin City Limits,” and The Fine Print, a collection of b-sides and extras recorded from 2003-2008, including songs by the departed Jason Isbell.

Hood announced via the band’s website that the Drive-By Trucker’s ninth album is already in the works and is slated for an early 2010 release.

So get ready for the proverbial southern 3-axe attack with a twist as Drive By Truckers, with opening act Tift Merritt, rock House Of Blues in N. Myrtle Beach, SC on Friday, August 21, 2009. Doors open 7:30pm. For ticket info call 843-272-3000 or Ticketmaster 843-679-9333; or visit www.houseofblues.com or www.ticketmaster.com.
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This article also appears in Alternatives NewsMagazine at www.myrtlebeachalternatives.com, August 13, 2009.

Digital Buggy Whips

By Brian M. Howle

Although you’dnever know it by watching our good ol’ U.S. economy just chug right along, continually putting up numbers showing growth and robust pulse, the world at large is in a mess. Asian markets have tumbled, Europe is struggling with a PR. campaign designed to bolster faith and acceptance of the multi-national Euro currency on top of their own share of market and investment woes, and South America’s economic problems are literally driving some Folks bananas (or at least the banana wars are).

“So?”, you may ask yourself, “What’s it to me? We’re doing alright – in fact, we’re doing great!”

The painful truth of the matter is we are all in deep denial. The current stock market surge is founded primarily on high tech stocks that are artificially inflated on good old American greed, fueled by massive investments in the infant computer and Internet speculative stocks. Companies have put billions into ventures whose worth are yet to be established, with everyone rolling the dice for an opportunity to get in on the ground floor of the greatest money-maker since prostitution. There’s just one small problem with getting swept up in technology’s intoxicating allure:

History.

When faced with these newfangled innovations and their unproven performance, it would behoove most of us to remember the classic “Aesop’s Fable” about the lesson of greed: The dog who had the good fortune to acquire a large piece of meat, and while on his way home to savor his find, comes across a small footbridge. Noticing what he doesn’t realize is his own reflection in the water, he thinks to himself, “Hey, that dog has a piece of meat, too. If I can scare him into dropping it, I call have twice its much to eat.” As he begins to growl and snap at the other dog, he lets go of his bounty, only to helplessly watch it plunge into the water below, sinking forever from his tearing eyes.

Let’s take a look at one example of recent technological breakthroughs initially heralded as the greatest thing since sliced bread. Remember the advent of the Video Cassette Recorder (VCR)? Just imagine – a means of allowing anyone with normal amounts of “disposable income” to have a device which would record and playback whatever your fancy dictates from the ever growing number of television offerings (brought about by the introduction of coaxial cable, satellite feeds and Ted Turner), all in the comfort and privacy of your own sweet home. So off you went, drunk with anticipation like a kid on Christmas morning, disposable income in hand, ready to make that big purchase which would immediately increase your stature within your most intimate social circles. You entered the store, sought out the electronics department and came face-to-face with an unexpected dilemma: Beta or VHS?

Now, most of you well-heeled folks listening to the barracuda with passionate enthusiasm and self-avowed expertise in this unknown stratosphere of state-of-the-art electronics went with the more expensive – but clearly superior – Beta format, swayed more by the salesman’s serious inference of quality when he said, “Well, it’s what Sony decided to go with, and you know those guys know what is best.” As for the rest of us, we lowered our heads and pointed out the less glamorous VHS unit as our choice for purchase. The infant video industry hastily produced movies for the public’s consumption in both formats, hedging their bets in prudent and insightful vision.

As we all know, the Beta boys won the battle for quality befitting industry standards (as most television stations and production facilitics have chosen Beta for their purposes), but they ultimately lost the war. The more affordable VHS took off like a scalded banshee, the video industry shifted priority, and every Asian electronics manufacturer with an abundance of 6¢ an hour workers began pumping out VHS players and recorders. A champion had emerged from the haze, and millions of people reveled in their newest toy, although most had their glee tempered by the constantly flashing “12:00” on the unit’s clock, which apparently was backward-engineered from the most complex stolen U.S. military secrets.

The new reality of the rules of the game – when it comes to predicting economic and employment futures – is that there are no rules. Front the beginning of time (or more appropriately, time clocks), the unforeseen evolution of social economics has been as unsettled and unrelenting as the occans. The changing demands of societies’ food chains have deposited and eroded riches constantly throughout our recorded history. And now the “experts” are telling us that the concept of lifetime employment an assumcd precept held automatic by most Americans, and handed down to our capitalistic clones in Japan – is it vanishing realization. Workers can now expect multiple careers in their lifetime, and the need for education has become paramount in that challenge.

One of my favorite lines of dialogue comes from the movie, “Other People’s Money”, starring Danny DeVito as a coporate raider who lives only for the art of the dal, buyin out and taking over dying or seriously floundering companies, cutting jobs and liquidating assets for quick and sizeable profits. Addressing the stockholders of his latest target as they prepare to vote on his stock offer, he tells a tale of impassioned sincerity concerning buggy whips. “A hundred years ago, there were over 200 companies making buggy whips,” he says, “And hundreds of people were steadily employed, providing for hundreds more in their families. The country was growing, towns were springing up on a westward wave of prosperity and confidence, and anyone on the move had to have a buggy whip. But then technology came along and gave us the steam engine and railroads, then the internal combustion engine gave us automobiles and airplanes. Travel became motorized and travel time was reduced by astronomical percentages. The need for horses and buggies rapidly declined, and the number of companies making buggy whips fell accordingly.

Finally, only one company remained, the strongest and best managed of all the companies stood alone in the face of the inevitable end. “And you can believe, that company made the best damn buggy whip the world had ever seen,” he concludes, “But in the reality of the business world, that didn’t mean a thing.” Ultimately, the stockholders vote to sell their outdated cable and wire company. The family-owned business dies a quiet, sad death. But, being a movie, DeVilo falls in love with the company lawyer/daughter with whom he battled throughout the takeover, and subsequently devises a plan to use the company’s production facilities to upgrade and divesify to successfully manufacture wire for use in the burgeoning telecommunication industry, saving everyone’s job and the future of the community. That’s the way it goes in the movies.

The field ofgraphics and prepress production is my arena, and in 25 years I have witnessed the passing of the hot type Linotype typesetting machines (and the skilled artisans who operated them; thinking, reasoning and planning in reverse with backwards letters and numbers, all the while enduring painful burns and toxic fumes from bubbling, molten lead); its successor, the photomechanical typesetting machine, which read ticker-tape rolls of paper produced by legions of frenzied typists, tranferring the encoded tapes into flashes of light within the machine onto light-sensitive photographic typesetting film. The film was then processed through another device which was essentially a mini-darkroom, and ultimately going on to a layout artist who deftly ran the copy through a waxing machine, cutting and trimming and adjusting every galley of type onto full page layout sheets, leaving holes for photos by affixing “knockout boxes” of amber acetate film so that the person in the camera/platemaking room could attach negatives to the finished flat. These flats were then used to burn metal plates for transferring the image of the page onto rubber rollers, which offset the image onto the paper, producing the final product.

Today, all of those functions can be produced at a desktop Macintosh computer – with a scanner and a printer – by one person. In the future, voice-activated computers and as yet uninvented download devices will eventually replace the need for that one person. And the lesson to be learned from this little story?

Well, when I was a child, my mother would always impart on me – in those moments when all parents question their child’s ability to use their noggins – this interrogative, rhetorical plea: “Do you want to be a ditch digger for the rest of your life? Then you better straighten up and do your homework and learn something that will do you some good in life”.

Which was prophetically good advice, considering the invention of the Ditch Witch, a motorized, self-propelled trenching machine. So what analogy can be used for today’s children and their future?

Pray to your God in heaven that at the Microsoft headquarters, a still-frugal Bill Gates doesn’t ever decide to eat his bag lunch while sitting on the edge of the footbridge spanning the fountain pool that sits out front. And pray even harder he doesn’t look down when he bites into that sandwich.
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The previous article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, March 11, 1999.

Travis Tritt Goes Acoustic At House Of Blues August 14, 2009

By Brian M. Howle

Personally, I knew about Travis Tritt for some time before being subjected to one of his albums by a passed-out fan while camping out in the infield at Atlanta Motor Speedway in Hampton, GA in November of 1992. Which was a good thing, because listening to “Here’s A Quarter (Call Someone Who Cares)” three or four hundred times over the course of a very long and cold night could have made me loathe the man and his music.

But, Travis deserves better than that, and I know better than that.

And in all the years since, I have always made a point to catch his shows, because despite that woeful episode I just related, trust me – you won’t get a better performance from anyone, of any genre of music. But don’t take my word for it – check him out for yourself as House Of Blues in N. Myrtle Beach, SC presents An Acoustic Evening with Travis Tritt on Friday, August 14, 2009.

Ever the consummate showman, Travis Tritt will surprise you with his musicianship if you’re not familiar with the man; and his vocal power still amazes longtime fans to boot. And in my book he does the quintessential Willie Nelson impersonation as well.

Now for the background facts, culled from his website and Wikipedia:

James Travis Tritt was born in Marietta, Georgia to James and Gwen Tritt on February 9, 1963. At age 3, he received his first guitar from his father.

Travis began writing music while he was attending Sprayberry High School; his first song composition entitled “Spend A Little Time”, was written about his girlfriend about the time she broke up with him. Throughout his childhood, Tritt was obsessed with music, frequently spending hours alone in his bedroom learning to play the guitar and practicing various styles of both traditional country and southern rock songs.

By the age of 22, Tritt had been twice divorced. Single again he committed himself entirely to developing a full time music career. His breakthrough came with the release of his first album, Country Club, from which five singles were released, as well as his first No. 1 hit with “Help Me Hold On”’ His second album, It’s All About to Change, produced three top-3 hits: “Anymore”, “The Whiskey Ain’t Workin’”, and “Here’s A Quarter (Call Someone Who Cares)”. The song “Bible Belt” was used in the movie, My Cousin Vinny, and, for which, he composed alternate lyrics exclusively for the use of the film.

Tritt has charted more than thirty singles on the U.S. Billboard charts, including five Number Ones, and has released fifteen albums total. His first and third albums—1989’s Country Club and T-R-O-U-B-L-E—have each achieved platinum certification by the RIAA, while his albums It’s All About to Change (1991), Greatest Hits: From the Beginning (1995) have each achieved gold status. His most recent album, The Storm, was released in 2007.

He has also received two Grammy Awards in his musical career, both awards for Best Country Vocal Collaboration: in 1992 for “The Whiskey Ain’t Workin’”, a duet with Marty Stuart, and again in 1998 for “Same Old Train”, a collaboration of more than ten country music artists. In addition, he has received three awards from the Country Music Association. Tritt was accepted into membership of the Grand Ole Opry in 1992, when he was only 29. In 2002, Tritt was asked by CMT to do an episode of Crossroads, a special program allowed artists to choose who they would like to perform music with for an evening, and Tritt chose to share this opportunity and experience with Ray Charles. The night was particularly memorable for anyone familiar as Charles’ had his own roots in country music. Tritt paid special tribute to Charles at the Grand Ole Opry by performing his hit single, “What’ I Say” on June 3, 2006 on GAC.

Producer Randy Jackson paid a huge compliment to Travis Tritt, after recording a duet between Tritt and soul man Sam Moore for Moore’s 2006 album, Overnight Sensational.

“Dude, I knew you could sing, but I had no idea you could do that blue-eyed soul thing!”

Then he made a suggestion. “If you ever want to do an album that puts a bigger spotlight on that,” Jackson said, “I’d love to work on it with you.”

The end result of that conversation is The Storm, Tritt’s widely-praised 2007 release. Tritt and Jackson teamed up to create a powerhouse collection of songs that emphasize the irresistible soul side of Tritt’s singing. It’s a card that has always been in Tritt’s stylistic deck, but one that has often been overlooked by listeners unfamiliar with the deep musical links between country and R&B, particularly in the South.

“Growing up just outside Atlanta, to the north of us you’ve got the Grand Ol’ Opry in Nashville,” Tritt explains. “A little bit South you’ve got Macon, Georgia – home of the Allman Brothers, the Marshall Tucker Band and Capricorn Records. And off to west you’ve got Delta blues. Sprinkle Southern gospel over the top of that, and you’re talking about where I came from. I loved all of that music.”

And it won’t take you long to understand that statement. So break out the quarters and join Travis Tritt for an Acoustic Evening at House Of Blues in N. Myrtle Beach, SC on Friday, August 14, 2009. Doors open 7:30pm. For ticket info call 843-272-3000 or Ticketmaster 843-679-9333; or visit www.houseofblues.com or www.ticketmaster.com.
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This article is also published in Alternatives Newsmagazine, July 30, 2009; and appears at www.myrtlebeachalternatives.com under “Nightlife & Entertainment”.

Al Qaeda vs. Al Greeda

By Brian M. Howle

(Note: The following column originally appeared on July 4, 2002. But it is somewhat interesting – if not exasperating – how although the more things change, the more things really stay the same.)

There may have been other times in my life when I’ve been happy to see the end of a month – but not many top this past month. We’ve had more problems than Carter’s has little pills, here in the bustling headquarters of Alternatives and Coast, as computer glitches and outright computer death conspired against us all in achieving our deadlines. But, I’m thrilled to report that we have replaced the old dinosaur with a pair of new iMacs. And now that we’ve worked out all the software conflicts and avoided massive brain embolisms in the process, I’m as happy as kid in a candy store – until the next crash sends me into a profanity-laced diatribe.

Quite a few things have come to light since my last column, so let’s get right to it:

I guess a lot of folks are shaking their heads over the recent barrage of stock market scandals – and while I have no holdings in the market to fret over, I don’t understand why people are so surprised by it all.

Although we’ve made tremendous strides since September 11, we’re still reeling from the effects. The upcoming July 4th holiday has set off yet another round of security warnings from the government, and everyone needs to stay on their toes in case of another Al Qaeda attack.

But is Al Qaeda really our biggest threat? As horrible and tragic as those Sept. 11 attacks were, we may well be in the midst of something even more tragic – an attack from within.

Oh, it’s not as impressive or immediate as flying a plane into a building, that’s for sure. But for all of my adult life, I’ve seen it coming.

We’ve taken the American Dream and milked it for all it’s worth, maybe to the point of running the well dry. What was once a simple desire and goal to make better lives for our children and us has mutated into an ugly, self-fulfilled prophecy of greed at all cost.

Need an instant example? All-you-can-eat restaurants – really, can it get any more arrogant than a desire to gorge one’s self to the point of nausea? Just so you can “get your money’s worth?”

Apparently, capitalism is a thorny little concept with many built-in landmines. Profit-driven incentives have turned honest, simple goals into chasms of unrelenting deceit that now threaten to destroy our entire economic system. For decades, normal folks have watched the rich get richer through shrewd, bold investments on Wall Street, and along the way daydreamed of one day being included in that exclusive club of high rollers.

Then the ‘80s came along with the new “Me” generation of get-outta-my-way, I-got-mine players. The slow erosion of character, values and ethics gave way to a landslide of money-grubbing hands, as everybody wanted to get in on the “sure thing” that would create the next block of millionaires.

The catch was, the men who ran that exclusive little club – Wall Street – had the game fixed from the get-go. After all, who was going to stop them from running the table on us all
?
Federal regulators? Congress? The Justice Department? Seriously … the lack of enforcement of shenanigans in the trading world is shameful at best.

And now the vaunted glass ceiling of exclusivity has truly begun the metamorphosis of change, as that darling of handy gals everywhere – Martha Stewart – now faces the same scrutiny and plunging fortune as the boys. Personally, I hope Martha comes out unscathed (well, relatively; her stock value has dropped 50% since the news of her alleged involvement in a dead stock dumping arrangement just a leetle bit ahead of the rest of us), because, well, she’s the first woman and all, and I think she deserves some gimmes during the initial years. Later on, if she tries it again, then I’m alright with letting Martha go to prison, where she’ll get a whole new appreciation for the term “insider trading.”

Now, Congress (what a bunch of posturing weasels these guys have turned out to be lately) has jumped up on the ol’ “God & Country” bandwagon and called for the heads of all stock markets and major companies to appear before them, because “you got some ‘splainin’ to do, mister.” They want the presidents and CEOs and CFOs to take an “Oath of Disclosure,” stating that – to the best of their knowledge – the books are not cooked (By the way, I understand Martha has some great recipe ideas for that).

Oh yeah, I find this interesting: You know all those loudmouth morons who are constantly using “them damn foreigners” as the standard answer to all of these problems? Well, I wonder if they have noticed that in the mix of folks accused in these stock/financial swindles, that there are no Blacks, no Hispanics, no Asians, and no high-profile Arabs. There are no thick, indiscernible accents or Pigeon English to contend with. Just a bunch of middle-aged to senior white guys – oh, and Martha.

Along with the stock mess, the courts and the church are at it again. The infamous California (why, oh why did I know right away that this was a California court decision when I heard the headline intro on the news?) judges have stirred up a good ol’ fashioned hornets’ nest with the decision that – within the Pledge of Allegiance – the words “under God” were unconstitutional.

Well, when you live in a country where the founders (I like to call them founders; but really, they sorta started all this deceit and manipulation with that pesky Native American problem – which they sorta added insult to injury when they added on slavery, too) were all Anglo-Saxon Protestant or Catholic Christians, chances are their descendents are going to be a bit perturbed with such a silly move.

Of course, the fact that the single founding purpose was for a country – where people could choose their own religion and live free of government intervention – completely negates any argument about the decision that these two judges reached. Technically, they are correct: the phrase implies ONE religion over another. Especially when you add in the fact that “under God” was a little nicety that President Eisenhower bestowed on the Pledge of Allegiance in 1954. Oh yeah, that the fact that the Pledge of Allegiance wasn’t around when the constitution was written. The framers of the constitution didn’t create either version, for whatever reason – I tend to think they would have immediately realized the possible conflicts. Then again, they muddied up that “all men are created equal” part with the provision that one be “at least three-fifths white,” so maybe we should cut them some slack at not being omnipotent at the time.

On the Merit Score, however, it’s ridiculous to even have the case brought to ANY court, at ANY level. If you don’t believe in religion and you don’t want your kid to recite the Pledge, have them step out of the room and smoke ‘em if they got ‘em for all I care. But don’t screw up the ritual for the rest of us, okay?

Now, I’ve never claimed to be a perfect person; nor will I start now. But during my childhood and adolescence, there were many, many instances of hypocrisy that shook my trust in the adult world – and the advancing forays into the world of big money investments did nothing to restore that trust.

As children, we were subjected to an infusion of rules, laws and regulations, which were more or less pounded down our collective throats. And they all seemed to be of the highest good intentions, and they all followed the common sense approach to life. Be a good little pig – do the right thing, be good to your neighbor, serve your country, and give thanks to your God for everything that happens in your life, good or bad.

Oh, except for the fact that there were some little pigs more equal than others.

There is no way on earth that I’m the only person to notice the shadowy demise of honesty, character, and even the most minute molecule of ethical standards in all aspects of our society over the course of my life. So how did we get to this point?

The same way I’ve come to poorly attempted compromises in my take on life, I guess.

I’m guilty as charged, for turning my head the other way when I heard a person of standing use racist language in private.

I’m guilty as charged for keeping quiet when I overheard police officers using “good ol’ boy” language when referring to a suspect.

I’m guilty as charged for – in my youth – wanting to keep my job, and going along with a corporate decision that I knew to be illegal or unjust.

I’m guilty as charged for just not getting involved in the hundreds of thousands of little opportunities I’ve had to try and change the things that I know are wrong.

But I take solace in knowing that while I am guilty, I am not alone.

That means it’s up to all of us to right these wrongs, and to forgive those of us who have bowed to the ostracized-threat induced capitulation of not standing strong against the forces of wrong and evil.

President Bush, in promoting his administration’s plan to back school vouchers, recently stated to the administrators of the school districts wanting federal funding: “Show us results, if you want government help. We can’t allow our children to be trapped in schools that can’t teach and won’t change.”

I second that, Mr. President. Now … can we also ask our government and financial leaders to do the same? Show us results, if you want our help and our vote. Give us back our trust and dignity and maybe even a little say so in our country. We can’t allow our citizens to be trapped in a country that can’t govern and won’t change.

These things weigh heavily on my mind, as we prepare to celebrate our nation’s birthday. Once again, the terrorist warnings are up; our color is orange; our outings will be subjected to massive security checkpoints, with all of the expected delays and frustrations; our very lives in our hands as we plunge onward to attend the special services, concerts, fireworks displays and family gatherings.

Our adversaries shake their tightly-wrapped noggins and wonder out loud, “What IS it with these people? Why would they risk their lives to watch fireworks and sing their infidel anthem – even as their capitalist greed causes them to fight and bicker among themselves?”

Because we’re Americans – and that’s what we’re all about.
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The previous article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, July 4, 2002.

Those Who Can, Teach; Those Who Can’t, Run For Office

By Brian M. Howle

One of the things that will send me on a tirade at light speed is the current state of our education system. Each new day seems to bring yet another scathing assessment of a perceived failure in its very existence. And every election year, you will hear politician after politician espousing his or her dogged determination to create legislation that will resuscitate education reform. All the experts from both arenas agree that the dang thing is broke – but they just can’t seem to get together on the fix.

Let’s just clear this part up right now. The problem with our education system is in the machine that is those politicians – and those who voted them into office.

In other words, we are all culpable – with the exception of one important group.

The teachers.

A recent report on education concluded that a program instituted by the Pentagon (yes, that’s right, the military) was the most successful model of all contenders to date. It is based on (surprise) a military mindset when it comes to discipline. There’s no screwing around in these classrooms. The students are all “military brats” – their parents are members of the various branches of service.

Discipline is understandably a positive influence on these kids’ overall development. The clincher, however, is the second point of interest in the report. The involvement of the parents – on every level, at any time, doing whatever is necessary – has been deemed the key to the program’s success. Students’ grades and test scores increased so dramatically – even for kids who showed little ability – that their parents opted to re-enlist solely to keep their kids in the program.

The panel assembled to determine the results have concluded that this pilot program is far and away the most successful ever employed. The most glaring aspect of their findings is that without the parents’ participation and support, the brightest teachers and the slickest politicians can’t do it alone.

Um … somebody, please tell me … exactly when did this become news?

Perhaps it became glossed over in all the years of “peace and love” during the ‘60s; or the groovy laid-back obfuscation of the ‘70s, or the obsessive need for personal gain that befell the masses during the ‘80s, or during the wake-me-when-it’s-over ‘90s. But somewhere along the line, the very cornerstone of a viably necessary part of what made our country the greatest on the planet has been neglected – to the point where society as we know it is in grave peril.

So, you want to know what the hell happened? I’ll tell ya …

That post-WW II boom of jobs, babies and prosperity turned around and bit us in the butt. The quest for the American Dream became all consuming, to the detriment of our nation and our moral fiber. The sacrifices that so many brave Americans made on the battlefields around the globe, to ensure our freedom of choice that enables us all to pursue our dreams, have been mocked in an axiom of irony.

School, along with television, became a convenient place to ditch the kids, as the masses competed for personal wealth and material possessions. Considered more as a daycare facility than a place for education, parents dumped their young on school steps each morning, expecting the teachers and administrators to mold their little angels into model citizens. Long hours and busy schedules conspired to slowly kill the family sit-down evening dinner – where everyone relayed the events of their day, and children shared their questions and opinions about life and school with their folks. Now, everyone eats at different times- between cell phone calls – and then quickly retreats to the confines of individual televisions or computers.

Some have bemoaned that it is the schools that are at fault, somehow rationalizing that if the school has their kid for eight hours a day, then it should be responsible for how the child progresses.

Honesty must prevail – I am somewhat biased on this subject. My mom was a teacher, and later a guidance counselor. I was raised among a covey of teachers in my little town of Andrews; some were mothers of friends (as with my best friend), and some were just down the street from us. Actually, most everyone was “just down the street” from us.

Even as a naïve, gullible child, the grit, savvy and compassion of these professionals immediately impressed me. Of course, I didn’t always understand that what they were attempting to do – in educating me – was a good thing. But even a kid knows when an adult is disingenuous when it comes to communication between the two. And these women – and men – always had time for a child’s universe of questions, culled from a cornucopia of curiosity, ideas and dreams.

Take my mom, for example. One of my earliest memories is mother, running me through a series of flash cards. I’ll bet you I went through several thousand flash cards – and learned what was on them, and what they meant – before I ever set foot in a school. Now, don’t get me wrong – I loved my cartoons and my toys and games – but when a lot of kids were doing whatever kids do to pass the time, I was perusing dictionaries and thesauruses.

Which is why, when my first day of kindergarten arrived, it didn’t impress me all that much. All these kids running around – screaming, fighting, laughing, crying – and poor Mrs. Gilland trying to keep all the BB’s in a thimble. And then to top that off, once she established some order in the class, she started up with flash cards. Hey, I didn’t need all this external aggravation and distraction from the others – and the alphabet was long old hat in my repertoire.

So while the letter “A” entranced the others, I opened up a window and bailed on kindergarten, hightailing it back to the house. There, my dad unexpectedly confronted me when he came home for lunch and found me kicked back in the recliner, watching soap operas.

About 10 minutes later, I was back in kindergarten. Mercifully, it was lunch recess, so I didn’t have to sit down for a little while.

Not long after that first day, Mrs. Gilland instructed each of us to pick a book from the bookrack. As I reached for – and began to retrieve – the book I wanted, a girl reached over and scarfed it from my anticipating little hands. I immediately protested, loudly, and Mrs. Gilland intervened. “You should always respect little girls, Brian, and let them have first choice with our materials,” she sweetly explained. (Actually, she was just preparing me for dealing with women as an adult). “Here, this book is about the same subject as the one you wanted. Now, go sit and read it, and then we’ll all tell the class about what we read.” Then she turned and started walking over to another child.

Well, all that “respect the gals’ talk was fine – but the fact that I had chosen it first had been completely ignored. I was annoyed; no, I was incensed. And for some unexplainable reason, I took exception at the ruling, and proceeded to fling my second-choice-thrust-upon-me book at Mrs. Gilland’s still-in-range back.

And with that, I became the first – and as far as I know, the only – child to both run away from school and then be expelled, all in the first week.

And you can believe that, after my parents were through with me, I never tried anything like that again.

Unfortunately for my backside, I was quite adapt at discovering other means of exasperating my teachers through those elementary school years. But with each episode, I learned.

Episodes usually resulted in the double whammy of getting whupped by our principal, Mr. Woodbury (who was renowned for his legendary 5-pound paddle), and my mother. All things even, I would always take Mr. Woodbury’s retribution over my mother’s.

Finally, after surviving elementary school, I made it to the “big” school and Jr. High. There, the whooshing rush of a paddle was seldom heard in the classrooms, and none too soon for yours truly.

But I guess we all have one last hurrah left in us, even when it comes to punishment.

I learned very early that I had a propensity for language. I also learned, at the same time, that I woefully lacked any comprehension of all things mathematical. My poor dad – the numbers cruncher extraordinaire in the family – would spend hours with me, going over equations and finite rules of algebra and geometry. Every now and then, one would sneak through the wall of ignorance that encased me – and I would actually get it. It was like winning the lottery, with the payoff being my unbridled joy in finally understanding something about the one subject I hated more than any other.

So it shouldn’t have been any surprise that I tended to lose focus when I was in math classes. On one such day, I did so for the absolutely final and last time.

I was in Mrs. Thelma Haselden’s algebra class in the 7th or 8th grade. As usual, things weren’t going well for me, and I might as well have been on Mars. Distractions came all too easy, and the day came where my lack of attention – combined with my tendency to be a smartass – drove Mrs. Haselden’s patience to a cul-de-sac. This was a truly bad deal for me.

You see, Mrs. Haselden was not just a math teacher. She also instructed Physical Education, and was varsity girls’ basketball coach. And she was one healthy woman, if you get my drift.

It was most probably my patented “talking back” that triggered it; I honestly don’t remember. But whatever it was, Mrs. Haselden had reached the end of the line on reasoning with me. She tersely instructed me to step up to her desk, as she pulled her chair over to an open space in front of the blackboard. I was told to lean over the chair back and grab the seat, my back to the class.

Mrs. Haselden grabbed her teacher’s edition math book – the one that’s about 12 pounds – and proceeded to tee off on my hiney. With her girth, the book’s weight, and simple – but extremely powerful – kinetic energy, the contact with my derriere lifted me up and over the chair, headfirst into the blackboard with considerable velocity.

At least I learned a lesson in physics, which I never forgot. And I never said another word back to her unless asked. Of course, I also stopped taking math classes after that, too.

So, if you’ve got kids in school today, don’t go blaming the “system” or “the man” if your children aren’t cutting it, academically. Chances are that if you showed a little interest in their studies and personal development – by curbing their television, computer and video game time, have them in the house by 10 each night, and impart on them the social faux pas of answering the teacher’s request for homework with “I ain’t got no homework, bitch” – then their teachers and your politicians just might stand a chance of succeeding in this whole endeavor.

September 11 and all that is inclusive aside, President Bush has not impressed me greatly on other issues. But whenever I find myself questioning his reason or motive, I try to remind myself of his one greatest decision:

He married a teacher.

And Now, A Biased News Report
There’s just something fun about the back and forth ribbing that we Southerners and Northerners engage in with palpable zest. I guess that, from one another’s perspective, there are just some things we’ll never understand about each other.

It’s a good thing that doesn’t keep us from laughing at each other. Well, for example:

Two boys are playing football at this park in a small town in South Carolina when one of the boys is suddenly attacked by a crazed Rottweiler. Thinking quickly, the other boy takes a stick and shoves it under the dog’s collar, twists it, and breaks the dog’s neck, thus saving his friend.

A local sports reporter who was strolling by sees the incident and rushes over to interview the boy. He tells the boy he’s going to write the story and says, “I’ll title it ‘Young Gamecock Fan Saves Friend From Vicious Animal.’”

“But I’m not a Gamecock fan,” the little hero replies.

“Sorry, since we’re in South Carolina, I just assumed you were,” says the reporter and he starts writing again. He asks “How does ‘Clemson Fan Rescues Friend From Horrific Attack’ sound?”

“I’m not a Clemson fan either,” the boy says.

“Oh, I thought everyone in South Carolina was either for the Gamecocks or the Tigers. What team do you root for?”, the reporter asks.

“I’m just visiting my cousin, I’m a Syracuse Orangemen fan,” said the boy.

The reporter smiles, starts a new sheet in his notebook and writes: “Little Yankee Bastard From New York Kills Beloved Family Pet.”

For any of my “slow” Northern friends who may take umbrage with this little joke: You can change the team names around, alter the punch line and amuse your friends at our expense, too.

If we can all laugh, then there is hope.
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The previous article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, April 25, 2002.

Harry Pothead And The Sorcerer’s Weed

By Brian M. Howle

Alas, poor Royal; we knew you well.

Okay, so we didn’t, really. But, that won’t stop the tabloid press in the haughty and proper confines of the United Kingdom from having a freakin’ field day – at the expense of a child.

Yep, the big news broke over the weekend – of the alcohol and drug forays of young Prince Harry, youngest child of Prince Charles and the late Princess Diana. In the five to ten minutes that I mulled over this young boy’s misdeeds, over one billion people around the world became privy to this information. I doubt if many of them gave it much thought.

Which is a real shame, because somewhere – deep within the bowels of rampant sensationalism and titillation that now passes as journalism – there’s a real story, with a real message.

Oh, I have no doubt that reams upon reams of dribble will follow about young Harry’s wild escapades, complete with sordid, smarmy insights into decadence and debauchery of Babylonian proportions. And not just confined to the Brits … all media – worldwide – will feast on this one.

Just for fun, let’s break down the kid’s background and see if we can achieve some insight as to his core problem. Because, after all, no matter what your demons, there’s a core problem that links it all together.

Suffice to say that merely being a Royal is an extreme pressure right out of the gate. From the moment he drew his first breath, he was destined to be submerged in the trappings of an archaic Monarchy lifestyle: Proper nannies, proper schools, proper friends, proper behavior – drilled non-stop from day one.

Hey, piece of cake. Anyone could skate through puberty without any problems under those conditions.

Unless, say, you carried some baggage unique to your place in the grand order of things.

17-year-old Harry is third in line to the throne (he’s already lost his mom; and would have to lose dad and only sibling to gain the throne). His dad had his first drink at age 14. His mom had bouts of anorexia, bulimia and depression. Other relatives have submitted the Queen to the royal embarrassment – some on multiple occasions.

Add to this the fact that no teenager in the civilized world can be held from information. Television, radio, internet, schoolyard grapevine – no matter what the conduit, young Harry is at the mercy of the media when it comes to facing the cold, hard facts concerning his lot in life. Headlines in Britain’s newspapers coyly exclaim, “His Royal HIGHness.” One particularly snooty expert Royal watcher gleefully responded to a reporter, “Well, Harry’s not as popular as his brother, William. He’s not as good looking, nor is he as athletically inclined. He was always the goofy one. He’s always trying to outdo his brother and gain the attention of his father.”

Hey, Nigel, I took Psych 101, too. A toadstool could figure out that much. But thanks for putting it out there on a soundbyte that will loop around the dial until young Harry gets to hear it a few dozen times. Bloody well done, old chap.

So, we have a young boy, who has strayed from the straight and narrow and very proper mantle of British Royalty. He’s the youngest child, and as such is statistically predisposed to problem behavior. His parents have both exhibited addictive behaviors. The kid smoked a few joints, and had a few drinks. His father confronted him with it, and they talked. He’s done his time at the obligatory rehab clinic.

He’s a 17-year-old boy. And for all 17-year-old boys – regardless of social standing and privilege – hormonal tsunamis and trying to be cool can make life a bitch. Leave the kid alone.

Besides … lookie here at what’s next…..

Big Oil End Run – a.k.a. Enron
If there’s someone up there who reads my stuff on a regular basis – and likes it – well, they must have given me this week as a present. But validating my contention – that corporate greed is destroying our way of life MUCH faster than any lost war on drugs or failed attempts at creating an effective national education system – is of little satisfaction to me. Thousands of innocent, hard working, gullible, God fearing people have been ruined – jobs lost, savings lost, futures lost. And I just can’t revel in any of that.

But at least now, we all get to see how serious our national government really is about pursuing truth and justice.

I’m not holding out much hope for that to pass in Texas, though – considering that almost every person in the Houston area is directly tied to Enron. From the service industry; to the hospitality industry; to real estate; to tax-based revenues; to the labyrinth of state officials, prosecutors and judges (The Texas Attorney General quickly recused himself from any Enron-related matters that might come up) – it’s gonna be hard for folks there to find a sacrificial lamb that will satisfy all.

Then again, when citizens allow a big, manipulative, powerful company to have carte blanche when it comes to tax breaks, amortization rates, sweetheart deals and the like – well, sooner or later, that chicken is gonna come home to roost. (Man, I’m sure glad we don’t have any companies like that around here, huh?)

But for the employees of Enron – the heart of the company; the ones who put in long, arduous hours, who plowed their saving and bonuses back into Enron’s then-skyrocketing stock – there is no caveat of conscious.

Forget the lying to the Fed. Forget the lying to Wall Street. Forget the obscene amounts in political contributions – to BOTH parties. Forget the possibility of a mortally wounded infrastructure in Houston.

For these Americans (and after all, we are bombing the crap out of Afghanistan to protect the rights of THESE Americans, right?) were forced to sit on their hands and watch their stock’s value plunge into the abyssal void of bankruptcy and ruin. They were legally (a fancy term which means they had no choice) locked into investments that prevented them from selling their stock and recovering at least some of their money. Ah, but as for those executives in charge…they had no such restrictive stipulations hanging over their financial security. They dumped their vast stock holdings (albeit less than half of their holdings at most, but hey, I could live on half a billion, too) far in advance of the fall. And all the while, Enron’s tactical svengalis were stroking Arthur Andersen into providing co-conspirators, who issued “scorched earth” orders to all but the most rudimentary paperwork involved. Then again, giving the company that audits your books over $52 million a year will make some greedy Americans look the other way.

So now we get to see if the actual destruction of thousands of lives and the lifeblood of a community has any consequence in Corporate America. At least, more importance than, say, some obscenely expensive political vendetta against a hound and his bitch, for trying to destroy our way of life by participating in a failed, poorly conceived development known as Whitewater. Heck, our Senate actually impeached a President over the eventual dregs of personal embarrassment that were rabidly squeezed out of that one.

So, this time – pay attention to which way they look. Sooner or later, people are gonna notice.

In the meantime, I would advise having a diversified portfolio, with holdings in real estate, T-bills, hula hoops (they’re coming back; it’s just a matter or time), General Dynamics, Dow Chemical, Northrop, Marietta-Martin, Boeing, Remington, Winchester, Smith & Wesson, and Glock.

Pretzel Logic
George W. Bush, Jr. has gone on record as wanting to be known as the “Education President.” And yes, I was a bit skeptical when I heard that. But in all honesty, I have to admit that he has come through on that promise. I now know two things that I didn’t know before:

A) It’s medically and physically possible to induce a fainting spell by choking on a pretzel, if it presses up against a particular nerve in the throat, and if you have low blood pressure (a condition prevalent in joggers and runners); and,

B) When the President of the United States of America passed out and fell off the couch – bruising his cheek and lip along the way – the only two witnesses to the event were Barney and Spot.

Barney and Spot are not Secret Service codenames, nor are they aides or staffers, or relatives. Barney and Spot are dogs.

The leader of the free world, unconscious on the floor, comes to and finds Barney and Spot in the same places they were before he fell – they hadn’t budged. President Bush, if I were you, I’d be looking for a dog named Lassie:

Lassie: “WOOF!”
Secret Service agent: “What’s that, girl? A capacitor in the CPU for the modem that links the Nuclear Hotline has burned out, and the odor has triggered swelling in the President’s sinuses, which has pressed up against a nerve that caused him to pass out? And we can order another one from Radio Shack? And the maid is stealing the silverware?”

A true master Thespian, Lassie always got the most out of a single line.

But seriously … we now have smart bombs. Why can’t we have smart dogs, too? Or is this yet another example of the “dumbing down” of America, gone to the dogs, so to speak? Or is that just the axiom for freedom and democracy – “Smart Bombs, Dumb Dogs?”

Imagine the following scenario in the not-too-distant future: The elite force of Secret Service agents is deployed in advance of President Bush’s impending departure from Washington, as he makes his way to the waiting Marine helicopter on the White House lawn. Suddenly, a half-dozen men with aviation sunglasses and earpieces with those little coiled cords tucked down in their collars scurry into an encircling formation around the President, loudly whispering into their sleeves as they crouch in anticipation:

“Daycare Leader to all agents, Daycare Leader to all agents … stay alert and be prepared to stabilize the Shrub … is now about to attempt chewing gum while walking … notify EMT’s and Walter Reed …”

That Dubya … what a hoot. Don’t ya just know that in a dark, unstable, moldy cave – somewhere in Afghanistan – there were some Al-Queada guys watching CNN the next day, exalting out loud, “I can’t believe we’re getting our asses kicked by THIS guy!”

Don’t be so aloof, Cave Boy. ‘Cause once you become too self-confident about your situation, Dubya is going to give you boys a laser-guided pretzel enema. And if you’re lucky, you’ll faint, too.

Another Dumb Animal
In light of the recent arrest of another “troubled” person in the Socastee area this weekend, I’d like to advance the call of action against people who choose to inflict their own sick pain and suffering on helpless animals. As disturbing as it is, the truth of the matter is that it is not a felony to maliciously and mercilessly murder an animal in South Carolina. (And yes, I know; for some, hunting is a form of murder. I feel your pain. Now, get over it. This ain’t hunting.)

You can talk all you want about man being the supreme being on earth, and about how God gave us domain over all other animals, and that it’s not the same as the taking of a human life. Go ahead; give it your best shot … knock yourself out.

Common sense – along with every competent psychologist and psychiatrist I’ve ever asked – will tell you that a person who savagely tortures, maims and kills animals is potentially just one act away from graduating up to human prey. That alone is reason enough to finally put some teeth into animal cruelty laws. But it should be done out of respect for the lives of these animals; more succinctly, out of respect for life itself.

Yes, I know where my Quarter Pounder with Cheese comes from. I know my shoes once grazed in a pasture somewhere. I know countless cousins of “Babe” are really tasty as a side for eggs and grits. Such is the luck of the draw; the delineating definition between livestock and pet.

These are acts of necessity, of survival, of sustenance. And the bloodlines are bred solely for that purpose.

But to kill, simply for the enjoyment of killing; to satisfy some perverse, sick, pathetic need to make existence for defenseless animals more horrible than your own – is an act of unmitigated evil. Period.

And now the county or city will have to spend taxpayer money to put this dumb animal on trial – and if justice is served, foot the bill for the use of local incarceration facilities at taxpayers’ expense.

I propose another idea. After the sentencing, gather up a group of folks who all feel as I do. Then give us big, heavy, ball-peen hammers, and five minutes. Hey, all those folks on City and County Councils are always hollerin’ about saving money, aren’t they? Let’s get serious about it, then.

And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with civic participation that’s carried out with enthusiasm and expediency.

Or a big, heavy, ball-peen hammer.
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The previous article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, January 17, 2002.

South Carolina: The Shakedown State

By Brian M. Howle

(Note: This was written July 14, 2005 – long before S.C. Governor Mark Sanford’s now-infamous tryst with his Argentinian hike buddy. This just underscores his longtime propensity for the political play based on Mark Sanford’s needs, not an ideology, poltical party or – God forbid – ethics and character, slathered in a thick coating of hypocrisy.)

As the years have rolled on by in my life, some things have become apparently clear to me, much to my absolute dismay. And despite my most honest efforts to avoid becoming cynical, jaded, skeptical, doubtful, and pretty much wary of everything that moves in general – well, it just ain’t happening.

Take that whole “be honest” bill of goods that our political, religious and business leaders – along with our parents and teachers – sold us when we were just small, malleable little tow-headed kids.

The concept was, always tell the truth: no matter how much it may hurt YOU to do so; no matter how much trouble it may cause OTHERS to endure; no matter what OTHERS may think – if you know it to be true, and honest, and good, THAT’s what matters.

This idea was so important, that we were given constant examples of the practice by our wonderful role models – political, religious, professional and, of course, our own parents.

Heck, they even went as far as coming up with that whole George Washington “I cannot tell a lie” scenario. We should have been more than a little suspicious when it was accompanied by that “I threw a coin across the Potomac River” sidebar. I mean, seriously, go look at the river, and try to imagine a child pulling that off.

Well, the point I’m careening toward here is courtesy of the honorable and honest governor of our fair state, Mark Sanford.
Gov. Sanford ran for the office as a proud Republican, and often touted those good ol’ Republican mantras, like “We’re dedicated to keeping government out of the lives of the people.”

Thanks for selling us out, Gov. Sanford. We appreciate it so very much.

Oh yeah, you were all over pimping out the media when you had your little scuffle with the boys in the domed funhouse over that whole “Pork Barrel” legislation brouhaha. You even enlisted the help of non-voting, non-taxpaying, artery-clogging. doomed-to-death farm animals – in the form of loveable little piggies – so all the TV stations would run you holding the cute little squealing porkers as you chided the lawmakers for their wasteful ways.

So where was our in-your-face governor last week, when the unbelievably invasive and un-constitutional mandatory seatbelt law was on his desk awaiting either a signature or a veto?

Why, he was taking the middle-of-the-road, gutless, and not at all Republican position of electing not to sign the bill at all, which in turn automatically made the horrible legislation law in South Carolina, that’s where he was, folks.

Don’t give me that argument about how Gov. Sanford had to let it go into law, because the Federal government threatens to pull highway funding dollars if states don’t tow the line like good little boys and girls, just like back when we were kids.

That’s another kettle of fish that needs attention – among dozens of others – on a national level, but it’s not more important than some simple rights of the state’s citizenry.

Before you get all bent over my attack on the honorable Governor Sanford, allow me to clarify a few things.

I have nothing but the highest respect, admiration and support for ALL law enforcement officers. These folks are underpaid, overworked and put their lives on the line every day so that you and I can tell the rest of the world we live freely in the greatest nation on earth. They are not the ones creating laws; that’s what the House and Senate do. So don’t attack these folks for doing their job.

The seatbelt law means police now have the right to pull you over and issue a twenty-five dollar ticket for those who decline to buckle up. It’s a cute little end-game law that circumvents the state’s old “license checkpoint” tactic that was struck down by a higher court as unconstitutional.

I personally believe that EVERY man, woman and child SHOULD wear a seatbelt when riding in a vehicle. I also believe that motorcyclists SHOULD wear a helmet, regardless of age.

My belief was confirmed in glorious fashion when a seatbelt literally saved my life in TWO separate accidents. I’ve worn a seatbelt since earning my beginner’s driving permit, and I would hope that everyone use the same common sense – and tons of corroborating data on the use of seatbelts that uncategorically proves that they DO save lives.

However, there are some folks who – for various reasons – absolutely do not want, intend or ever plan to strap on a seatbelt.

I personally know people who have had friends or family killed in auto accidents where – and this is against all normal conditions and circumstances, but, nonetheless – victims were trapped in submerged or burning vehicles by jammed seatbelts.

There are those among us who have varying physical reasons for avoiding the belts, mainly due to painfully constraining tightness that doesn’t affect the rest of us as it does them.

And, sadly, there are those who are just stupid and don’t want to be told anything.

However retarded, though, that’s the whole point of living in a free society, where there is supposed to be some measure of honesty in purporting that we actually have some freedom of choice.

Government – whether Federal or State – has no business whatsoever intervening in our personal transportation seating choices. Why on earth would they even find the slightest interest in doing such a thing?

Could it be a heartfelt concern for the health and well-being of the public?

Could it be an overwhelming desire to prevent family members from experiencing the grieving process by avoiding unnecessary deaths when unbelted victims are ejected from vehicles in crashes?

Or could it be an easy, easy, oh, so easy way to produce revenue?

Damn smart way to raise revenue, don’t you think? Oh no, we won’t subject the citizens to another tax increase – at least, not where they can figure it out. Why, we’ll just whittle out a leetle bit of change from the pockets of motorists all over the state, and the next thing you know, we’ll have enough money to pay for legislators to take junkets around the world, encouraging businesses and tourists to come visit the Palmetto State. And then they can contribute to the scam when we write them up for not wearing seatbelts, too.

Oh, and it gets better.

It’s not just the state of South Carolina who gets the windfall. Every county, city and municipality will rev up the ticket writing machine, as the budget deficit woes go away, twenty-five dollars a pop.

Ooooo … and what about all that other revenue that gets generated by ancillary fines resulting from the seatbelt infraction?

Back to that part where we don’t get federal funding if we don’t abide by the Feds edict on seatbelts …

We won’t need the federal funding for roads, because no one is going to come to a state where law enforcement can shake you down the minute you cross our fair border.

Kibbles & Bits
How To Lose The War On Terrorism Without Really Trying
Hey, is it just me, or does anyone else find it slightly unsettling that our border situation – both with Mexico and Canada – is a world-wide joke? Have the anti-terrorist experts who keep coming up with these brilliant solutions – like banning lighters and nailclippers on airliners – ever wondered how illegal drugs get into the U.S.A.?

I’ve supported my President and my country, wholeheartedly and without a bit of cynicism since 9/11. Whether we had a valid reason to invade Iraq or not does not bother me, although being lied to does (if that ever proves to be the case). Kill ‘em all and let God sort ‘em out. But stop jerking the people around when it comes to Homeland Security.

The next 9/11 won’t come raining down from the sky in the form of a highjacked airliner. It will be some form of dirty bomb or conventional nuclear weapon, brought unencumbered across the porous borders of our nation by those who hate us most.

The government in Mexico is an open joke that slaps America in the face with each morning’s sunrise. The leftists in Canada are doing their dead-level best to do the same.

Yeah, I know – that whole scene recently with the southwestern border and those yahoos who volunteered to patrol it and all made for interesting video reports. But during those days when the yahoos made their presence widely known, illegal entry into the United States dropped like Monica Lewinsky in a windowless room.

Y’all don’t come back now, ya heah?

Talk Radio Burnout
About two years ago, I began listening to talk radio on a daily basis. I figured it was time to give those with whom I often disagreed a fair shake and listen to what they had to say.

Oh yeah, what do you call a right-wing talk show host with a prescription drug addiction?

An oxymoron.

(I have to admit, I am soooo proud of that one).

If you truly believe everything you hear on talk radio, consider yourself a truly stupid person.

The rest of us sure do.
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The previous article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, July 14, 2005.

“Rock ‘N Roll” – 1977

Artist: 1977
Album: Rock ‘N Roll (2008)
Info: www.1977theband.com
Label: Play It Again Records, LLC
Genre: KISS Tribute Rock

(Editor’s Note: As of July 26, 2009, 1977’s Rock ‘N Roll was listed on www.cdbaby.com at #8 in the Classic Rock category; #3 in the ‘70s Rock category, and – TA DA! – Number 1 in the Tribute Band category.)

For any self-respecting KISS fan, it pretty much has to be 100%, undiluted KISS to make your world go ‘round. An while the boys gave us many great albums, it has been awhile since they cranked out anything approaching the raw allure of Love Gun or the like. Actually, it’s been awhile since they cranked out anything.

Well, fret no more, my face-painted little friends. Because here is an album that will blow you away, and make you swear that Gene, Paul, Ace and Peter “got the band back together, man!”

The culmination of a lifetime of admiration and immersion into the world of all things KISS, 1977’s Rock “N Roll is one slick release. From the dead-on designs and packaging that slyly mirrors the style of the ‘70s iconic rock legends to the delightfully innovative replication of the beloved “vinyl” album (you have to see the CD – has the oldstyle label, and is black with actual grooves!). The coup de grace is the enclosed extra goody when you open it up – this is a must-have addition to any rockologist’s collection.

There are ten killer tracks on this album, and the attention to detail is stunning. It’s one thing to put together a tribute band, learn to play the KISS catalogue, put on the makeup and costumes and play. But it takes a special, not-readily-available talent to reproduce the music-writing styles that were instantly recognizable as the KISS signature sound of those first few years. It really is a truly remarkable achievement by the genius behind the production of this CD … and a huge hit for any KISS fan, young or old.

And kids, the word is out. 1977 officially entered The MySpace Music Top 100 Artist Chart at No. 92 during the week of Sunday, March 1st 2009. Since then, they have been ranked as high as No. 68 on the chart and have currently settled in the No. 85 position. (NOTE: This ranking is based on a field of 153,111 artists in the genre of Classic Rock in the category of Independent Label Artists.)

This little gem is 100% locally produced – written, recorded, packaged and shipped from somewhere deep within the bowels of Myrtle Beach. Order a Limited Edition of 1977 Rock “N Roll CD by sending $19.77 plus $5.00 U.S. shipping ($8 outside U.S.), in check or money order to: A. Coin Management, LLC, c/o Alexander Coin, P.O. Box 2825, Myrtle Beach, SC 29578.

Oh, and by the way … although Gene (Simmons) had been on record as saying they would never be recording new material again, I find it rather interesting – if not suspiciously coincidental – that he has announced they may soon crank out another album of original music … an announcement made not very long after this album was released in July of 2008!

Reviewed by Brian M. Howle
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The previous article was originally published February 23, 2009

Bret Michaels’ Rock Of Love Bus Tour Stops At House Of Blues August 6

By Brian M. Howle

(Note: Originally scheduled for June 10, this show was postponed after a much-publicized accident at the end of a performance during Broadway’s Tony Awards televised on June 7, in which Bret suffered a fractured nose and numerous abrasions and bruises when a sign was lowered into his path as he was exiting the stage.)

Say what you will about the legendary, hedonistic days of ‘80s Glam Metal Rock, and all of the salacious players who gained notoriety and beaucoup trim because of its insatiable popularity: Ya either had it, or ya didn’t.

See, someone like Joe Jackson – great songwriter and musician that he was – didn’t.

But if you were from, say, Pennsylvania; and you took your band and your dreams of rock ‘n roll stardom to the mean streets of L.A.; if you damn near starved to death while having the best (and worst) times of your life; and if your band was Poison and you became an MTV ‘80s icon selling over 25 million albums; oh, and if you were so glam cute the hotties left a small pool on the floor when they saw you … well, you did.

And that would mean your name was Bret Michaels, and now the Poison frontman and the host and star of VH1’s Rock of Love is bringing the Rock of Love Bus Tour with opening act Parmalee to the House Of Blues in N. Myrtle Beach, SC on Thursday, August 6, 2009.

Here’s the Bo-Skinny-Bop from Michaels’ website, and from info culled from the net:

Bret Michaels is, if nothing else, a true survivor. He has survived a lifelong battle as an insulin dependent diabetic since the age of six, a well publicized near fatal car crash in 1994 and the countless musical trends and fads of the last two decades.

“As soon as I ever start to just go through the motions I’ll quit,” confessed the 46 year old singer, songwriter, producer, director, actor and father of two daughters in a recent interview. But there’s little chance he’ll even slow down let alone quit anytime soon. In fact, after more than 20 years in the business this award winning, multi platinum superstar’s career continues to move at warp speed.

As front man for the legendary rock band Poison, Michaels has sold 25 million records and scored an amazing 15 chartbusting Top 40 singles including “Talk Dirty to Me,” “Something to Believe In,” “Nothing But a Good Time” and the timeless #1 smash ballad “Every Rose Has its Thorn.”

And in the new millennium Poison’s music has been featured in such big screen flicks as “Mr. and Mrs. Smith,” “Grandma’s Boy” and “Deuce Bigelow-European Gigolo.” They continue to be one of the industry’s top grossing concert attractions and their 2006 20 Years of Rock CD was a bona fide Top 20 gold smash. Poison’s most recent CD is 2007’s Poison’D an album of cover songs that have influenced the band members over the years.

Michaels has also produced and written material for other artists including Stevie Nicks. He wrote and produced the song “Love’s a Hard Game to Play” which appeared on Nicks’ platinum album Timespace: The Best Of Stevie Nicks. More recently Michaels could be heard providing background vocals along with Phil Vassar on the Kenny Chesney/Uncle Kracker duet single “Last Night Again.”

In the mid-90s Michaels formed a film production company with actor Charlie Sheen. The partnership ultimately led to Michaels writing, directing and starring in several films including “A Letter From Death Row” which he executive co-produced with Sheen.

As an actor, Michaels has made regular appearances on such hit television shows as “Yes Dear,” “Martial Law,” and “The Chris Isaak Show.” And he has also co-hosted “Access Hollywood” and been a judge on the wildly popular “Nashville Star” program. Recently, Michaels has played for charity on “Don’t Forget the Lyrics” winning $250,000 for St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital and Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation.

Setting his musical sights beyond Poison, Michaels released his debut solo album Songs of Life in 2003 followed by the rootsy, Americana flavored sophomore record Freedom of Sound in 2005. The current release, Rock My World was released in June 2008 and features a collection of Bret Michaels’ solo songs that have been featured on the “Rock Of Love” television series.

Michaels has also toured with the USO in Kuwait in 2007 for soldiers deployed for Operation Iraqi Freedom; and is portrayed in the video game Guitar Hero III: Legends of Rock, which features him singing “Go That Far” and Poison’s “Talk Dirty to Me”.

Michaels, ever the self-promotion prototype, joins the ranks of author with a soon to be released, provoking autobiographical account of his life with Roses & Thorns, similar in nature to Motley Crue’s The Dirt.

“This is the unvarnished truth about my life – everything I dreamed it could be but nothing I thought it would be,” Michaels confesses in the book’s promo tag, “The reality of my rock and roll fantasy … Enjoy and rock on.”

The 352-page hardcover edition is published by Simon Spotlight Entertainment, and release date is June 23, 2009.

Rock of Love with Bret Michaels and Rock of Love 2 with Bret Michaels, where twenty lucky ladies got their chance for an All-Access pass to Bret Michaels’ heart and to share in all his superstar lifestyle, has been a enormous ratings winner for Vh1. The series has became the highest rated series on Vh1 and consistently won its time slot when aired, including multiple airings. Michaels just completed filming a third installment of the series aptly titled “Rock of Love Bus with Bret Michaels” as the singer is taking the show on the road this time.

“I would play music whether I made it or not,” Michaels told a journalist in 2002 and it’s that commitment to his art that continues to keep him at the forefront of the entertainment industry.

So break out your best headband, shoehorn your butt into some spandex and join Bret Michaels and The Bret Michaels band – with opening act Parmalee – at House Of Blues in N. Myrtle Beach, SC on Thursday, August 6, 2009. Doors open 7:00pm. For ticket info call 843-272-3000 or Ticketmaster 843-679-9333; or visit www.houseofblues.com or www.ticketmaster.com.
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This article also appeared in the June 4 – 18, 2009 issue (Page 25) of Alternatives and Coast NewsMagazines.

An American Christmas

By Brian M. Howle

There are so many occasions that we native-born Americans (with humble apologies to true Native Americans) take for granted. Familiarity does indeed breed contempt, even under the most innocent of conditions.
With the onset of the traditional Christmas rush, most Americans find themselves in the grips of capitalism at its most fervent pitch. Each year, even with the earlier-than-the-year-before pre-Christmas sales that used to begin right after Thanksgiving (but which now emerge as soon as the last stale bag of Halloween candy is put on clearance sale), Christmas always seems to sneak right up on us. And so we begin the quest for the perfect gift, for the hot toy of the year, for that sojourn into the capitalist mecca known as “the mall.”

A lot of normal, decent folks are out there, happy as clams, polite and obliging and good as gold. Then again, there are – and I swear, every year there are more and more – total wastes of human DNA out there, bowling over small children and little old ladies. Rude, insolent, arrogant, bitter and downright ugly examples of our species gone terribly wrong. I leave it to each of you to categorize yourselves as to which group you qualify.

I recently had the eye-opening honor of attending a Citizenship Naturalization ceremony in Columbia, S.C. The love of my life, originally from Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, had passed all the citizenship tests and requirements and was scheduled to duly and lawfully become a U.S. citizen.

Arriving on an early Friday morning at the U.S. Courthouse in the Capitol City, two things immediately struck me:

(1) Having not visited a U.S. Courthouse for some time, the past transgressions of the lunatic fringe in our country have left a chilling reality to our most basic freedom of assembly – Metal detectors, bomb detectors, security cameras and guards galore, and;

(2) The true meaning of America’s “Melting Pot” moniker.

A quick glance around the entrance revealed that the world’s population was well represented. People from Canada, Spain, Brazil, Mexico, Colombia, Uruguay, Yugoslavia, Nigeria, Sri Lanka, Vietnam, Burma, Netherlands, Germany, France, Belize, Guatemala, South Africa, Japan, Australia, New Zealand, Pakistan, South Korea, India, England, former states of the Soviet Union, Philippines, Guam, China, Taiwan, Iran, Iraq, and Turkey. It wasn’t the fact that these folks were immigrating to our country that astonished me; it was the fact they were making South Carolina their former portal for becoming permanent members of our society. Longstanding mental images of weary immigrants entering through Ellis Island seemed more then norm in my mind’s eye until this personal day of awakening. But here they all were, anxiously anticipating the formality of becoming U.S. citizens.

The large crowd of about 350 people lightened by 122 as officials called for those who were actually participating in the ceremony, to finalize paperwork and verify identity . Meanwhile, I observed the families who were gathered-to witness their loved ones’ realization of a dream come true. There is an undeniable sense of awe when you see the seamless tiers of generations assembled for such an event. From the oldest grandparents and great-grandparents – most of whom only speak their native tongue – to the youngest toddlers and infants, most of whom display the physical characteristics of dual ethnicity homogenized to form the new world child, this window to the ever-changing fabric of our population is just a joy to behold.

As the big moment drew near, the doors to the courtroom swung open and everyone jockeyed for position to afford the best vantage point. And you know, it’s amazing how, even though there may be language barriers when such a diverse group gathers, the hand signal for “scoot in closer” is truly universal. When everyone finally squeezed into the packed courtroom, the multi-lingual murmur trailed off as the officials entered and the ceremony began.

Overseeing the proceedings was Senior U.S. District Court Judge Matthew J. Perry, a patriarchal figure of a man with an authoritative yet soft voice. Articulate and eloquent, he welcomed everyone and thanked them for their attendance. He then introduced visiting dignitaries and members of organizations who were providing various mementoes and keepsakes of the occasion. American Legion representatives gave each new citizen a booklet on Flag Etiquette; Members of the National Society of Colonial Dames presented laminated copies of the Naturalization Oath; and ladies of the National Society of the Daughters of the American Revolution furnished copies of the Pledge of Allegiance and the American Creed, along with little American flags.

Hey – next time some cretin starts mouthing off about those “damn foreigners taking over our country”, ask them to recite the American Creed. Game, set, match.

The keynote speaker for the ceremony was Dr. Ali Akbar M. Haghighi, a Professor of Mathematics at Benedict College. A great moment of levity was provided by Judge Perry’s attempt in pronouncing Dr. Haghighi’s name, due to the fact that after inquiring as to the correct pronunciation, Dr. Haghighi turned away from the P.A. microphone to address the Judge. Unable to hear the response, Judge Perry asked a second and third time, each of which Dr. Haghighi would again turn away from the microphone to answer. Still not sure of his success in getting it right, Judge Perry finally implored Dr. Haghighi to forgive him if he had bungled the pronunciation, and in the event he had, to “come see me if you ever need a parking ticket fixed.” Apparently, ticket-fixing is also a universal champion of the language barrier, judging from the room’s response. (Oh, by the way – it’s Hah-gee-gee).

All kidding aside, the Iranian-born professor gave an inspiring assessment of what he considered to be the two greatest privileges of American citizenship. First, freedom of speech – a concept that has been taken for granted by too many Americans for far too long. While many of us get all bent out of shape because of offense at content of speech – such as the use of profanity, or the diatribes of Klansmen or Neo-Nazis – we tend to forget that in many countries physical abuse, torture and death can result from the simple act of expressing one’s opinion.

Secondly, Dr. Haghighi passionately reveled about America’s long-standing reputation as “the land of opportunity”. In this country, one truly has the ability to accomplish anything you set your mind to. You are free to pursue your dreams, to go as far as your capabilities will take you. And yes, prejudices do exist and minorities can face formidable odds. But as long as you obey the laws and stay focused on your goals, anything is possible. Too many Americans have become slovenly apathetic towards applying any semblance of a work ethic, somehow coming to the conclusion that government entitlements and handouts have become the ‘90s equivalent to inalienable rights.

Dr. Haghighi made me realize if you took a jaded, self-absorbed American and plopped him down in the middle of any one of dozens of other countries on this earth, where cast systems are unchangeable and unforgiving, where racial or religious or political constraints are unavoidable and unbending, where there is no recognition of even the most simplistic of basic human rights – well, they would beat a path straight through the gates of hell to return to the principles of our Constitution. Geez, just took around – Bill Gates, Darla Moore, Oprah Winfrey, Dave Thomas, Tom Brokaw, Kathy Lee Gifford, Jerry Springer, Colin Powell, Pauley Shore – it’s enough to make your head explode. The land of opportunity.

Dr. Haghighi’s speech concluded with a rousing ovation, and the moment all had waited for was upon us. Judge Perry asked the candidates to stand and state their name and country of origin, due to the sheer number involved, and when all had spoken the entire group would take the Naturalization Oath of Citizenship. One by one, row by row, men and women of all sizes, race, religion, color and creed proudly did just that.

Then, towards the very end of this group of our newest citizens, there came an elderly couple from Colombia. The wife was very soft-spoken and her English was a little hard to understand. But the husband broke from the name/country format and in a loud, firm voice – thick with accent but proud and strong and very clearly English, tears streaming down his face – proceeded to tell the Judge how proud and happy he and his wife were to be in America, becoming American citizens. The courtroom was awash in smiles and applause and more than a few other tears.

Then the group stood, raised their right hands and took the Naturalization Oath of Citizenship. One by one they stepped forward to receive their certificates and handshakes, turning to face flashbulbs, cheers and hugs from family and friends.

Aglow in her new status, I playfully chided my Pêsseginho (little peach) that she was now “street legal”. We headed to a downtown restaurant for a celebratory lunch as she tucked her certificate over the visor of our van. Afterwards, on the way back home, conversation was lively and constant. But as I drove, from the corner of my eye, I saw the visor pulled down and the paper plucked out time after time. Not even her graduation from college this past spring compared to the pride that radiated from her constantly smiling face. Only my pride in her could come close.

So as I wish you all Happy Holidays and a prosperous New Year; as we all hope for peace on earth and goodwill towards man, as you wade into the sea of humanity searching for that perfect gift – I can’t tell you who that rude, insolent, arrogant, bitter or downright ugly person is. But in this land of opportunity, I can tell you who it isn’t.

Feliz Natal, meu Pêsseginho.
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The previous article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, December 17, 1998.

Nip It, Nip It In The Bud

By Brian M. Howle

It’s downright amazing that we, as a species, managed to plod along at a chronological Snail’s pace without mass media, and still managed to instill the simplest virtues of character, decency, self-esteem and common sense into each successive generation. How on earth, do you think, did our ancestors survive without the enlightenment of a network’s or reporter’s opinion? Did their children ever desire a sense of empowerment that comes from unlimited access to all the confusing, disturbing, and explicitly forbidden world of images and information? And exactly when did the Constitution become a pass key into a citizen’s private life?

Now, maybe these things don’t bother you, maybe it’s just me. But it seems to me that in the aftermath of Bubba’s Inquisition – and the ensuing gauntlet of fallen fingers when self-promotion motivated media types turned the spotlight back on the accusers, resulting in the loss of two (count ‘em, TWO) Speakers of the House of Representatives – and in all the post-Monica backwash, well, someone’s just not paying attention in the media.

Take this George Bush, Jr. flap about prior drug use. The original question of “Have you ever done drugs?” is an excellent example of both sides making mistakes in responding. The question in and of itself is a reasonable one. Most companies now require prospective employees to submit to standardized drug tests as a matter of common practice. Expecting any prospective public servant to answer a question concerning prior or current drug use is not unreasonable. And yes, on this single point, we do have the right to know.

Well, Junior decided that he didn’t have to answer that question, and the impression he made was exactly that – of someone who lets their temper and emotion control their mind and speech, and then becomes a sound byte that amplifies their attitude, whether it be confidence, cockiness or arrogance. He gave the media dogs a great big chew bone by refusing to answer. Attempts at spin control only served to worsen his already damaged image. And to top it all off, allies and enemies alike pointed out the ironically eerie similarity to Bubba’s history of dancing around an issue. If he had simply answered this the very first time it came up, whatever ripples it may have produced at the moment would have long since disappeared.

As for the media, well, is anyone ever surprised by the constant feeding frenzy that now comprises the media? Junior lofted up a great big, fat, slow, hanging changeup out over the plate, and the media crushed it. Like some rabid boomerang, it just keeps coming back again and again, chipping away at the relevance of it all until it just seems like more of the same ol’ same ol’. Desensitizing the public’s sense of what’s really important serves no one.

My own sense of what’s really important was crystallized during my junior year of college. Deep into the core courses of journalism, a mixture of history-making national and world events – and the ethical pushing of the envelope advocated by some of my professors – combined to form my views. The nation was being ripped apart by the combined one-two punch of Vietnam and Watergate, and it became all to clear to me how powerful the media had become. Advertising classes advocated creating ad campaigns that would lead the consumer to believe they needed the products – whether they actually did or not.

Now, being stubborn by nature probably didn’t help, but these things just sorta stuck in my craw. I could not begin to fathom the concept of preying on the stupidity or humiliation of others to sell a product. And I could just see the day that my publisher or editor would call me into the office and give me an assignment that smelled of “Let’s nail this guy to a cross.” Realizing I had placed myself into a profession fraught with compromise and tongue biting, I pursued the field of graphic arts and design. I have chosen not to accept an account from time to time based solely on my inability to believe in the product or the person. And yes, I have had some conflicts with my employers when faced with such a situation – but I have had the good fortune to work for men and women who respected my position. Respectful folks, with boatloads of patience, have made me a better person.

Well, being one who really hates the use of catch phrases, there’s one that I must cotton up to without remorse: “The Dumbing Down Of America”. Print media has historically led the parade on this one, what with “Yellow journalism” and all that. And publications like The National Enquirer and The Star have been the research material fodder for comedy writers for years.

And of course, constantly changing trends, likes and dislikes of each generation’s concept of fashion and art contribute to clashes between personalities – and that’s to be expected; it’s normal. Well, if “absolute power corrupts,” then “unlimited television rots.”

The decline of any resemblance to socially acceptable behavior on television has reached an all-time low. The onslaught of the Jerry Springers and Sally Jessie Raphaels gave the civilly-challenged dregs of our society a platform, and it went from “watching the freaks go ballistic” to daily entertainment fare for almost all of our youngsters. Oh, alright, and all of the catatonic housewives and househusbands who long ago sold their souls for daily fixes of the soaps – which for decades have espoused pursuit of all of the Seven Deadly Sins. A different poison, perhaps, but the resulting brain rot is essentially the same.

Cursing, screaming, threatening, throwing, punching, kicking all just absolutely lovely traits to be absorbed by impressionable little – and not so little – minds. Don’t worry about establishing your position with facts, little ones, just point out someone else’s questionable morality or ethics. Don’t waste your time with circumstances or explanations or reasoning, just punch ‘em in the nose while the crowd – arms raised and bent at the elbow, fist clenched – vocalizes a guttural “woo woo woo” a la Arsenio.

And now, for your viewing pleasure and personal edification, comes a new series slated for airing this fall – Cheaters. The show’s premise? Lovers who suspect their partners are being unfaithful hire private investigators to stalk the alleged infidel until the truth is known. Once revealed, the jilted party then confronts the cheating no-gooder. And you just knooooooow what kinda video you’re gonna get with this one – be sure to gather the kids around the tube, so they’ll know what to expect in divorce court.

In the mid ‘80s, a young woman who worked in my office as an intern writer approached the rest of the staff with questions about The Andy Griffith Show. She was dumbfounded by the responses of those of us who were native to the South. Every person she asked essentially praised the show and its cast. No one, not one single, solitary soul badmouthed the good citizens of Mayberry.

“I don’t understand you people,” she gushed in exasperation. “How can you find such mindless, corn pone, yokel dribble bearable to watch, much less actually enjoy?”

“What don’t you understand about the show,” I asked innocently, while my mind began to assemble defenses against this attack on southern heritage.

“I don’t get any of it. I don’t get the hillbilly humor, the one-horse town, the stupid people …” she exhaled with frustration, hands swirling with her words as she spoke.

“Such as?” I baited.

“Well … like, all the women are portrayed as naive, mindless puppets, whose only purpose in life is to serve men – or infuriate them”, she said, confident her point had been made.

“Well, actually, although there was a strong theme of women in traditional roles as mothers, teachers or waitresses, the show was one of the first to support some feminist causes – unheard of in the early ‘60s fare of prime time.” I matter-of-factly continued, “Like when Miss Emmie, the new young lady pharmacist, decided ta run for local public office. Oh, you might think that Helen Crump was Andy’s only squeeze during the series, but before Helen there was Miss Emmie, whose refusal to fill a hypochondriatic old lady’s demand for her special ‘pills’ brought her and Andy together when he patiently waited for Emmie to finish her diatribe on medical ethics, so he could tell her that the old pharmacist (Emmie’s now-retired uncle) would give the poor, worried old soul sugar pills – placebos – to psychosomatically relieve her anxiety attacks. Anyway, Miss Emmie must have signed on with some movie project, because next thing you knew. Helen Crump was sitting by Andy on the porch swing, sipping mint juleps while he serenaded her with his guitar…”

“I … um … well, that’s not what …” she attempted to stammer out a reply as I took a deep breath and continued.

“Then there’s Aunt Bea. Now, sure, she was a very traditional southern matriarch, and prone to bouts of flustered hysteria over the simplest of problems.  But, she was also very open to change and welcomed the opportunity for personal growth, like when she learned to drive (at the expense of Andy’s fence), or when she decided the sky was the limit and learned to fly solo at the Mt. Pilot airport”. I was on a roll.

“Look, forget the thing about the women. What about the men’? I mean, was there anything real about them?” she implored, bouyed by the knowledge she had me on this one.

“Well, let’s see …. There’s Andy, of course, a widower with a young son, also a sheriff who never regularly carried a gun … he dealt with people and their problems by talking to them, instead of threatening them, but was a no-nonsense kind of guy when it came down to upholding the law or generally defending God, family and country. Yep, I’ve known men like that. And Barney, the lovable but bumbling deputy, forever scheming to project a macho image, of himself while desperately hiding his insecurities, seemingly over-reacting with high-pitched screams of ‘Nip it, nip it in the bud!’ … yeah, I’ve known folks like him, too,” I continued.

“Yeah … I mean, NO, that’s not what I meant,” she began to huff, “I mean, the show never dealt with anything topical or controversial; it was just sugarcoated mush”.

“How can you say that?” I asked, incredulously, “Now, take ol’ Ernest T. Bass, the town’s ADHD adult. He took out his misguided interpretations of legal and social decorum by throwing bricks through windows, but Andy realized his condition and helped him work through his problems. Heck, he even set o’ Ernest T. up with a gal just his speed!”

“No, no, no, you don’t see ……” she wimpered.

“And another thing; Andy’s show addressed the homosexual issue and advanced the cause of tolerance – in the deep south, mind you – years before it became acceptable.” I explained with the air of a professor. “Howard Sprig? Gay. I n his forties and still living with his mother? … the bow tie? … the anal retentive personality? Please. And Floyd, the barber? Talk about gay … “

“But that’s not what …” she squeaked, tears beginning to brim up in her eyes as a little twitch tugged at her left cheek.

“And then there’s Gomer, of course ….

“No … stop … I don’t want to know!” she exclaimed as she wheeled around, looking for the door.

“Oh, hey, how about The Beverly Hillbillies? Talk about another great show …” I excitedly chirped as she made a break for the door.

“Nooooooooooo … leave me me alone …” she blurted through her tears as she ran for her car. She fumbled for the keys, then looked up at me as I was closing the office door. Our eyes met; I smiled and waved, and then yelled at her:

“Y’all come back now, ya heah?”

We never saw her again.
###
The previous article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, February 23, 2000.

Al Qaeda Ain’t The Greatest Threat, Slick

By Brian M. Howle

Every dang one of you out there knows this to be true, so don’t go getting all bent out of shape. Yes, yes, those rabid religious zealots that make up the leadership, rank & file of Al Qaeda are all very, very bad people. And yes, yes, they are all completely dedicated to destroying America and Israel, in no apparent order of importance.

But, let’s get real. Now, just like each of you, I was all riled up and totally supportive of our President back on 9/11, when the towers’ long plumes of smoke trailed off into that fateful September morning sky, and the ensuing dust cloud that made Manhattan disappear filled my heart with sorrow and rage, and obscured my ability to rationally understand what I was witnessing.

So, here we are, four-plus years later, 2,000-plus American military lives later, and billions of dollars (that we didn’t have to spend) later. For all our righteous and decidedly overwhelming military might, that lanky bastard with the ratty beard and the AK-47 is still scampering around some cave, and only God knows where.

And just what do we have to show for it?

A collection of the absolute worst members of the legislative and administrative branches of American government to ever serve, the incompetent likes of which we have never seen before.

The Democratic party, once the proud clarion of social justice and champion of civil rights, has disintegrated into a disheveled-looking bunch of whining traitors, interested only in recapturing their 40-year dynasty of government waste. And to make matters worse, they’re just being major dumbasses when it comes to actual national security issues.
I say, next Senator who makes pretentious charges against the character of the next qualified federal judge, gets castrated on the spot. (And yeah, this includes you, Hillary).

The Republican party, once the only true alternative to a nation gone astray, has homogenized and morphed itself into something that isn’t all that discernable from the other guys; at least when it comes to throwing money at a problem when that’s not the way to fix it. They have, however, completely shattered the Constitutional foundation of the rights of citizens in their pathetic pursuit of justifying the means to the ends. Someone should remind them that a citizenry under total government control was pretty much the outline for Orwell’s 1984. Didn’t work in the book, either.

I say, give me a President who mangles the language, oversteps authority and believes Democracy means one man can decide for all and ignore the Constitution … oh wait, already got one.

So now, when you’re ready to take a flight within or out of the country, you can’t take a decent nailclipper with you – but you can bring pounds and pounds of stolen Uranium across the porous borders of Canada and Mexico without much problem.

You can’t get a public education worth a damn – but you can bet your ass that you can get more and more money allotted for education without having any means of accounting for whether or not anyone is getting the job done.

You can’t get economics taught in the school system where our children have an understanding of world markets and currency after 12 years of education – but you can get a dozen credit cards in five minutes.

The time is drawing near when our time at the top of the world order will expire, and you don’t have to look too far to see the woeful signs that the end is, indeed, very near.

My cousin in Texas sent me this list of observations that someone made, and it’s probably been around the world via the Internet a dozen times. But this one bears repeating until every American reads and fully comprehends what the hell is going on in our once-great nation:

Top 10 Signs Your Country Has Become Dumber Than A Bag Of Hammers

1. Recently, when I went to McDonald’s I saw on the menu that you could have an order of 6, 9 or 12 Chicken McNuggets. I asked for a half dozen nuggets. “We don’t have half dozen nuggets,” said the teenager at the counter. “You don’t?” I replied. “We only have six, nine, or twelve,” was the reply. “So I can’t order a half dozen nuggets, but I can order six?” “That’s right.” So I shook my head and ordered six McNuggets.

2. I was checking out at the local Wal-Mart with just a few items and the lady behind me put her things on the belt close to mine. I picked up one of those “dividers” that they keep by the cash register and placed it between our things so they wouldn’t get mixed. After the girl had scanned all of my items, she picked up the “divider”, looking it all over for the bar code so she could scan it. Not finding the bar code she said to me, “Do you know how much this is?” I said to her “I’ve changed my mind, I don’t think I’ll buy that today.” She said “OK,” and I paid her for the things and left. She had no clue to what had just happened.

3. A lady at an office I was visiting was putting a credit card into her floppy drive and pulling it out very quickly. When I inquired as to what she was doing, she said she was shopping on the Internet and they kept asking for a credit card number, so she was using the ATM “thingy.”

4. I recently saw a distraught young lady weeping beside her car. “Do you need some help?” I asked. She replied, “I knew I should have replaced the battery to this remote door unlocker. Now I can’t get into my car. Do you think they (pointing to a distant convenience store) would have a battery to fit this?” “Hmmm, I dunno. Do you have an alarm, too?” I asked. “No, just this remote thingy,” she answered, handing it and the car keys to me. As I took the key and manually unlocked the door with the remote, I replied, “Why don’t you drive over there and check about the batteries. It’s a long walk.”

5. Several years ago, we had an Intern who was none too swift. One day she was typing and turned to a secretary and said, “I’m almost out of typing paper. What do I do?” “Just use copier machine paper,” the secretary told her. With that, the intern took her last remaining blank piece of paper, put it on the photocopier and proceeded to make five “blank” copies.

6. I was in a car dealership a while ago, when a large motor home was towed into the garage. The front of the vehicle was in dire need of repair and the whole thing generally looked like an extra in Twister. I asked the manager what had happened. He told me that the driver had set the “cruise control” and then went in the back to make a sandwich.

7. My neighbor works in the operations department in the central office of a large bank. Employees in the field call him when they have problems with their computers.. One night he got a call from a woman in one of the branch banks who had this question: “I’ve got smoke coming from the back of my terminal. Do you guys have a fire downtown?”

8. Police in Radnor, Pa., interrogated a suspect by placing a metal colander on his head and connecting it with wires to a photocopy machine. The message “He’s lying” was placed in the copier, and police pressed the copy button each time they thought the suspect wasn’t telling the truth. Believing the “lie detector” was working, the suspect confessed.

9. Want to have some fun the next time you visit a fast-food restaurant? If your order comes to, say, $7.63 – give the kid at the window a $10 bill and 13 cents. Have your hand ready to shield your face, because chances are, their head will explode as they try to figure out why you gave them 13 cents.

10. A mother calls 911, very worried, asking the dispatcher if she needs to take her kid to the emergency room; the kid was eating ants. The dispatcher tells her, “Give the kid some Benadryl and he should be just fine. The mother replies, “I just gave him some ant killer…..” Dispatcher: “Oh God! Rush him in to emergency!”

Life is tough. And it’s a lot tougher if you’re stupid.

But I’m proud to be an American, where at least I know I’m free.

Ooops.
###
The previous article orginally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, February 9, 2006.

Coultergeist

By Brian M. Howle

You know, some times you hear or read things that simply defy all reasoning, all common sense and everything that your parents, teachers and those with your best interests at heart ever tried to impart on you. And then you listen or read it again, just to make sure you got it right.

But even after rechecking the facts, you’re still stunned when you realize that another human being out there could be so incredibly stupid, or crass, or hateful, or something that one descriptive word just doesn’t seem to fully explain to your satisfaction.

So here I am, a self-avowed wordsmith, and words just don’t seem to cut it when it comes to defining the incredulous shrillness, moronic asininity and wretchedness of GOP pundit and author, Ann Coulter.

Never one to shy away from controversy, the condescending gravitas of Ms. Coulter has long grated on the minds and ears of mere normal mortals in our country; usually, those of the Democrat persuasion.

But now she’s just flat out gone way out of bounds in the realm of socially acceptable behavior, common decency and the uniquely American right of free speech. And this time, even her former Republican supporters are putting distance between themselves and Ms. Coulter.

Congress recently considered legislation that would make it a felony for anyone to picket or demonstrate anywhere near the funeral of an American serviceman or woman. This came about due to the over-the-top stupidity and deeply retarded hate-based philosophy of religious zealots (the particular targeted group are the wacko church members from Kansas) who have recently made a practice of spewing anti-gay rhetoric towards the families of ANY American military personnel who have died in service to their country.

The warped reasoning for these complete wastes of human cells? Because God wants these brave servicemen and women to die, because America condones gay rights.

I think it’s fairly obvious that it isn’t just religious fervor at play here. These people are beyond the pale when it comes to any semblance of what could possibly pass for intelligence or Christian compassion. Their lack of education, understanding, compassion and realization of true Christianity literally make me – and everyone else out there – sick to one’s stomach. It’s a true wonder they can actually find their way to church on Sundays, where they gather and incite each other with their spitting vile and venom in the name of God. I’m sure He is so proud to have them on His team.

Yep, I bet it just absolutely makes His day when they taunt the grieving family and friends with screams of “God is happy your child is dead!” and “The only good faggot is a dead faggot!”

With the exception of these (and a few other) inbred pricks and prickettes, all other normal people in our country just roll their eyes and shake their heads when they hear about this. And, thankfully, that’s the way it should be.

So, it truly stumps me when someone like Ms. Coulter – who apparently has had the benefit of not only basic education, but higher education, as well – dives head-first into the sewer of hate-drenched drivel that is in no way that far removed from the rantings of this particular group of idiots.

And once again – before I go any further, let me reassure the majority of you fine Republicans out there – I’m not blaming you for Annie’s diatribes against humanity as we know it.

I don’t even think that most dyed-in-the-wool, true-believer Conservatives buy into this latest pukefest by this patently biased excuse for a human being.

That being said, you should take note of those who have come to her defense – and remember them on down the road. Because they are not that far removed from the Kansas heretics.

For anyone who missed the abomination Ms. Coulter unleashed last week, allow me to bring you up to speed.

Annie is not just a Republican, or more clearly, a Conservative. She is a vehemently acrid spokesperson for her party who has come under fire before, more or less for making the usual dumbass, partisan remarks and observations that dominate the more “creative” types on that side of the political aisle.

She has authored a couple of books, including “How to Talk to a Liberal (If You Must),” and her latest offering, “Godless (The Church of Liberalism)” – which, in a cunning marketing move, was released on 6-6-06.

For the record, it should be noted that David Lee Roth was also clever enough to release his latest album, “Strummin’ with the Devil” on the same day, utilizing the same pathetic reasoning.

Coulter has made the charge in her latest book, and then expounded on it in a recent Today Show interview with the glib Matt Lauer (as recently defined by that mental giant, Tom Cruise) by claiming that the “9/11 Widows” were happy their husbands died in the attack on the World Trade Center towers.

Of course, the “9/11 Widows,” also known as “The Jersey Girls” by some talk-radio retards, are the widows of men who died when the towers collapsed and their offices plummeted to the ground, vaporizing nearly 3,000 souls instantly.

Annie believes these women have no right to speak out against their government and president in the post-9/11 world. She thinks that their participation in the 9/11 Commission’s hearings, as well as their much-publicized criticism of the Bush administration, are simply political rhetoric unfit for American auditory consumption.

Well, of course you do, Annie! The entire Incompetence Support Group – otherwise known as conservative-leaning talk radio – just revels in demeaning and degrading these women and their kind, because they dare to engage in freedom of speech in a manner that is not steeped in glorious praise of President Bush and all things Republican.

In a TV interview, she called them “witches who acted as if the terrorist attacks happened only to them” and “professional victims.” Perky Ann continued, “these women got paid, they ought to take their money and shut up about it.” (Like whores & prostitutes, Annie?) In her new book she also writes, “…And by the way, how do we know their husbands weren’t planning to divorce these harpies? Now that their shelf life is dwindling, they’d better hurry up and appear in Playboy…”

Wow. What a class act. Conservatives must be prouder than hell to have Ms. Coulter “Stuck on Stupid.”

When the maelstrom of criticism against Ann erupted, she countered by saying that if these women we going to use the deaths of their husbands to criticize the Bush administration, then it was justifiable to go after them in the manner in which she has chosen.

I guess she means that if you speak out against her beliefs, she has the right to make unwarranted and non-factual statements against the character of her opponents to level the playing field. After all, this is a democracy, you know.

Ummm … according to the talk show boys, it’s not a democracy, it’s a republic, where that pesky will of the people is trumped by the will of the elected representatives. I guess the rules get bent to fit the prism of your particular political view.

And in the event some of you have forgotten, you should recall that Ann severed her relations with National Review Online (not exactly the “Drive-By Media,” eh, Rush?) on October 3, 2001 after spewing similar crap concerning Muslims and an Invade-and-Convert Christian rant.

In a column entitled “L’Affaire Coulter: Goodbye To All That,” Editor Jonah Goldberg wrote:

“Coulter had submitted ‘a long, rambling rant of a response to her critics that was barely coherent.’… Running this ‘piece’ would have been an embarrassment to Ann, and to NRO. Rich Lowry pointed this out to her in an e-mail. She wrote back an angry response, defending herself from the charge that she hates Muslims and wants to convert them at gunpoint.

But this was not the point. It was NEVER the point. The problem with Ann’s first column was its sloppiness of expression and thought. Ann didn’t fail as a person — as all her critics on the Left say — she failed as WRITER, which for us is almost as bad.

Rich wrote her another e-mail, engaging her on this point, and asking her — in more diplomatic terms — to approach the whole controversy not as a PR-hungry, free-swinging pundit on Geraldo, but as a careful writer.

No response.

Instead, she apparently proceeded to run around town bad-mouthing NR and its employees. Then she showed up on TV and, in an attempt to ingratiate herself with fellow martyr Bill Maher, said we were ‘censoring’ her.

By this point, it was clear she wasn’t interested in continuing the relationship.

What publication on earth would continue a relationship with a writer who would refuse to discuss her work with her editors? What publication would continue to publish a writer who attacked it on TV? What publication would continue to publish a writer who lied about it — on TV and to a Washington Post reporter?

And, finally, what CONSERVATIVE publication would continue to publish a writer who doesn’t even know the meaning of the word ‘censorship’?

So let me be clear: We did not ‘fire’ Ann for what she wrote, even though it was poorly written and sloppy. We ended the relationship because she behaved with a total lack of professionalism, friendship, and loyalty.

What’s Ann’s take on all this? Well, she told the Washington Post that she loves it, because she’s gotten lots of great publicity. That pretty much sums Ann up.”

Keep in mind – this is from those who were her friends.

And of course, there were a couple of the talk radio guys who thought Annie’s comments were just brilliant. And, not to disappoint the faithful in their fully flawed flock, one of their defensive rationalizations – in response to the immediate wave of female commentary attacking Coulter’s lack of taste and decency – was that those women on the left who did so “were just jealous of Ann Coulter’s good looks.”

Excuse me? “Ann Coulter’s good looks?”

Hmmm … well, if you think a skeleton with an Adam’s Apple and some skin pulled over it looks good, then so be it. From my perspective, she looks more like a broom with breasts than an attractive woman.

But I gotta tell ya, speaking as a fully heterosexual man, I would unequivocally rather have sex with a broom than with Ann Coulter.

For starters, I know – for a fact – that a broom originated on this earth as an organic, living thing, and therefore actually had a soul at some point in time.

Secondly, a broom is naturally blonde.

Thirdly, a broom has a much softer surface, and far more natural lubrication.

And perhaps most importantly, a broom has a superior purpose on this earth – for sweeping away trash like Ann Coulter and her ilk.

Plus, a broom can’t talk.

You see, Ann, the basic flaw in your idiotic claims against these women – as well as anyone else who dares to disagree with this administration or any other that may follow – is that they actually do have the right to speak out, in any manner they choose. Just like you have the right speak out with your version of whatever twisted interpretation of the truth is in your anorexic-clad world.

Perhaps the boys in the ‘70s band, Grand Funk Railroad, had Annie in mind when they wrote their great ode to overly emaciated women – a catchy little ditty entitled “T.N.U.C.”

Figure that one out in “The Arena of Ideas,” kids.

And I’m not a liberal, so save your crayons.

Yep, Ann is a great role model for your kid, if you want your kid to look like a survivor of Aushwitz without the beaming glow; if you want your kid to smoke like the ashes of 9/11 and cut down their life expectancy, and if you want them to engage in partisan hate-mongering instead of compassionate conservatism or progressive liberalism.

And especially if you want them to be a total bitch.
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The previous article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, June 15, 2006.

Supremely Courting Communism

By Brian M. Howle

Well, anyone who reads my column knows that I’ve been thinking about this week’s ghastly turn of events emanating from the United States Supreme Court.

I fear that the mythical call to arms – once proudly listened to in this country – will evade the nation yet again, as the outrage that should make the earth tremble just fails to materialize.

We have truly become a nation of sheeple, oblivious to the outright unconstitutional edicts of our highest court. Where are the rallies? Where are those call to arms that we so gallantly regale during the coming weekend, as we celebrate our once glorious national sojourn against the warm, comforting bosom of freedom and self-government?

In an act of complete and total arrogance towards any semblance of the law of the land as defined in the U.S. Constitution, the Supreme Court handed down a truly shameful and asinine ruling by asserting that a government entity has the right to take PRIVATE PROPERTY from a PRIVATE OWNER and redistribute it to a wealthier PRIVATE OWNER, who in turn develops said PRIVATE PROPERTY into a revenue-earning tax cash cow for that government entity.

For those who need to be brought up to speed, there is an amendment that prohibits the government from seizing private property, with the exception being EMINENT DOMAIN, where the property is used for PUBLIC needs, such as highways and right-of-ways for utilities and such.

Even then, the government has to pay fair-value for the property.

Well, screw all that now. If they want it, they can just take it. And the hell with paying fair market.

This decision came down last week. And as of now – nearly a week later – there are still no massive demonstrations in the streets; no cries of “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore!” reverberating across the fruited plains.

I guess it’s just overshadowed by things of real interest to the average American these days. Things like analyzing the results of the Michael Jackson freak show acquittal, or the open buffet for sharks along Florida’s Gulf coast, or maybe even the latest attempts by FOX in whoring out all the emotions they can, while gutting the memory of little Natalee in Aruba.

Oh please, God, if you’re out there, send one of your bull sharks to get Geraldo or Greta, please? The incessant nawing of the corpse – before there is any corpse – is simply too nauseating to endure anymore. Thank you, Jesus.

In the meantime, as this once great nation spirals into the abyss of glorified stupidity and minutia, I offer you some truly enlightening entertainment while underscoring my bleak assessment of our society in general.

Yes, it’s that magical time of the year again when the Darwin Awards are bestowed, honoring the least Evolved among us. Here then, are the glorious winners. 
 
2005 Darwin Award Winners:

1. When his 38-caliber revolver failed to fire at his intended victim during a holdup in Long Beach, California, would be robber James Elliot did something that can only inspire wonder. He peered down the barrel and tried the trigger again. This time it worked….. And now, the honorable mentions: 
 
2. The chef at a hotel in Switzerland lost a finger in a meat cutting machine and, after a little hopping around, submitted a claim to his insurance company. The company, suspecting negligence, sent out one of its men to have a look for himself. He tried the machine and lost a finger The chef’s claim was approved. 
 
3. A man who shoveled snow for an hour to clear a space for his car during a blizzard in Chicago returned with his Vehicle to find a woman had taken the space. Understandably, he shot her. 
 
4. After stopping for drinks at an illegal bar, a Zimbabwean bus driver found that the 20 mental patients he was supposed to be transporting from Harare to Bulawayo had escaped. Not wanting to admit his incompetence, the driver went to a nearby bus stop and offered everyone waiting there a free ride. He then delivered the passengers to the mental hospital, telling the staff that the patients were very excitable and prone to bizarre fantasies. The deception wasn’t discovered for three days. 

5. An American teenager was in the hospital recovering from serious head wounds received from an oncoming train. When asked how he received the injuries, the lad told police that he was simply trying to see how close he could get his head to a moving train before he was hit. 

6. A man walked into a Louisiana Circle-K, put a $20 bill on the counter, and asked for change. When the clerk opened the cash drawer, the man pulled a gun and asked for all the cash in the register, which the clerk promptly provided. The man took the cash from the clerk and fled, leaving the $20 bill on the counter. The total amount of cash he got from the drawer..$15. (If someone points a gun at you and gives you money, is a crime committed?) 
 
7. A thief burst into a Florida bank one day wearing a ski mask and carrying a gun. Aiming his gun at the guard, the thief yelled, “FREEZE, MOTHER-STICKERS, THIS IS A F***-UP!’ For a moment, everyone was silent. Then the sniggers started. The security guard completely lost it and doubled over laughing. It probably saved his life, because he’d been about to draw his gun. He couldn’t have drawn and fired before the thief got him. The thief ran away and is still at large. In memory of the event, the banker later put a plaque on the wall engraved with the words, “Freeze, mother-stickers, this is a f***-up!”  

8. Seems an Arkansas guy wanted some beer pretty badly. He decided that he’d just throw a cinderblock through a liquor store window, grab some booze, and run. So he lifted the cinderblock and heaved it over his head at the window. The cinderblock bounced back and hit the would-be thief on the head, knocking him unconscious. The liquor store window was made of Plexiglas. The whole event was caught on videotape. 
 
9. As a female shopper exited a New York convenience store, a man grabbed her purse and ran. The clerk called 911 immediately, and the woman was able to give them a detailed description of the snatcher. Within minutes, the police apprehended the snatcher. They put him in the car and drove back to the store. The thief was then taken out of the car and told to stand there for a positive ID. To which he replied, “Yes, officer, that’s her. That’s the lady I stole the purse from.” 
 
10. The Ann Arbor News crime column reported that a man walked into a Burger King in Ypsilanti, Michigan, at 5 a.m., flashed a gun, and demanded cash. The clerk turned him down because he said he couldn’t open the cash register without a food order. When the man ordered onion rings, the clerk said they weren’t available for breakfast. The man, frustrated, walked away. 
 
A 5-STAR STUPIDITY AWARD WINNER! 
11. When a man attempted to siphon gasoline from a motor home parked on a Seattle street, he got much more than he bargained for. Police arrived at the scene to find a very sick man curled up next to a motor home near spilled sewage. A police spokesman said that the man admitted to trying to steal gasoline and plugged his siphon hose into the motor home’s sewage tank by mistake. The owner of the vehicle declined to press charges, saying that it was the best laugh he’d ever had.

Well, there they are, folks. I look forward to the Darwin Awards each year, if only to reassure myself that it could, indeed, be worse.

So what it comes down to – the most people’s final analysis – is that comedian Blake Clark’s observation is more true today than ever.

It’s time to thin the herd.

As we’ve clearly seen in the previous examples, the concept is not without its followers. All that remains now is for the overwhelming majority of others who are similarly inclined to wade out to the fringe of the pack and let nature take its course.

It’s tounge-in-cheek, of course, but it would be nice to have a nation of thinking individuals who aren’t brain-dead from years of cathode-ray overexposure or simple-mindedly towing the line for one of the two insane political parties, which, coincidentally, run the entire country.

When the government takes your money via taxes out of you paycheck FIRST – before any liens, savings, deposits, Christmas Clubs, etc., and spends it without regard to its best use for the whole of our society; when the government prevents majority rule from practicing their brand of religion in a country founded on religious freedom; when the government blatantly, flat-out lies and deceives that poor, middle-class fool who inevitably foots the bill for the latest lobbyist’s bribes (and that’s what they are, outright bribes); when our education system is so broken and out of touch with reality and yet, no one seems to care that we’re speeding towards a collapse back to 3rd World status at the speed of light; when we know our nation’s heroin-like addiction to petroleum products teeters on total chaos and looming shortages, and yet we continue designing, building and selling inefficient and wasteful vehicles; and when the nation’s highest court decides to circumvent the constitution in such a blatantly in-your-face, screw you and there’s nothing you can do about it manner – well, it’s time to start thinking about some changes.

It pains me to no end to say it, but right now, I find myself in agreement with conservative talk-show host, Rush Limbaugh. He suggested that it’s time to rally the family on the ol’ homestead, sending Grandma up on top of the house with sandbags and a shotgun, and have the kids do the same, as well.

Dig in. Defend what you have legally, lawfully, morally and rightly earned through your hard work and sacrifice.

The next generation of bumpers stickers will no doubt read: “You can have the deed to my property when you pry it from my cold, dead hand.”
In the meantime, I hope our government feels free to siphon all the gas they want from our motor homes.
###
The previous article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, June 30, 2005.

In Search Of The Lost Chord – Part I

By Brian M. Howle

(This column originally appeared in the 6-7-2001 issue of Alternatives NewsMagazine; 48 previous columns were lost in the computer crash described in the opening paragraph. I hope to retrieve them as soon as I find an older version of Adobe Quark with the necessary “Pasteboard Extensions”.)

There are those particular times in our lives where fate simply slams us into the throes of a seminal moment. A moment where all that was before is changed forever; becoming obscure and distant in the light of discovery, and where all that will be is unequivocally decided and changed forever.

My moment sorta came in two parts, four years apart. The first moment came at my sister’s 16th birthday party on December 5, 1959. My folks had rented out the National Guard Armory in Andrews, and it was quite an event. A “Big Band” dance band entertained the guests throughout the evening. I remember being entranced by the small lights that were clipped to the music stands, as I watched the trumpet player belt out his leads like Harry James.

Then my parents tapped me on my shoulder and leaned down: “Would you like to sing a song with the band? As a birthday present for your sister?”

I looked out at the huge crowd, then looked at the band leader, who was motioning for me to step up to the microphone. At six years of age, I never blinked.

“Sure, why not?” I replied. My parents huddled with the band leader for a moment, then asked me what song I wanted to sing. Since it was December, there was never any doubt. I told them my selection and the band started flipping through their sheet music, as the band leader announced my impending performance to the guests.

The fact that I never had a single moment of stage fright should have been a sign to my parents, but when you’re small, freckled and sorta cute, those things don’t come to the fore. Following a smattering of applause, I stepped up to the mic and shared my rendition of “Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer”. When it was over, there was a thundering ovation that I never expected – but that I found incredibly satisfying. The seed was sown.

That second moment was one shared by millions of others. But for a few hundred thousand of us, it was much more than a mere event of popular culture. It was a blinding beam of enlightenment; an epiphany of direction and dreams unimagined.

On February 7, 1964, my family gathered around the old black and white television – as did most of the nation – to watch The Ed Sullivan Show.

Ed’s variety line-up for the night included Fred Katz, an eastern European magician; impressionist Frank Gorshen (later to become immortalizdd as The Riddler on the campy Batman television series); Harry McDormett, a medalist from the Winter Olympics; Tessie O’Shea, a British comedian; two scenes from the Broadway production of Oliver! including a rendition of the cast singing “I Will Do Anything As Long As He Loves Me” (which, in a twist of mega-irony, featured then-unknown chorus member Davy Jones, who became one of Beatlemania TV clones, The Monkees, a few years later); and a group of Swedish Acrobats (without a doubt, the most bizarre act of the night).

Oh, yes – and a quartet of lads from Liverpool, England, known as The Beatles.

My brother, Jack, and his best friend (seven years my senior) were of high school age at the time. They elbowed most of the family out of the way when Ed introduced the Fab Four, appropriating front row seating mere inches from the glimmering screen. His friend, Jimmy, carried on like a kid on Christmas morning, continually slapping my brother on the back and saying, “Howle, these guys are unbelievable! I’ve never heard anything like them!”

Jimmy had an amazing grip of the obvious.

For the most part, our parents watched in detached silence, shaking their heads and looking at each other with that “The end of the world is near’ look that parents of every generation give one another when confronted with things that lure their children away from those safe, comfortable, and known entities that they have come to understand in their lifetime.

As for me, I was pretty much oblivious to anything going on around me in the room. I was glued to the images and sounds emanating from the television. The look, the sound, the harmonies, the electric guitars – all combined to overload my leetle tadpole brain’s comprehension. Well, except for one thing:

The hundreds of screaming, crying, trembling, hysterical young girls all aflitter in the studio audience.

My my own admission, I was not exactly the brightest coin in the change drawer as a child. I’m sure there are those who would attest that to remain true even today. But at that moment, somewhere between “She Loves You (Yeah, Yeah, Yeah)”, “I Saw Her Standing There” and “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” – for the first time in my short life – I absolutely, positively knew what I wanted to do.

The next morning, I called my best friend, “T” Gamble, and laid out the plan. As plans go, it was incredibly simple: we needed to acquire electric guitars. Pronto.

My parents had given me an inexpensive little plastic guitar the previous Christmas, in which I initially showed little interest. I zoomed right past it, pursuing the assortment of toy cars that captivated my attention. When my mother asked me if I was going to play my guitar, I looked at it quizzically. I didn’t know how to play a guitar; I was taking piano lessons, and learning to play trumpet in the school band. To give me incentive, she picked it up and started saying stuff like, “Look, you can be the next Elvis if you learn how to play this thing”, mugging for the family as she crooned her version of “You Ain’t Nothing But A Hound Dog” while strumming air chords.

Now, I liked Elvis in his movies, mostly because they usually involved lots of cars and Ann Margret. But I didn’t have the heart to tell her that – as a singer – I thought Elvis sucked. As it turns out, Frank Sinatra and I were on the same page on this one: Elvis implemented a singing style that embraced a complete lack of enunciation. I also realized that this was heresy in the South at the time; I more or less kept my opinion to myself. And so, the plastic guitar soon became fodder for “T” and me to engage in our impression of “Quick-Draw McGraw’s” cartoon character “El Kabong”, where it was “kabonged” into little pieces with delightful vigor.

But now, there was an urgency in wanting to learn everything about a guitar. I enquired around school that day and discovered someone had a Sears & Roebuck Silvertone electric guitar stashed away in the band’s instrument room. I received permission to use it, then sought out John Ranson, a high school guitarist who had a little three-piece band. I’m sure he had better things to do than while away the hours. showing a little kid like me how to play guitar, but he took enough time to show me four chords.

Thirty minutes. Four chords. The mold was cast.

I wasn’t able to take the Silvertone home, so “T” and I practiced on a ukulele he had. That eventually turned into a bit of a handicap, as learning how to play four strings didn’t exactly carry over to a guitar with six strings. So, for a long time, I never played the low “E” or “A” strings.

But this didn’t really matter. As Rod Stewart once told Barbara Walters during one o her interviews, “I hate to dash your dreams, love, but almost all of my songs consist of three or four chords. That’s it. It’s not rocket science, love”.

As “T” and set about mastering the guitar via the ukele, we began to search for friends who wanted to form a band. No, not just a band – a rock ‘n roll band.

I don’t remember exactly how it came to be, but we recruited our friend, Van Wright, to play bass. Not long after that, we convinced another friend, Ronnie Talbert, to become our drummer.

And just like that, doggone if we didn’t have ourselves an honest-to-goodness rock ‘n roll band.

Well, it may have been a little presumptuous to have called ourselves a band in the beginning. We made a lot of noise, that’s for sure. And if nothing else, we were loud; because everyone knew if you wanted to be good, you had to be loud.

I think Van bought the first amplifier in the band. Actually, he built his rig; it was a kit from the Heath Electronics cataglogue. After switching from guitar to organ, “T got a little Realistic P.A. amp from Radio Shack. I was the only one still “unplugged”.

And so began the relentless assault on my parents consciences as Christmas bore down on the Howle household. I implored them to save me from the taunting and ridicule of those accusing me of being a “poser”; to allow me to define my dignity with my own guitar and amp. For the first time in my life, I volunteered for yard work, or housework, or anything that might put me in their good graces by Christmas Day. And I prayed a whole bunch.

When that Christmas morning came around, I broke tradition from my usual “It’ll be there when I get up” routine and nervously approached the den. I inhaled deeply and closed my eyes before entering the room. Then I faced the tree and opened my eyes, still holding my breath.

And there, nestled against the tree, was the most heautiful sight my leetle eyes had ever beheld.

It was a beautiful Tesca Del Ray double-pickup, solid body, cherry sunburst guitar, with a mother-of-pearl inlaid pick guard, and a bridge-mounted tremolo. Sitting behind it was a 5-watt amplifier; complete with vibrato, glistening with sparkled grill cloth and simulated leather vinyl cladding. It was exactly like the one I had circled in the Bennett Brothers of Chicago mail-order catalogue.

I think it was the only time I ever cried on Christmas.
- Next Issue -
The Birth of The Trio Conspiracy
###
The previous series of articles originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, 2000.

In Search Of The Lost Chord – Part II

By Brian M. Howle

(Note: To bring you up to speed from the last installment: After watching The Beatles on The Ed Sullivan Show in 1964, I got together with my best friend, “T” Gamble, and started learning guitar. We enlisted two other friends in our endeavor: Van Wright became our bassist, and Ronnie Talbert was our drummer. We had ourselves a band, man!)

As for the absence of this column in the last issue, well, that was a work-related incident. Our computer – on which ever single letter of type, every photograph, every ad element, and tons of stuff you don’t even want to know about which goes into producing this publication – finally gave up the ghost, and up and died on us. Not a crash, not a technical glitch, not an “operator error”; it flat out zoomed on up to that great software program in the sky. As a direct result, we literally worked around the clock – rebuilding years of work while continuing to prepare the new submissions as well. Along the way, the weekly allotted time I set aside for pounding out this puppy disappeared. Now, it would have been interesting had I gone ahead and attempted to write one at 5:30 a.m. on the morning of our press deadline, after being up for three or four days. Natural fatigue and the hallucinations that accompany it make for some fine writing at times – a la Wordsworth – but that last deadline wasn’t one of those times.

In the issue before last, I began recalling the genesis of my musical career … or rather, the would-be, tried-as-hard-as-I-could, gave-it-my-best-shot attempts at making music a semi-career. In the end, it turned into a hobby with an attitude.

But in those heady early years, ahhh … that was quite another story.

After watching The Beatles on The Ed Sullivan Show in 1964, I got together with my best friend, Troy “T” Gamble, and started learning guitar. We enlisted two other friends in our endeavor: Van Wright became our bassist, and Ronnie Talbert was our drummer. There were a couple of other friends who tried to make the cut in the band, but it just didn’t work out. One guy played coronet (long before Chuck Mangione), but there weren’t a lot of coronet-led rock & roll tunes on the charts at the time. When it came time to give him his pink slip, then manner in which we carried it out should have been a harbinger of things to come.

On the next day of practice, we rode over to his house, opened the car door, and placed his coronet case on the edge of his yard. Then we slammed the door and sped off.

Tactful, huh?

Looking back on it now, it amazes me how the cutthroat and heartless manner of the beast came to us to effortlessly. We didn’t have a lick of real talent to speak of, but we were just as smarmy and goal-oriented as any other music industry moguls. And it was something that would reoccur many times over the course of my music career – including to myself – and it was never pleasant.

The other guy – a saxophonist by the name of Eddie Parker – was “let go” because he lived about twenty miles from Andrews, in the little community of Lane in Williamsburg county. Like both “T” and me, his mom was a teacher, and he had to ride home with her whenever she was through with after-school stuff – and after-school was our prime practice time. None of us were old enough to drive, so he missed a lot of practices, and we cut him loose, too. Since he never let his sax out of his sight, he was spared the roadside drop humiliation.

Oh, by the way – he soon joined The Spirals – a real band in Florence – as a keyboardist. Before long, he was playing gigs, wearing tuxes and making more money in one night than we would make as a group in a year.

Such is the fickle nature of the beast.

Well, we weren’t soothsayers, so none of this mattered to us at the time. We were consumed with getting our little band established, and in landing paying gigs that would pave our way to fame and fortune.

After we acquired a couple of electric guitars, a bass guitar, an anemic little amplifier or two, and Ronnie’s drum kit, we set about working out our arrangements of the current hits.

“Current hits” was defined as any song that contained the four to six chords that we could play.

Well, in order to chart arrangements, we had to have a place to practice. Hmmmm … now, that shouldn’t be a problem for us. Surely, our parents would just love to have the four of us in their living rooms, creating sonic death for hours on end, right?

See, it turns out, like Orwell said – some parents are more equal than other parents.

Our “anytime, anywhere, anyplace” practice mentality was swiftly converted into a “whenever-my-folks-aren’t-gonna-be-home” mentality.

But when you’re cutting your diatonic teeth, the music biz is just a series of obstacles that you overcome and conquer. And that’s a good thing, because it helps to prepare you for the constant flurry of repetitive scenarios that are inherent in the game.

Once we began to actually learn a few songs, the cold hard facts began to create impasses that we just didn’t think we’d be able to overcome. For starters, we didn’t have a single bit of P.A. equipment – not even a microphone stand. And keep in mind, we were just 11 to 13 at the time. No one was “independently wealthy”, and no one was knocking down the big bucks required to purchase a P.A. system. And as long as it took us to prod our folks into buying us our individual instruments, no one was silly enough to ask for a P.A. for Christmas. Because we knew the answer would be a question:

“Do you want Santa to get a hernia lugging that huge thing down the chimney?”

It was about this time that having three members of the band with mothers who taught at our school came into handy play.

I can’t remember exactly when we first stumbled into our good fortune. I think it was when we were asked to be the “talent” part of a program at school, most likely a beauty contest (we ended up playing at lots of beauty contests).

Well, lo and behold, it turned out that the school had a little portable P.A. that they lugged out and used for every function requiring a sound system. You remember the kind: a little tweed-covered, 50 lb. suitcase-like contraption that encased the amplifier, a turntable, the volume and tone knobs, and about three inputs for high-impedance microphones, with the detachable speaker enclosures that made up the outside covers for the power unit.

Hey, it wasn’t high-tech. It wasn’t big and impressive. It wasn’t very efficient, either; the two 10” speakers were pushing about 10 watts (your little desktop stereo “boombox” of today has 20-50 watts). It was ornery and cantankerous, requiring a 10-minute warmup for the vacuum power tubes. It would wail in holy feedback anger at mis-calibrated volume levels thru the omni-directional, high-impedance microphones, deafening dogs within a four-block radius before we managed to spin all the knobs back to “0”. But this seasoned little P.A. had the one quality that made all the other ones pale in comparison …

It was free.

I realize now just how good we had it back in those days, in our little “backwoods” Southern town; where everybody knows everybody and their children. Loaning out the school’s one and only P.A. to a bunch of rowdy little troublemakers? Try that today and see how long they laugh at you.

With the acquisition of the P.A., our impetus to be a super group was established. We could now actually hear ourselves when we sang, which was truly a heaven-sent revelation – since we sang a lot better than we played. At about this time, I learned another of those lessons that stay true throughout your life:

Life Lesson #1: Your vocals will never be louder than your drummer. Learn to deal with it.

But, doggone it, darn if we didn’t actually start getting sorta good at a few of the songs. Our set list consisted of 20 to 25 songs, tops. Of those, about 40% were Beatles tunes; 40% were “Beach Music” (rhythm & blues), and 20% were “contemporary” AM radio rock & roll. We didn’t have a very well defined musical agenda as far as content went. We just played songs in our 4-6 chord range. Any song.

After a couple of months of steady practice, we began seeking out gigs in ernest. As I said, the school became our primary venue, playing for assemblies and special events. We would spend hours setting up our meager little P.A., along with our little amps and Ron’s drum kit. We would do our “sound check”, shut it all off and then head home and get ready for the show, grooming and preening and getting that cowlick under control. Then we would don our basic gig attire: white shirts, ties, dress pants, and break out our “Sunday-go-to-church” shoes (penny loafers with the mirror-like, highly buffed sheen).

We would gather at the show at least an hour before anyone else arrived, re-setting our amps, cleaning and polishing our guitars, and always checking one last time to make sure that mic would indeed electrocute you if you touched it while keeping one hand on your guitar. When the masses began arriving, we sauntered over to the side of the gymnasium (the Stonehenge of all small-town schools was the gymnasium), trying not to look too cool for the room as we battled the butterflies and racing pulses that always struck minutes before our name was called.

Which brought up an overlooked little item in our overall game plan. We didn’t have a name.

See, depending on who you talked to, we were known as “Brian’s band”, or “T’s band”, or “Van’s band”, or “Ronnie’s band”, since we never played anywhere before. But when they came over and asked us our name so they could pencil it in for the M.C. to introduce us, we stared blankly at each other for a minute or so. The first few offerings that came up were all inappropriate titles that had us laughing hysterically at the thought of our parents’ or teachers’ reaction to such monikers. Then we noticed a little plate on one of the amps that said, “Transistorized Power Amplifier”.

Bingo!

Since we still had the other two guys in the band, we made our world debut as “The Six Transistors”. It’s probably debatable which was more lame – the name, or the performance. Perhaps it was an even draw.

But we were undaunted. The event began, the M.C. cheerfully welcomed all to the beautiful Andrews High School Gymnasium, and the show was on. Our heart rates went from 70 beats a minute to around 290 when the M.C. glanced over his shoulder and nodded at us while he fumbled with his notes, looking for that penciled-in name. And then, all the hard work, all the practices, dreams and fears coalesced in one heart-stopping, cottonmouth inducing, flop-sweating moment.

“Ladies and gentlemen, would you please make welcome … The Six Transistors!”

The crowd politely applauded. We strode up to our instruments, flipped a couple of switches, and looked at each other one last time with a combination of pure fear and unbridled joy, as the pop and hum of the amps buzzed in anticipation.

Then Ron counted off to four, as we launched into “I Wanna Hold Your Hand”.

I can only speak for myself, but for two minutes and ten seconds, the worlds of physics and metaphysics collided and merged in my brain, enrapturing me with the resulting epiphany. The beat’s a bit fast; didn’t matter. The chord change was a bit mangled; didn’t matter. A horn note here and there that’s not in the song; didn’t matter. Constantly forgetting to not let my lips touch the microphone while playing my guitar; didn’t matter.

We wrought out the retarding last chords, as “T” and I harmonized the chorus to its end. As per endless rehearsal, we bowed in unison. Above the din of thunderous applause, the screams of the girls cut through like a nightingale’s call in the night.

That’s what mattered.

- Next Issue -
Behind The Scenes:
The Trio Conspiracy
###

In Search Of The Lost Chord – Part III

By Brian M. Howle

(Note: To bring you up to speed from the last installment: After watching The Beatles on The Ed Sullivan Show in 1964, I got together with my best friend, “T” Gamble, and started learning guitar. We enlisted two other friends in our endeavor: Van Wright became our bassist, and Ronnie Talbert was our drummer. We had ourselves a band, man!)

Our first name, “The Six Transistors,” sucked big time. Plus, we fired the fifth guy (who played coronet – badly);The sixth member was Eddie Parker, a saxophonist, whom we later gave the boot due to truly stupid reasoning on our part (We didn’t realize Eddie was an excellent keyboardist, but a real band in Florence soon benefited from his talents). We came up with a new name after rendezvousing with Eddie in the little crossroads community of Trio (pronounced TRY-O) during one of our late-night soirees. Trio is exactly halfway between Andrews and Lane, so during a Peach wine induced haze, “The Trio Conspiracy” was born.

With the public debut under our belt, things began to roll right along. We weren’t really all that good – but in the small town of Andrews, we had a proverbial ace up our collective sleeves: true, we weren’t the best; but we were the only band around.

Now, in all truthfulness, we actually did get better. Then again, it would have been impossible to get any worse.

We played relatively steady for school events like sock hops, assemblies, and the good ol’ standby – beauty pageants. Our set list of 20-25 songs remained pretty much the same for a year or so, as we honed our skills and began to nail down the arrangements (which, after about two years, seemed only fair).

I was really happy with our progress. I had learned an additional dozen or so chords on my Tesca Del Ray cherry sunburst double pickup guitar, which Santa brought to me direct from the Bennett Brothers of Chicago mail-order catalog. “T” was handling guitar and keyboard duties, as well as splitting time with me on lead vocals. Prior to his departure, Eddie really was a great sax player. Ron wasn’t trying to be Keith Moon or anything, but he was – and I avow to this day – the steadiest drummer I ever worked with. Van was probably the most technically attuned of us all: he built his amplifier (straight from the Heathkit Catalog), and he actually studied the art of bass lines: picking up cues from songs on the radio, and reading up on interviews with renowned bassists and songwriters in all the trade publications.

Our coming of age was signaled when – during a practice where learning someone else’s song wasn’t going very well – we stumbled onto a riff. It sounded sorta cool, and we kept finagling around it, trying it this way and that way. After a while, we started putting it in order, using all of the accidental attempts we had tried. Without meaning to, we had crossed over into the realm of creativity.

We had written original material – a song.

It was an instrumental. It was only three chords. And the guitar lead was three notes picked down scale on each measure, then picked up scale on the next measure, and finally strummed staccato on the last stanza. It was – undoubtedly – the lamest, weakest, most annoying little ditty ever composed in the annals of musical composition history.

But, baby, it was all ours.

We called it “428”, an homage to Ford’s muscle-car engine of the day (O.K., so we weren’t very deep when it came to inspirational fodder for songwriting).

Now the floodgates were open, and we struck while the iron was hot. We ripped off a riff from Little Stevie Wonder for a trumpet-lead tune called “Brass Revolution.” (In an ironic twist, I’m sure Stevie would have found it quite revolting.) We “borrowed” another hook from Three Dog Night’s “Chest Fever” to pound out an untitled organ-guitar-bass-percussion fiasco that featured our first “way-too-long-jam” in the middle. It actually bordered on being psychedelic – but at the time, the closest we ever got to drugs was when we had a really far-out, grilled-cheese sandwich and Pepsi at Reynold’s Drug Store’s soda fountain after practice.

Well, now there was no getting around it. We needed to put these classic tracks down on tape for posterity and fortune. But in Andrews, quality tape recorders were a rarity – and if one existed, it was a luxury item that no one would ever let us near.

I might not have been all that bright, but I was imaginative. The AM radio station over in Hemingway, WKYB, was the Top 40 listening choice of the “in crowd” in Andrews, circa late ‘60s. I remembered listening to this big hype job from some band near Florence who had recorded a song in the station’s studio. WKYB played that song for weeks – getting the top votes on “Listener’s Choice” at 5:00 p.m. every day – from their legion of loyal fans. And, of course – in all modesty – we were much better than those guys.

I mustered up all the courage I possessed – at the time, quite an accomplishment for a shy, low-esteem, underachiever like myself – and called the station, using my best “older-sounding-adult” voice. The secretary connected me with their Program Director, G. Stephen Green, who was also the afternoon drive D.J.. Everyone listened to his show – because, well, we were in school the rest of the day, and KYB went off the air at sundown – so when it came to radio, it was him or nothing.

It felt like my heart stopped as I took a deep breath before I began to speak. I must have really hoo-dooed this guy with “the voice”, because he became very excited when I enquired about using their facilities for recording. Yes!, he would be happy to let us pay him for his time after they went off the air. Yes!, any night the next week would be just fine. I negotiated a fee (I think it was $25, which was equal to about $1,000 in today’s inflated currency), thanked him for his time, and hung up. Finally, I exhaled, and felt my chest pound again.

Then I jumped up and down, running around the house, screaming in pure joy for 15 minutes, ran to the bathroom, and threw up several times. Then I called the guys and told them our recording session was set, and they all repeated the routine in the safe confines of their own homes.

The next week, we borrowed a van (another milestone in band maturation), and talked my brother – seven years my senior – into driving us over to the studio in Hemingway. Upon arriving, we were a bit perplexed by the station’s meager size. In our fertile minds, we had visions of Radio City Music Hall grandeur as our recording Oz. Comparatively, this place was more like an outhouse.

However, that quickly dissolved when we entered the lobby. With my brother leading the way – and effectively shielding us from view – we spotted Mr. Green thru the studio’s glass partition, as he “ramped” the time and weather while cuing the next song on the turntable. Festooned with wire-rimmed glasses and a beatnik goatee, he broke into a big smile and excitedly waved us on into the booth. As we entered single-file, he snatched off his headphones and rushed over to my brother, engaging him in an animated handshake.

“It’s a real pleasure to meet you, Brian,” he gushed, “After dealing with these kids around here, I’m really looking forward to working with guys that are true hipsters.”

My brother, who possesses an acridly dry wit, stepped aside and waved his hand toward us. “Well, that’s great, but I’m not Brian. Meet the hipsters, bud.”

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to listen to the winning lottery numbers being announced, and having each one match your card, right up until that last, horribly incorrect number?

Well, that’s the look that came over Mr. Green’s face when he gazed upon the five of us, as we grinned like proverbial Cheshire cats. “Hey, Joe,” Eddie squealed, “really looking forward to working with you, too!”

To his credit, once resigned to having another group of kids in his studio, the guy actually did make us feel welcome. He led us into a tiny little room beside the main studio, separated once again by a large window. There was an old standup piano in there, and a few mic stands. It was barely bigger than a closet.

But to us, it may as well have been fabled Sun Records or Motown.

We lugged in our gear and began setting up, per his instructions, between records. For some reason, we decided to pick up on Eddie’s moniker and called him “Joe” all night long.

“Hey, Joe, is this where I plug in?” “Oooo, Joe, do you have any free records we can have?” “What does this button do, Joe?”

As the final strains of “Theme from Summer Place,” WKYB’s official “going-off-the-air-background-music-while-the-station’s-FCC-required-signoff-info-drones-on,” played out through the studio monitors, “Joe” pushed his glasses back on his balding head, furrowed his brow, and wheeled his chair around to face us, cuing the intercom mic and motioning to the big clock above the mixing console. “O.K., you guys have two hours, and only two hours. Any questions?”

For a moment, silence. Then Eddie leaned over to the nearest mic. “Um, yeah, Joe … you got any beer?”

“Joe” looked over at my brother, who was in the control room with him, and smiled. “Well, they sure act like musicians, don’t they?”

The guy showed the patience of Job for the next two hours – suffering through horrendously mangled chords, muffed notes, louder-than-anything-ever-heard-drums and constant re-takes – as we played for everything we were worth, and laughed ‘til we cried. We absolutely had the best time of our entire lives.

We recorded the three instrumentals (I would give anything to have a video of the expression on “Joe’s” face during that), and then recorded our first song with lyrics. It was entitled “Marilyn,” a mushy little love song (verbosity personified, considering my extensive experience with the opposite sex – not!) that I wrote about a girlfriend with whom I had “gone steady with” for about three weeks (That was before she dumped me via a letter, while I was staying at the Airport Sheraton in Atlanta with my dad – who was now general manager of the local Ford dealership – as he attended a Ford management seminar).

Up until then, “Joe” had pushed us along like an overseer on a Medieval rowing ship. Once we got through the initial sound check, it was just “GO!”, and no other movement was employed until the song was over. But, as we played this song, he sat up from his slumped position and began twirling knobs on the console. Eddie’s sax solo really was very good, and when we finished, “Joe” cued the intercom.

“You know, that’s not a bad tune, guys. I’d like to try putting a little echo on the vocals and sax lead, though. How about we do that one again?”

We looked like deer in the headlights. “Joe” was asking us to cut another take? Up until then, it was more like “STOP! DAMMIT, START OVER!,” with lots of head shaking and muttering on his part.

I pointed to the big clock. “Our two hours are up. Do we have the time?”

“I think we can scratch that first half hour from the clock. You know, that was for setting levels and all,” he replied, allowing a slight smile to break out. “Let’s get a good take on this one.”

For the first time that night, we became serious about the task at hand. We had our first real shot of encouragement from a “pro” in the business, and it breathed confidence into our demeanor. We did a few more takes, and when “Joe” gave us the sign, we all pushed and jostled our way into the control room for the playback.

During the other songs, we listened to the playbacks through headphones. Remember, this was a little AM station that had recording equipment mainly for cutting commercials, and for Gospel singers who did a live Sunday morning broadcast accompanied by the old standup piano. But for this playback, we listened to the pro-quality studio monitors – and our jaws literally dropped.

Life Lesson #2: Your songs will never sound better than they do on the master tape playback. Even the crummy songs sounded decent through the studio monitors. But “Marilyn” was a real killer.

We loaded up our gear, thanked “Joe” and paid him, and headed home. Our songs would be played at 5:00 p.m. – on the radio – the next afternoon.

Let’s see … do you think any of us slept a wink that night?

- Next Issue -
Bigger Amps Deliver Groupies
###

In Search Of The Lost Chord – Part IV

By Brian M. Howle

(Note: To bring you up to speed from the last installment: My first band, The Trio Conspiracy, had just finished recording our first original songs over at radio station WKYB in Hemingway, with the patience and encouragement of their Program Director/DJ, G. Stephen Green. He gave us a copy of the tape, and told us our songs would be played on the air the next afternoon. We were all giddy with anticipation, thoroughly excited at the prospect of having our masterpiece compositions shared with the rest of the free world.)

We had been practicing and playing for about three years, and now the big “payoff” was upon us. Gigs were booked with regularity around our little town. And while we may not have been the greatest band assembled, we were doing pretty darn good for a bunch of kids in a small Southern town in the late 1960’s.

All in all, life was good.

There was one nagging little thing that kept eating away at me, though. It flared up every time I saw any band on television, lip-syncing their latest hit. And it really, really ticked me off to see those guys, faking their own recorded music, with those huge amplifier stacks behind them.

Because, you see (and anyone not in a band usually didn’t), they weren’t even plugged in to those huge amplifiers.

Now, poser T.V. bands didn’t bother me. As David Spade once pointed out in reference to “The Partridge Family” T.V. show, “Laurie Partridge, smiling and singing, not really playing her keyboards, not even plugged in.” I knew how that deception worked.

But I would see the Rolling Stones or The Doors or The Turtles or whoever; smiling, lip-syncing and playing air guitars. And those huge Marshall or Fender or Vox amp stacks just stood there, nothing more than silent, expensive stage props. I would glower across the room at my little 2’x2’, 3.5-watt amp and simply fume.

No doubt about it. I wanted that look. And that sound.

Well, it had been a couple of years since I pestered my folks into giving me my guitar and amp from Christmas, so the push was on. There was no way I could keep my sanity until the next Christmas. In my mind, the only thing keeping me from sounding like Jimi Hendrix was that puny little amp. Of course, figuring in talent and ability didn’t come near my equation process, but, hey – as I’ve said many times before – I wasn’t a particularly bright kid.

And so, while wandering around Sam Soloman’s Merchandise Showroom on East Bay St. in Charleston on a shopping trip with my folks, I spotted an inexpensive amp (compared to real amps like Marshalls or Fenders) in their electronics department. It was a “piggy back” style amp that had a big, twin-12” speaker cabinet, and a separate amp head that sat on top. It was some off-brand called Norma (I never saw another Norma amp in my entire life), and it was only 40 watts – but that was 36.5 more than the one I had grown to loathe.

After months of moaning and begging, my parents finally gave in. They asked my brother (and personal hero), Jack, to take me to Charleston to buy the amp, and gave him the money. Cooler still, we left the morning after the recording session.

On the way down, I was ecstatic. The band was happenin’, our songs were going to be played on-air that afternoon, and I was finally gonna get my “stack”. Then my brother dropped a colossal “bummer” on me when he matter-of-factly mentioned in passing, “Well, I just hope for your sake that they haven’t sold it already.”

Gee, thanks, bro. I really needed to hear that.

When we got there, I raced into the store in a panic. Zooming past shoppers, I negotiated the aisles until I turned the corner where the electronics were on display. And then, my frayed nerves, rapid pulse and labored breathing smoothly, blissfully returned to normal.

For there, towering above the baby amps and seemingly beaming a heavenly glow, was my beloved amp stack.

I ran my hand over the smooth vinyl covering, leaning in close to savor the smell (sorta like “new car” smell) – allowing it to meander through my olfactory receptors and flood my senses – as one might employ while swishing around a brandy sniffer.

By the time my brother caught up with me, I had pinned down a salesman. I immediately asked for a new, boxed amp, and he retreated to the stockroom to check. Continuing to run my hand over the vinyl, my fingers encountered a ragged edge, and my glee was momentarily tempered by a small cut on the top edge of the amp head. It wasn’t huge; it didn’t affect the performance in any way, but it was a defect nonetheless. No biggie; after all, this was just the floor demo.

It went from “no biggie” to a major problem when the salesman returned. “Sorry, that’s the only one we have in stock,” he began, “and, we bought this line last year as a one-time deal, so we can’t order another one.”

Just as I was about to have a hugely premature stroke, my brother sensed my angst and chimed in. “Well, sir, there’s a small cut on the covering of this one.” Jack said, showing off his shopping savvy and wisdom for his little brother. “Do you think you could you give us a break on the price, like when you have a ‘scratch & dent’ sale?”

My hero came through again.

The salesman thought for a second or two, and then said, “Well, I don’t see why not. This is a discontinued model, and (he looks around like we might be spilling national security secrets or something and then leans back in) it’s been here forever … Sure, I’ll tell ya what I’ll do; I’ll give you five dollars off. That O.K. with you?”

I looked at Jack for approval. He nodded in the affirmative.

“Let me check it over one more time, then,” I replied, as I moved the lighter amplifier head from atop the heavy speaker cabinet. Jack reached into his pocket for the cash that my parents had entrusted in him, as the salesman began to write up a receipt. But, when I turned the unit around, I discovered another small cut on the back of the amp head. Not only that, I found four more on the back of the speaker cabinet.

Before I spoke up, I had a moment of deviant brilliance.

“Oh wow, gee, hmmm … Sir, there’s another cut on the back of the head. Do I get another five bucks off for that, too?” I implored, using my best “poor-little-nearly-devastated-kid” look and assuasive tone.

He immediately looked at my brother, and figured another five bucks wouldn’t hurt. “Sure, kid,” he smiled, “today it’s five bucks for each imperfection, O.K.?”

“REALLY? Oh, that’s way cool, bud,” I merrily exhorted. “Oh wow, look … there are more cuts on the back of the speaker cabinet. Let’s see … one, two, three, four .. plus the first two … O.K., so that’s $30 off, right?”

The salesman was speechless. He stood there, mouth agape, searching in his mind for a way out of this. Then, Jack looked up from behind the cabinet and said, “Well, you did say five bucks for each imperfection. And there are six of them, right?”

Wiley double-teamed and outwitted by the Howle brothers, his body language reflected the defeat. “Yeah, O.K., sure, whatever,” he muttered, as he demonstratively scratched through the writing on the receipt, hurrying to close the deal before I could find something else wrong with the amp.

We triumphantly carried the amp and speaker cabinet out to the parking lot, and carefully loaded it in the trunk of Jack’s GTO. I was absolutely beaming.

“Well, Brian, dad gave us $100 for the amp,” Jack began coyly, “so we have $30 left over. What would you like to do with it?”

I softly closed the trunk lid and smiled at him. “I think I’d like to treat my brother to lunch.”

We thoroughly enjoyed our meal at Morrison’s Cafeteria, congratulating ourselves on our wheeling & dealing skills. As we left Morrison’s, I noticed the time, and we jumped into the GTO and headed back towards home. It was about 4:35 p.m., and our songs were scheduled for air at 5:00 p.m. I nervously dialed in WKYB’s frequency on the AM dial, as it occurred to me only then that we were over 100 miles from their broadcasting tower. I became very nervous, because WKYB had a meager 5,000 watt transmitter.

An avowed Ford man, I sang the praises of General Motors and their Delco electronics division as the GTO’s radio pulled in the signal, strong and clear. A few miles outside of Charleston, G. Stephen Green “ramped” an intro to our tunes, a taped tympani drum rumbling in the background.

And then - just like The Beatles – my buddies and I were having our songs played on the radio.

The reality of driving down Highway 41 with my brother at my side, with my new amp in the trunk, listening to my band on the radio was overwhelming. There simply are no words that could fully described the plethora of emotions I experienced during that 14 minute set. Jack quietly shared in my joy, waiting until the last notes of the final song faded away before finally speaking up.

“I guess you know that, since I’m the one who drove you guys over there and all,” he dryly emoted, “that I get a percentage of your royalties for that.”

“No problem, Jack,” I grinned, “Any record company that signs us up, you’re our agent. Until then, I’ll give you half of everything we make from it … which, right now, is nothing!”

As the ‘60s came to a close, most of America was being torn apart by civil strife, political upheaval and the war in Vietnam, and the music scene was morphing to reflect these changing mores. But, for the most part, we had stayed aloof from the hot-button issues of the day in our quiet little town.

The protective sheltering of simplistic life in Andrews was torn away from me when Jack graduated from Wofford College. An ROTC cadet, he accepted a commission into Officer’s Candidate School, and was sent to Ft. Sill, Oklahoma. Upon completion, he got his orders for duty in Vietnam. Very early one still Carolina morning, my dad, Jack’s best friend, Jimmy, and I drove through the pre-dawn darkness to Pope Air Force Base in Fayetteville, N.C. We attempted upbeat, polite conversation – but the foreboding seriousness of what my only brother was about to undertake was palpable and inescapable. For me, the concept of personalized mortality was foreign and vague, at best – until now.

We stood in the bluish-purple glow of dawn, shaking his hand and hugging him as we bid him good luck, and then silently watched him board the C-130 military transport. We watched the big plane lumber down the runway, slowly lifting into the air, banking to the left and disappearing behind the clouds – and we prayed. My dad, a WWII veteran who was always gregarious and full of corn-pone humor, was uncharacteristically quiet. We kept our silence all the way back to Andrews.

That afternoon, I plugged my guitar into my new amp and began strumming random chords. All that happiness and unabated, selfish joy from celebrating the radio debut and buying the amp – just months before – was gone.

It’s probably important to note that, unlike the differences that were tearing the nation apart at the time and broadcast on television every night, people in my little town didn’t share in that view. I’m sure there were those who disagreed, morally and politically, and who were members of the “loyal opposition”. But they didn’t feel the need to violently demonstrate, scream obscenities at or spit upon anyone in uniform, or burn the flag.

I sat down and wrote an inspired song called “Leaving,” and introduced it to the guys that day. They all quickly learned their parts.

Shortly afterwards, during a club-sponsored fashion show at school, we were once again the “entertainment” portion of the production.

Partly as a goof; mainly as a tribute to him, I wore one of Jack’s Army uniforms and became the finale of the fashion show. I wrote the copy for the M.C., and sauntered onstage replete with McArthuresque dress hat and Pattonesque lighted cigar in hand, as the M.C. descriptively evoked:

“Brian Howle is fashionably attired for a full day of killing communists in a snazzy little ensemble that’s very popular in our country today among young men, 18-30. Rugged and long-wearing, it is available in green or blue only, but comes with complimentary laundering and a two-to-four-year guarantee.”

The students and teachers all hooted and hollered in laughter. Then I joined my bandmates for the closing song. We debuted “Leaving”, an ode to the possibilities of death while serving one’s nation; questioning how anyone could attack not the government’s role in war, but the character and bravery of those who were called upon to put their lives on the line. It was written as a conversation between a soldier on the eve of shipping out to war and his stupid, hippie girlfriend. Who knew I had scooped a plot-point in Forrest Gump 30 years ahead of the movie?

It started out with a guitar lead playing “Reveille”, the iconic bugle tune for waking up the troops, and then turned into the song:

“I’ve got some things I need to say, ‘Cause come the morning, I’m going away;
I’m going off, to Viet Nam, to do my duty for Uncle Sam;
Your eyes are telling everything on you, For once, they’re showing me the real you;
You hate the establishment and don’t know why, And yet, for you, I may well die.
Well, I’m leaving, going over there;
Yes, I’m leaving, to do what’s fair;
I’m gonna fight for democracy;
Even if it means I lose an arm, or if I can’t see …”

It ended with the guitar lead turning into “Taps”.

The whole school cried.

And I discovered the cathartic release of composing, and the joy of touching the souls of others through words.

- Next Issue -
The Great Electric Show Blackout
###

In Search of The Lost Chord – Part V

By Brian M. Howle

(Note: My very first band – The Trio Conspiracy – had been practicing and playing for about four or five years, and now the big “payoff” was upon us. Gigs were booked with regularity around our little town. We may not have been the greatest band assembled, but we were doing pretty darn good for a bunch of kids in a small Southern town in the late 1960’s. I had begun writing songs, so our repertoire included original tunes. As I recounted in the previous issue, we had just finished recording those songs over at radio station WKYB in Hemingway, and they were played for all the world to enjoy. Getting airplay was unheard of for little bands from small towns like ours – even if it was on a little, 5,000 watt AM station in yet another small town.)

Up to this point, we had just played school assemblies, sock hops, and beauty pageants. But now, we understood the importance of self-promotion. If we were ever going to cash in on our fleeting radio fame, now was the time.

An electric co-op over in Williamsburg County held a big shindig every year at one of the huge tobacco warehouses in Kingstree, and one of their events was a talent contest. We quickly called up and got ourselves booked, ready to begin our mission of world domination – one county at a time.

I had recently bought my first “real” amplifier, with separate amp and speaker cabinet.”T” had a similar rig for his keyboard/guitar, and Van had his Heathkit behemoth pounding out the bass. As I said earlier, none of this mattered much to Ronnie; drummers can out-decibel any amplifier known to man with ease. And if they can’t, they’ll just get a big-ass monitor to feed their kit back to them at an even louder level.

As the big day drew near, we began our plan of attack. “T”’s dad had agreed to drive us over to Kingstree for the show, so we met up at his house with our gear packed and ready to go. I don’t remember the reason, but his dad got tied up somewhere and was late picking us up.

Talk about fun. Mr. Gamble now had four teenage boys – already pumped up on natural hormonal surges without the added stress of a talent competition, mixed in with the stress of being late for a gig – to contend with for the 25-mile trek to Kingstree. Why he didn’t pull a U-turn and take our whining little butts back home about halfway there – well, it just amazed me back then. But after growing up and taking on two sons to raise of my own, I’ve grown to understand.

“T” has a step-sister, but is the only child from his dad and mother’s marriage. That was the technical situation, anyway. For all of us in the band, and for a dozen or so other friends, Mr. Gamble was a second father. And in his eyes, we were all “his boys”. No matter how much we grumbled, he just smiled and drove along at a snail’s pace all the way to Kingstree, picking on each of us about “being sure to bellow like a stud bull for those leetle gals” when we made our appearance onstage.

Better late than never, and with our rantings completed, we rolled up to the big warehouse amid a sea of folks meandering around the various booths and shows. We scurried over to the event office and verified our presence with the talent coordinator. She told us to check in with the M.C. for the show, and pointed over in his direction. Following her finger, we looked – and then freaked.

The M.C. was non other than Charlie Walker, of radio station WKSP in Kingstree. And this was not good news for us.

Charlie was known locally as the “Mouth of the South”. He was country as they come, and loved to push the limits on suggestive radio chat (amazing, considering the Bible-belt mindset for the overwhelmingly rural, agricultural audience). He told the stupidest jokes over and over; he chided folks from all communities; and he had a voice that grated the nerves like fingers on a chalkboard.

He would visit the surrounding towns regularly when not on-air, and I remember him standing in my dad’s Piggly Wiggly, harassing kids like me and anyone else who cared to engage him in debate. And, Charlie was about 150 years old back then. On my way to Columbia a few months back, I began searching for a Braves game on the AM dial. I almost ran off the road when I tuned in only to hear Charlie’s voice; still alive, still on the radio; and still just as arrogant and stupid as ever.

Well, having to deal with Charlie was a wildcard that we hadn’t anticipated. For some reason, “T” quickly pulled me back and implored me not to “tick him off” when we introduced ourselves.

“Just sign us up, Brian, don’t get into anything with that old coot,” he pleaded. “If you make him mad, he’ll ruin our chances at winning, you know he will.”

“Bubba, don’t you worry,” I reassured my buddy. “I can handle this guy.” I looked over at Van and Ronnie and said, “Watch, and be amazed.”

We walked up behind Charlie while he was rambling on about boll weevils or some other hot-button topic with a local farmer, and tapped him on the back.

“Excuse me, Mr. Walker. My name is Brian Howle, and we’re The Trio Conspiracy from Andrews. That lady over there said to check in with you for the talent show and go over the performance procedures.”

He turned from his farming story and gave me a discerning glare. I handed him a piece of paper with a phonetic pronunciation of our band’s name written out. “Now, remember, when you introduce us, it’s pronounced ‘TRY-O’, not ‘TREE-O’, alright, Mr. Walker? We’re a quartet, not a trio.”

He pushed his glasses back on his leathery face, a Marlboro with a full-length ash dangling from his lips, as he squinted at the typed words on the paper.

“Boy, why the hell are you giving me this? I’ve been on the radio for thirty years. I was reading copy before you were a glint in your daddy’s eye.” He shot a wink at the farmer as he got cranked up.

“You only gotta tell me one time who you are,” he drawled. “I don’t need no damn paper to remember a bunch of peckerheads from Andrews.”

I looked at the guys, and took a deep breath before I spoke. “I’m sorry, Mr. Walker, I just wanted to make sure you don’t read the name wrong …”

Charlie cut me off.

“Make sure that I don’t read the name wrong? Boy, lemme tell you; don’t you worry about me screwing up, ya heah?” The farmer was almost in tears from laughter at this point, and Charlie kept pouring it on. “Now, you mean to tell me, you boys are from Andrews, and you’re gonna get up on that stage and try to play music?”

A small crowd began to gather; for Charlie, fuel on the fire.

“I didn’t know Yeller Jackets (Yellow Jackets are the Andrews high school mascot) could play a damn geetar. In fact, I’ve never seen a damn geetar-playing Yeller Jacket in my en-tire life …”

That was it. Insulting us was one thing; insulting our school was over the line.

“Well, you will tonight, bud,” I snapped. “And if you don’t like it, you can kiss my en-tire, lily-white …”

I didn’t get a chance to finish my rebuttal, as the guys grabbed me and hauled me off to the band staging area, where there was equipment to be unloaded from the trunk of Mr. Gamble’s Fairlane.

As darkness fell, the crowd swelled to overflowing in the humongous warehouse, and the show began. Sponsored by the electric co-op, the stage was bathed in dozens of floodlights and spotlights. Countless groups and soloists – mostly Country or Gospel acts – performed their acts, all with acoustic instruments. We were the only “electric” band in the show.

Nervously waiting in the wings, I surveyed the masses, trying to ascertain their reaction. As I did, I caught the eye of a pretty little blonde gal sitting up front, who was smiling in my direction. I looked around to see if there was someone behind us, but no; she was looking at me.

See, girls from home were like sisters, more or less. We grew up with them. We knew everything about them, and their families. And, we knew their daddies. More importantly, their daddies knew us.

‘Nuff said.

Much like a slightly altered American Express commercial, there are seminal moments in a musician’s life. Getting your first guitar or piano is one. Getting your song on the radio is another.

But your first groupie rates above them all.

Before I could start thinking up my opening line of bull, the guys called me to huddle up. We were next, and we had five minutes to set up our gear and start our set. We had never had done this before, and we were a little edgy with nervousness.

The singer onstage finished her song, the crowd applauded, and the officials waved us to begin. We scampered up the stairs, lugging our big amps and helping Ronnie with his drum kit, as we frantically prepared for our set. The din of the crowd grew louder with each passing minute.

A stage hand placed the microphones in front of us, and we checked off in order among ourselves. Just before we were to nod at Charlie for the intro, we reached over and flipped on the power to our amps.

BOOM!

The warehouse went black.

And it became eerily silent.

Heck, the whole side of the street went dark. No one moved. We immediately switched off our powerless amps, frozen in place, scared to death of being lynched on the spot for sabotaging the good name of the electric co-op. Flickering beams of flashlights danced around the stage, as crewmen figured out which circuit had blown.

Oh, this was just great. Like we needed to make sure that we would be good and terrified before we played in front of 2,000 strangers for the first time.

To their credit, it only took them about three or four minutes to find the problem. Then again, with 300 or so electrical workers in attendance – at an event sponsored by the local electric co-op – I guess that sorta helped.

They increased the stage box to a 50-amp breaker – a sufficient level to power our equipment – and gave us the thumbs-up. We took the big, collective breath and flipped the switches again. This time, the little red pilot lights glowed happily in response, and the spotlights stayed on. We warily nodded at Charlie.

“Well, folks,” Charlie squawked, “they’ve blown our power – now, they’re gonna blow our minds! Would you please put your hands together and …”

We were stunned. Ol’ Charlie was actually doing us right.

“…welcome, from Andrews, The TREE-O Conspiracy!”

We didn’t have time to react to Charlie’s intentional mangling of our name. Ronnie immediately counted off, and we began playing. I don’t remember which songs we played, or for how long. And I don’t know what the rest of the guys were thinking during our set.

I just remember singing each song directly to that pretty little blonde on the front row.

Well, we didn’t win the contest, but I went home with an address and a phone number.

And Charlie, unbeknownst to him at the time, went home with a Yeller Jacket bumper sticker covering the license plate on his truck.

- Next Issue -
Band Lighting Courtesy Of Myrtle Beach Motels
###

In Search Of The Lost Chord – Part VI

By Brian M. Howle

(Note:The impetus for my very first band – The Trio Conspiracy – began after I saw The Beatles on The Ed Sullivan Show in 1964. After playing for about five or six years, gigs were booked with regularity around our little town. Some of our original songs had been recorded and broadcast on a local radio station, and we began entering talent contests – which, in turn, got us bookings for other events. We may not have been the greatest band assembled, but we were doing pretty darn good for a bunch of kids in a small Southern town in the late 1960’s.)

An English teacher for almost 25 years, my mom decided to upgrade her career. Between my freshman and senior years, she spent her summer breaks at Western Carolina University, earning her masters degree so that she could become a guidance counselor.

Now, having a teacher for a mom is one thing. But having a mom involved in guidance counseling and career planning is quite another. By the time my senior year rolled around, I only needed two units to graduate – the result of having my course load “guided” to the teeth.

Despite my best protests, school officials wouldn’t allow me to take just two classes and then have the rest of the day off. As a result, I ended up in a few classes that I ordinarily would never have dreamed of taking. But sometimes, these things work out to one’s advantage.

One of the classes I signed up for was Shop. Oh, even back then, in one of the first attempts at political correctness, they had just re-titled the name of the class as Industrial Arts – but everyone continued to call it Shop.

Now, most of the guys were happy and content to pursue the usual shop projects – birdhouses, gun racks (there were a lot of gun racks built back “in the day”), and a few of the more advanced students tackled the high-tech challenge of a picnic table.

When my instructor asked me what project I wanted to attempt, I pondered the possibilities. Looking around the facility, I realized there was a bunch of machinery and tools that I had never had at my disposal. Now, this was primarily due to the fact that – unlike these fools – my dad knew far better than to allow me anywhere near power tools that could cripple not only myself, but anyone in the general area. The Tim Taylor character of Tool Time had nothing on me when it came to project-realted carnage.

A discussion at the previous band practice popped into my mind – and, quite literally, a little light went on in my head. Actually, it was a lot of lights.

We needed a lighting system. After all, only the happenin’ bands had a light show.

And so, while the other guys were pounding out the usual stuff, I was over in a corner, drawing up plans for my project. Then I began selecting materials, and putting in my supplies request. Our instructor, Mr. Barr, looked at my list and scratched his head.

“What the heck are you gonna build, Howle?” was his first response. “We can’t furnish you with all this stuff. If you want to do this, you’ll have to buy most of this on your own.”

Hey, no problem. I was in a band, making the big bucks. I was knocking down over $10 a gig. Every other month.

I collected almost all of the items I needed right away. The school furnished the wood, nails and paint: I bought all the wiring, receptacles and switches. It pretty much wiped out my vast band savings, but it was gonna be worth it.

After a few weeks of sawing, nailing and cursing (and, remarkably, without any trips to the emergency room to reattach severed limbs), I had built the two boxes that would contain the lights, and the control panel. In 1970-71, a lot of my contemporaries across the country were burning the American flag, or wearing the flag in some form, or generally not giving it much respect. I decided to counter this attitude by painting my creations to look like our flag, and salivated at the thought of some commie hippie trying to desecrate them in my presence.

It was a time-consuming task. For the light cabinets, great care was taken in laying out the alternating rows of red and white stripes, and making the stencils for the stars. The control panel was striped, and the solid blue front panel had the switches framed by stars. In my eyes, it was absolutely beautiful.

The big day came when all the paint was dry and my little project was ready for public view. I unveiled the finished product and stood back, fully prepared to accept the accolades of my friends. Their perspective was a bit different.

“Hey, man,” someone piped up, “those things look like military caskets, man.”

Sure enough, at about 5’ high x 18” wide x 2’ deep, they did look a little creepy while in a horizontal position. But standing up – which, in my mind’s eye, was the way I always envisioned them – they looked great, and the necro-connection was more or less nullified. Needless to say, I got an “A” on my project. Now all we needed were the actual lights.

Well, as it turned out, lights were doggone expensive. It was gonna set us back around $40 for two sets of spotlights, and another $16 for the colored gels that covered them. Of course, we were all broke, and majorly bummed out.

As fate would have it, we somehow ended up in Myrtle Beach one night, which was unusual for us during the fall session of high school. But there we were, cruisin’ the boulevard and hanging out at Wink’s drive-in, looking for babes. Now, I’m pretty sure some form of libation was involved in all of this. At some point, while cruisin’ the boulevard for the 80th time, someone noticed that a lot of motels used colored spotlights to bathe their palms and parking lots.

Suffice to say – the next day, we had our light system up and running. And with plenty of spares, to boot.

Now we really looked like an honest-to-peanuts band. The sound may have been another matter, though, since we were still using the high school’s little 20-watt PA system for all of our gigs. Looking back, I’m just glad that these new, fancy, state-of-the art outdoor speaker systems you see all over the beach now, weren’t around back then.

One of our main venues was Cherry Hill Country Club’s clubhouse, located just outside of Andrews. We played a ton of private parties there, from birthdays to holidays. The neighboring school in the next county, Williamsburg High (Andrews is perched right on the edge of western Georgetown County, bordering Williamsburg County), may have been our arch-rivals in sports and the recipient of constant “farmer” jokes, but the kids over there seemed to be quite enamored with our sound. So much so that, in an act of innovative initiative, the members of the freshman and sophomore classes pooled their “tater” profits and contracted us to perform for their “Freshman-Sophomore Prom.” Honestly, we were impressed with their drive and desire to rival their upper-classmates’ “Junior-Senior Prom.” And, we were even more impressed with the huge $80 fee we requested and received (an all-time high figure for our services).

As in any small town, when there was a social event going on, age was not a discriminating factor. Although our music – loud, frenetic rock ‘n’ roll – was tuned toward a younger audience’s tastes, there were always plenty of adults in attendance. And not just as part of the chaperone factor, either. Some of the wildest behavior we ever witnessed from our vantage point on the stage emanated not from our peers, but from our elders.

We began to notice a pattern that ran true almost every time we performed. Beginning the evening with rigid, almost stuffy personas that frowned upon any type of interaction between girls and boys that might be construed as questionable, their personalities morphed with definite changes as the night wore on. I personally suspected that they had an “adult” punchbowl stashed somewhere in the vicinity.

The litmus test for this suspicion was whenever we played 5th Dimension’s “Age of Aquarius/Let The Sun Shine.” Folks who – prior to the song – stayed back in the shadows, suddenly were right up onstage with us, horning in on the microphones for the chorus. Balance and equilibrium seemed to become a bit of a problem around that same time, which sorta made us wonder – just who was watching the henhouse, after all?

There primarily to prevent kids from engaging in the usual teenage party agenda (alcohol and sex), these were people we all grew up knowing – friends of our families, classmates of our older siblings, members of our churches. Some were more open-minded and social than others, for sure, but they were all fair and tolerant in their dealings with kids who occasionally “crossed the line.”

As Christmas break came around that year, we had another big party to play out at the country club. Prior to the advent of our light system, it was always dark and shadowy in the clubhouse’s main room, as there was an absence of overhead lighting. Though slightly murky, we could see just about everyone in the room from onstage. But when we plugged in those 1800 watts of light, glaring directly in our faces, everything outside of the immediate “front row” was a darkened, obscured blur. Only the frequent opening and closing of the front door to the room was discernable from our view.

About half way through the show, the door opened yet again in the middle of a song. As I nonchalantly looked over, a petite, shapely form was silhouetted against the outside light for a brief moment. Then the door closed, and the shape was lost in the darkness.

Well, like I said before, you know everyone in a small town. I had taken count of all the little honeys in attendance, and knew who was out of town that night. And, this shape was not in my mental rolodex.

I quickly looked at my bandmates. None of them noticed the new arrival.

Now, I was always a little slow about things, when it came to dealing with the fairer sex. But I was just beginning to learn – when in direct competition with my buddies – that the difference between getting a little goodnight kiss or singing to my dog after going home unattached, was to strike first whenever the opportunity presented itself.

I turned to the guys during the last chorus and indicated it was time for a break.

We finished the last chords and announced it was break time. A smattering of polite applause accompanied my hasty exit from the stage, as I acknowledged well-wishers while searching the dark periphery of the back of the room for the vision of loveliness that had momentarily been framed in the light. As I drew near a group of folks, I spotted her.

She was engaged in conversation, her back to me, as I approached. She was short, blonde, wearing a cute little outfit and a very short little skirt.

I edged a little closer. Just as I was about to break cool and drop my best line on her, I noticed a familiar face starting towards me.

It was my brother-in-law, Gene.

Just as I was recognizing him, a cascade of realization buried my ability to process thought. The same reactions you get from things like drinking soured milk, or watching your dog eat something you never dreamed any animal would ever consider eating, or the old stand-by, fingernails on the blackboard. These all overwhelmed me. Arrrrrrrgh!!!

And then, my sister – ten years my senior – turned from her conversation and greeted me. “Merry Christmas, Brian! Here, I know it’s not Christmas day yet, but I think you should open your present now. You’ll understand when you do!” She was all aglow, decked out in her little elf skirt.

I forced a smile while fighting off the heebie-jeebies of nearly hitting on my own sister - Arrrrrrrgh!!! – as I unwrapped the present. It was a guitar strap; pre-heavy metal genre, shiny rows of chrome, like medieval armor. It really was beautiful. I thanked her repeatedly. I used it that night, as not to offend her.

But I never could use it again.

Arrrrrrrgh!!!
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The Avett Brothers Double Your Fun At House Of Blues July 24 & 25

(L-R) Bob Crawford, Seth and Scott Avett.

By Brian M. Howle

One of the most abject things in life is, arguably, the individual interpretation of – and interest in – music. The easy part comes with ready labels, like classical, traditional, rock, blues, hip-hop, techno, etc. – but the harder nut to crack comes when artists choose to immerse themselves in the whole spectrum of styles. So, whenever someone chooses to do just that – you know, dump it all in and mix it up – exactly how do you describe or categorize what kind of sound that results from such an endeavor?

For the experienced connieseur, the likely answer around these parts would be The Avett Brothers.

And joy of joys and happiest of coinky-dinks – because it just so happens that The Avett Brothers will bring their category-defying brand of eclectic (yet mainstream) music to House Of Blues in N. Myrtle Beach, SC for TWO big shows, on Friday, July 24, and Saturday, July 25, 2009.

The ready-made story can be found via Wikipedia, and here’s the skinny:

The Avett Brothers are a folk-rock band from Concord, North Carolina. The band is made up of two brothers, Seth Avett (vocals, acoustic guitar, hi-hat, piano, drum kit) and Scott Avett (vocals, banjo, harmonica, kick drum, drum kit), and Bob Crawford (vocals, upright bass, trumpet). They are often joined on tour by cellist Joe Kwon. Risen from the ashes of Seth and Scott’s former rock band Nemo, The Avett Brothers combine bluegrass, country, punk, pop melodies, folk, rock and roll, honky tonk, and ragtime to produce a sound described by the San Francisco Chronicle as having the “Heavy sadness of Townes Van Zandt, the light pop concision of Buddy Holly, the tuneful jangle of the Beatles, the raw energy of the Ramones.” The group itself eschews labels, feeling that “none would do the music the justice. It’s simply left up to each person to extract his or her own account from the Avetts’ music.”

The Avett Brothers have gone from relative unknowns to the poster children of a brand new and rapidly growing genre of American music, described by critics and fans as “indie roots”, “folk-punk”, or “grungegrass”.

Their live performances showcase their use of three-part harmony and southern rock feel, and are admired for being intense, energetic, and soulful.

The brothers began writing originals and in 2000, with the help of John Twomey (Nemo guitarist), put together a self titled LP labeled The Avett Bros.. Soon after, the band “Nemo” broke up and Scott and Seth continued with the not-so-traditional acoustic music they had been working on.

In early 2002, The Avett Brothers, with help from new stand-up bass player Bob Crawford, recorded their first full album as a band titled Country Was. The band soon went on tour to promote the new album.

They followed with Live at the Double Door Inn (2002); A Carolina Jubilee (2003); Untitled (2003); Swept Away EP (2004); Mignonette (2004); Live, Vol. 2 (2005); Four Thieves Gone: The Robbinsville Sessions (2006); and, The Gleam (2006). The band released Emotionalism on May 15, 2007. It debuted at No.1 on Billboard Top Heatseekers Albums chart, #134 spot on the Billboard Top 200 and #13 on the Independent Artist Chart.

On Friday, May 12, 2007, The Avett Brothers made their national television debut on Late Night with Conan O’Brien. They performed “Paranoia in B-Flat Major” from the album Emotionalism.

The Avett Brothers won the Americana Music Association Duo/Group of the Year and 2007 New/Emerging Artist of the Year awards on November 1, 2007. They followed up with The Second Gleam (2008).

The band announced that their next full-length album – I and Love and You – will be released under the American Recordings/Columbia Records label, in stores on September 29
.
So get ready to hear something you’ll like, no matter what you like, at House Of Blues in N. Myrtle Beach, SC with The Avett Brothers (remember, TWO big shows) on Friday, July 24, and Saturday, July 25, 2009. Doors open 7:30pm. For ticket info call 843-272-3000 or Ticketmaster 843-679-9333; or visit www.houseofblues.com or www.ticketmaster.com.
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This was originally published at: http://bhowle.wordpress.com.

Interview: Cherry Picker – Black Stone Cherry’s Ben Wells

By Brian M. Howle

In the realm of new bands that make a wide spectrum of fans sit up and take notice, the rise of Edmonton, Kentucky’s favorites sons – Black Stone Cherry – has been nothing short of spectacularly blue-collar, journeymen-like amazing.

Since they signed with RoadRunner Records in 2006, this group of talented young men has been fulfilling their musical equivalent of Rocky Balboa’s unrelenting training schedule in preparation for their shot at the title. They’ve recorded two extremely well written, performed and produced albums (their 2006 debut, Black Stone Cherry, and the most recent release, 2008’s Folklore and Superstition); embarked on a world-wide touring regime that has sharpened their musical chops and induced invaluable maturity in the process, and have culled a fervently loyal and dedicated following of fans that spans genres and generations.

The product of good ol’ fashioned, hands-on parenting and the beneficiaries of having family members who have already endured the rigors of musical success and touring, Black Stone Cherry are the exemplary incarnation of how a young band can do this music thing the right way.

With the signature vocals of lead singer/guitarist Chris Robertson, guitarist Ben Wells, drummer John Fred Young, and bassist Jon Lawhorn, they have done a masterful job of carving out a distinctive, unique sound in a cluttered field of cookie-cutter clones. Sounding far older than their glorious youthfulness, they’ve doubled the feat by writing – in a collective, give-and-take manner, as a band – extremely good songs that connect with all ages of people in the magical way that all artists ardently strive to learn and pray to achieve.

Actually, the secret to their success – which happens when anyone really listens to their songs – boils down to an incredibly simple formula, to borrow on an old campaign slogan from a few years back:

It’s about life, stupid.

The all-about-me eclectics can write about ethereal dreamworlds all they want, but when others hear real lyrics of the trials and tribulations of life that we have all experienced, regardless of social, economic or ethic background; things that snare our attention with a personal connection – it’s game over, man.

I had the good fortune to catch up with the band last March, while they were in Columbia, as they were opening on a bill with Shinedown. I climbed onboard their tour bus with guitarist Ben Wells for my second interview with the quiet, easy-going axe man and set about to find out what’s new with the band. We headed to the big, back room for some quiet time to chat.

Howle: Well, first of all, it’s great to see you again! I know you’re busy getting ready for the show, so thanks for the time.
Wells: Oh, hey, it’s my pleasure, and it’s great to see you again, too. (Laughing) We saw you walking up and we all said, “Look, it’s Gregg Allman from Myrtle Beach!” (Inside joke from when we first met while I was taking pictures of them onstage at House Of Blues; Ben thought Gregg was there taking pictures of them when he saw me, because all he could see was an older guy with long, blonde hair and a beard, leaning on the edge of the stage behind a camera.)

Howle: Yeah, yeah, that’s because you’re all too damn young to know any better! So, tell me, buddy – how’s the current tour going?
Wells: It’s going great, man, going great. We’re out here with Shinedown; we’ve known those guys for years and we’ve been touring with them for awhile now, and it’s been a blast!

Howle: I know you’ve been doing some extensive overseas touring. How’s the response over there been, and what’s the main difference between European and American audiences?
Wells: It’s hard to say, ‘cause it varies with every show; but over in England and all over the United Kingdom, everyone there has really, really picked up on the band. We’ve played rooms over there that are like, 3,000 to 5,000+ seats, and we’re selling them out every night on our own – and that’s pretty amazing. That’s the biggest difference between there and here right now. But everywhere we go, it’s been great .. the fans universally are just badass, and it’s really nice.

Howle: Oh, it always aggravates me about how American audiences take so long to accept new bands, whereas Europeans are always just so incredibly open to new music and talent. So many bands before you have found success overseas before the homefolks got a clue, you know?
Wells: Yeah, back here, folks tend to be a lot more fickle about that, but the fans in Europe are into what’s a lot more real, you know?

Howle: Yeah, we have that “Shiny, sparkly idol worship” thing going on more than they do. So, how long did you guys work on the current album, and what’s your songwriting process like now?
Wells: Well, we always write together. That’s the way it’s always been and always will be – the four of us get together in a room and start playing; hashing out different ideas, different melodies and lyrics and stuff. We tear it apart and then put it back together, pretty much. For this album, we started pre-production in February (2008) back home in Kentucky, getting all the songs arranged and ready, and then started recording in March – pretty much the month of March and a little bit in April. It only took a little bit over a month to record everything and get it all done.

Howle: And very nicely done at that. So, you have any new “toys” since I last saw you? Pick up any new guitars and stuff lately?
Wells: Oh, Chris and I got a couple of new amp heads from Peavey, the 6550, that are really nice. And I guess since the last time I saw you, I got a new guitar called the Midas that’s made in Japan, a beautiful guitar; and I got a new Gretsch. We still play the Les Pauls and Telecasters, you know. Whatever sounds good, that’s what we’re gonna play.

Howle: Ah, I was gonna ask about that Gretsch .. it’s the one you play on the “Please Come In” and “Things My Father Said” videos, right?
Wells: Right.

Howle: Yeah, those have such a nice, warm, live tone to them … I bet you’ve enjoyed playing that one. So, what was the video shoot like? And how many videos have you guys done now?
Wells: Well, let’s see … “Please Come In” was the fourth one. We shot part of it live in New Jersey when we were on the road; we shot it in the studio with the “Green Screen” for the trippy effects behind and stuff they put in. It was a lot of fun to shoot that one, we had a great crew. A lot of times they can be really tiring to shoot, but this was not one of those, it really flew by .. and the director was great, too! (They just released the video of “Things My Father Said” – in which the band’s performance scene was shot inside the legendary practice house in Edmonton, where they honed their skills starting out – and fans were asked to submit photos of themselves holding pictures of their dads for use in the video.)

Howle: Very interesting … I’ve watched some internet clips from your website with you and Chris giving tutorials to guitarists on how to play certain riffs from your songs – like “Blind Man”. That’s really great for showing young kids who are trying to learn guitar, you know? Are you going to be doing more of that?
Wells: Man, I hope so, it’s neat to be able to show young guitarists how to play stuff, you know? It would be neat to put out a DVD like that one day, you know, in a way that’s not over their heads. But we really like to keep in touch with our fans, by any means we can .. the Internet is a great tool for that.

Howle: How much time do you guys get to put into stuff like your MySpace site?
Wells: Oh, we’re on our MySpace site all the time. That means a lot to us because it’s how we’ve met a lot of our fans, both here and overseas. It’s such a great way to keep in touch with the fans, to do self-promotion, whether we’re overseas touring or here … we’re adding new friends there and on FaceBook all the time, checking emails .. so we’re very active on the Internet, yeah.

Howle: Well, that’s so great to hear, ‘cause like I told you last time (both laugh) … We’ve been watching you guys from the git-go, and keeping up with your progress, and I really hope this album is the one that will break you guys out …
Wells: Oh, well, thank you, thank you so much!

Howle: And what’s that support mechanism like that you guys have back home (in Edmonton, KY), and with your record label, while you’re going up this ladder striving to grab ‘hold of that big brass ring of rock superstardom?
Wells: Oh, it’s been an uphill climb all the way. But our families are very, very supportive of us; they’ve been behind us 100% all the way, and the label’s been great. We’ve matured as people as well as musicians, and we haven’t become jaded by the road or anything. We’re still very, very hungry; we’re still trying to top ourselves, and we’re still going for it, you know?

Howle: Well, for an older fan like me, it’s so reminiscent of the way songwriting and music should be – great melodies, great hooks, and great lyrics.
Wells: Oh, wow … well, again, thank you, man.

Howle: I’m just a fan, but I know others share my appreciation for your music, and perhaps as important, for the way you treat people while you pursue your dream in a somewhat narcissistic profession.
Wells: We just want people to dig the band, you know … we’re just four guys who write and play music from the soul; we love our fans and we hope they know we’re four guys who just got lucky, and we love to go out every night and meet them and thank them for supporting us.

Howle: Well, two years ago I asked you what were the best and worst things about being on the road – and you said the best was meeting and being with all the new bands you play alongside and getting to meet and hang out with your fans; and the worst was being away from mama’s cooking (both laugh)… What’s the answer to those same questions now?
Wells: Oh, it’s just great to be out here and meet new people, it’s just the greatest thing on earth. Any, yeah, you get homesick every now and then, sure; but the families are there for us all the time, and it makes it a little bit easier.

Howle: Well said, Ben. Alright then, I’m going to let you get back to getting ready for the show tonight … we’re looking forward to seeing you again, whenever you’re in our area, as always. Just remember us when you’re headlining the big tour!
Wells: (Laughs) Alright, Brian, you’ve got a deal. And thank you again for being so supportive of us and sharing the word with your readers. Thanks again for everything!

Hey, Ben – thank you, my friend … and for all of you out there, I still say the biggest favor you can ever do yourself and your closest friends is to beat feet to the front row whenever these very talented and personable guys roll anywhere near your town.

And allow me to add this one personal note: When I finished the interview with Ben, we made our way back to the front of the bus, where Chris, John Fred and Jon were hanging out with some friends. I stopped to tell them that, two years ago after I met them, I had asked their PR gal to please make sure to tell their moms and dads that they did a great job of raising them.

In their usual, humble manner, they thanked me in gracious unison, and then John Fred added, “Well, hey, in my case, you can tell him yourself!” as he pointed to the gentleman seated beside me. It was John Fred’s dad, Richard Young, former guitarist for the Kentucky Headhunters and now, official Black Stone Cherry bus driver and band consigliere. I earnestly shook his hand and repeated my assessment. “Oh, let me tell you, this is a twofer, then – because I got to enjoy seeing you on stage back in the day, too!”

Well, I can tell you from my own experience: In Richard’s eyes, my little observation about their collective upbringing brought out a pride that a dad can’t feign. And I know the other guys’ parents feel the exact same way.

But, hey – the cherry never falls far from the tree.
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Folklore and Superstition – Black Stone Cherry

Artist: Black Stone Cherry
Info: www.blackstonecherry.com
Album: Folklore and Superstition (2008)
Label: RoadRunner Records
Genre: Rock

I first saw this band in 2007 at House Of Blues, opening for Hinder. Their debut CD made them one of the best new rock bands I had heard in a long, long time … but I often have found that slick, heavily-produced studio work can sometimes mask poor or weak live performances.

Ummm … not with these boys.

Distinctive vocals, aggressive, ball-busting guitars, and a dominate rhythm section combine to build a sound that is both clear and sonic … but their songwriting is equally masterful. No small feat in and of itself; but you see, this Kentucky-based band is young – and mature beyond their years on every level.

Their path from wide-eyed-but-extremely-talented first-timers to savvy, quick-learning veterans has been meteoric. They followed up a very powerful debut album with a well-crafted second release that completely obliterated any thought of “sophomore jinx” – if anything, this effort may surpass the self-titled offering. From the retro, hippie-trippy “Please Come In” (check out the video at www.blackstonecherry.com/notes/Please_Come_In) to the introspective, common-thread-for-everyone-tear-jerker “Things My Father Said” (want to see if you have a heart that can break? Listen carefully to the lyrics when you check out this video at www.roadrunnerrecords.com/video/view.aspx?songID=2468), their hard driving edge is tempered with great hooks, great riffs, and great lyrics. It’s a killer beginning-to-end 13-track CD that leaves you hungry for more – and if you missed their self-titled debut, I strongly recommend that you check it out, also.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know; bad economy has cut your music budget .. well, buy these and do your part to stimulate the economy – and get a personal reward with a new attitude in return!

With Chris Robertson on Lead Vocals/Guitar, Ben Wells on Guitar, Jon Lawhon on Bass, and John Fred Young on drums (son of Kentucky Headhunters’ guitarist Richard Young), this is a band that exemplifies all that can be good in rock. A relentless touring schedule has honed their repertoire to a fine, hot edge of perfection that will renew your spirit and soothe your soul. This is one of those bands that give you double your money’s worth at a live show, so check their website for their touring schedule and drive, fly, swim, run (well, you get the idea) to their nearest tour venue and REALLY give yourself a treat by experiencing these boys live. Whatever expense you incur will be more than worth it – they are that good.

Best of all, their parents did a dang fine job of raising them .. besides their apparent talent, you won’t find a nicer, more decent or humble group of guys.

Reviewed by Brian M. Howle
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The previous review was originally published February 26, 2009.

HOB Interview: Black Stone Cherry – Give These Boys A Cigar

Young Guns Possess Old Souls – And Bring Back Real Rock

By Brian M. Howle

Well, some say real rock – you know, with great melody, ball-busting riffs and rich, textured vocals that blend into sonic audio nirvana – is dead. Fortunately, there’s a new band that will kick that crap right out of your system. Black Stone Cherry anchored a strong support bill – along with Finger Eleven – for Hinder on February 17, 2007.

This band has a deep musical lineage, including a founding member of the Kentucky Headhunters as father of their drummer. Each member brings boundless talent and energy to the table, and they scale all of the usual rock obstacles in a manner that belies their collective young ages.

Earning the nickname, the “southern Wolfmother” by Spin Magazine, Black Stone Cherry brings intensity to their music and live show that is absent from their American rock contemporaries.

In the dry county of Edmonton, Ky., there was little to do growing up and the band members relied on music as an escape. Music was handed down from family members to the band. Drummer John Fred Young’s father, Richard, is a founding member of the Grammy Award-winning Kentucky Headhunters, while bassist, Jon Lawhon’s great uncle was a jazz drummer. Singer, Chris Robertson received his first guitar from his grandfather, who built instruments by hand, and learned his first chords from his dad. And it wasn’t just his family encouraging him to play. Whenever Chris got into trouble at school, he would end up in the principal’s office, jamming with the principal himself.

Incorporating bluegrass, gospel, and blues, Black Stone Cherry absorbed the sounds of the regional music being heard in their homes and and folded it into a southern rock style of their own.
Black Stone Cherry released their self-titled first album for Roadrunner Records (July 2006) that debuted at #90 on the Top 200 Albums Chart.
    
I was fortunate enough to catch up with BSC’s guitarist, Ben Wells, last week, and he took a few minutes to answer some questions for their fans here in Myrtle Beach.

Howle: So, tell me .. how did you guys get together, and how did you come up with the name, “Black Stone Cherry”?
Wells: Well, you know, all the guys grew up in the same town, and I’m from the next county over, about 10 minutes away. We got together one day and talked about forming a band, and then we started practicing the next day.
As for the name, well, we wanted something that would stand out and not sound so lame like some of the bands that are out there now. At the time, some of the guys were smoking cigars, and the brand name was Black Stone, and they came in flavors, like cherry, and we sorta said, ‘hey, that sounds good’, and it stuck.

Howle: Tell me about your practice house. What’s the story on that place ?
Wells: It’s just a little ol’ farmhouse with three rooms, covered in rock ‘n’ roll posters and all that. It belongs to John Fred’s dad, and it’s just an awesome place to practice. We’d get out of school and practice every single day, and during the summers that’s all we did, was practice.

Howle: Well, all that practice and hard work paid off, because you really have a great, honed, signature sound.
Wells: Oh, well, thank you, man. We didn’t want to just be another band with the same sound, you know. So we just kept at it and got our sound, and picked up stuff from all over the place – musically – and we put all of our ideas together.

Howle: What’s the learning curve been like for a new band on tour, like you guys opening for Hinder?
Wells: Oh, it’s been incredible, man. We started touring back in May. Our first tour was with Saliva, and that lasted a month and a half; and after that we toured with Buckcherry, and man, that was really incredible …

Howle: Oh, seriously, that had to be great!
Wells: Oh yeah, and then we toured with Staind – really nice people, we went camping with those guys on our days off – and then we met Hinder. It’s fun because going into this tour we already know all these guys.

Howle: What’s the best part about touring?
Wells: I guess getting to play with different artists all the time, and being on stage and watching people sing our songs with us. Every night we go out to the merchandise table and hang out with people and give them something back, because our fans are very special, man.

Howle: On the flip side, what’s the worst part about touring?
Wells: Hmmm … well … I guess being stuck on the road without having your mom to take care of you! (laughs)

Howle: Yeah, we can all relate to that, too!? So when is your next CD coming out?
Wells: Oh, we’ve got a ton of stuff we wrote growing up, you know. And on the road, it’s harder to write, but we’re always working on stuff. And the good part is when we do go back in the studio after this tour, it’s in our hometown, so nobody drifts off somewhere doing their own thing like a lot of other bands. We’ll get right back to it.

Howle: What’s in the future for Black Stone Cherry, and what do you want to tell folks in Myrtle Beach?
Wells: Well, we just want to keep making great music and playing hard every night … and thanks to everyone who comes out, and hopefully, the next time we come here, we’ll be the headliner!

Thanks, Ben. I really, really feel bad for those who missed getting a ticket to this show. Make a note to yourself to look for Black Stone Cherry when they come back – but you’d better get your tickets early, then, too … they probably will be the headline act next time around!
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The previous interview was originally published February 15, 2007.

HOB Interview: Lindsey Buckingham – Lindsey In Your Living Room

By Brian M. Howle

Much like the searing memory when JFK was shot, or when Neil & Buzz landed on the moon, those of us – who were a certain age in the mid-to-late ‘70s – remember exactly where they were the first time they heard Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours. It wasn’t just a hit album; it permeated the pop culture’s consciousness and burned a deep, long track on the ol’ internal hard drive. My personal file consists of tearing down Hwy. 378 between Sumter and Columbia with a friend in his VW Scirroco at about 105 mph, the tape deck pounding out “Go Your Own Way” as the S.C. Highway Patrol tagged along behind us just for contrary fun.

And now, one of the driving forces behind that band, Lindsey Buckingham, brings his much-anticipated Under The Skin tour to House Of Blues in North Myrtle Beach on Tuesday, March 13, 2007.

I had the good fortune to catch up with Lindsey via telephone , and here’s what he had to tell me:

Howle: So, tell me Lindsey, how is the tour shaping up so far?
Buckingham: Well, you know, it’s going great! I’ve been waiting to do this for awhile, and it’s very gratifying … I’m having a ball.

Howle: How long has it been since you’ve done a tour like this, as a solo act?
Buckingham: Well, I’ve only done one tour like this, and that was supporting Out Of The Cradle, and that was, I believe, ‘93 … and it was really short, you know, in like six or eight weeks we were done. I’ve given myself a pretty large window for this one. We’re starting out March 7, and then most of April, and then we’re gonna be out June and July, and I think that’ll be it. (Palpable mischievous overtone begins) …And then we’ll put out another solo album, and we’ll do the whole thing again.

Howle: (Same tone) Well, that’s what we want to keep happening! So, what’s your writing process like? Do you sit down and approach it businesslike, or does it come to you “on the fly”?
Buckingham: Oh, well, you can’t really control that much. I have to say, I haven’t written anything in a while. I had intentions to put a solo album out for a few years, and a couple or so times that got shelved. And then some of that material got to the Fleetwood Mac album, and then it finally got a home and I felt like, unstopped as you might say, and after we came off the road I started writing like crazy again. There’s different ways of writing .. I mean, if you’re in a band, you bring it in and pitch it to everyone and the group finds their parts. If you’re writing alone, it’s sorta like painting, you might say, because you’re playing most of the stuff yourself … and then the writing and recording process tend to mesh together a little more.

Howle: Do you ever get into the studio, when you hear something and then go in that direction; or does someone suggest something to you; or do you pretty much set in your head when you go in there what you’re going to do?
Buckingham: Well, you’ve got to keep an open mind to whatever. I mean, it’s gonna be a process where all the elements bring their influence to bear on what your preconceptions may have been. If you’re working with a band, people are going to play things and it’s going to take on a certain life which has its own thing that you have to be open to. The difference is, that process tends to be more conscious and a little more political, and when you’re working alone, it is like painting … you’re slapping colors on the canvas, and you’re more meditative. You don’t even have to go in with a complete song, you can have a notion for what you think you might want and at some point, the work will lead you in the direction you need to go. When you’re working alone, you tend to go a little more on the experimental side, I guess.

Howle: Okay … this is from one guitarist to another: Where did you get that acoustic/electric guitar that you’ve had for so long – the one you tend to play the most? And how did you learn your finger-picking style?
Buckingham: Ahhh … well, that guitar you’re speaking of was made by Rick Turner from up in Santa Cruz, California. Rick was around in the early days of Fleetwood Mac, and he was making bass guitars for John McVie. Now, I had a problem when I joined Fleetwood Mac, because I had been playing a Fender Telecaster, which was well suited for the style that I had. But Mac had a sound that pre-existed before I joined … a fat sound, with fat drums, and Christine’s keyboards, and everything was pretty much on the “tubby” side. But the Telecaster just didn’t fit into that, and I ended up playing a Gibson Les Paul for a while, and I wasn’t too happy with that because it’s not the best guitar for someone who has a more orchestral-finger-picking style like me. So I asked Rick, ‘Can you build me a guitar that has the properties of cleanliness that a Telecaster has, but with a fatter sound – you know, lean and percussive?’ And that’s what he came up with, and that’s the guitar that I’ve used onstage ever since .. it’s served me very well.

Howle: Yeah, and it’s such a beautiful sounding instrument, and it suits your playing style so well ..
Buckingham: Yeah, it’s one of those ‘happy accidents’ that just happened. As far as my style of playing, there’s really nothing too unique about it. When I started playing, I never had lessons … I learned out of a chord book and by listening to my Warner Brothers rock ‘n’ roll records. When the first wave of rock hit back in the day, I was playing folk music, and a lot of people were using the basic Merle Travis 3-finger picking style. It started with that, and then I listened to some classical guitar, and added the third finger and just sorta took it from there. I can’t analyze it, I can’t be too objective about it …

Howle: It’s just so natural for you?
Buckingham: Yeah, that’s pretty much it!

Howle: Is there anyone out there you’d like to work with at some point?
Buckingham: Hmmm … well, there’s always someone out there, but; no, not any one person, I don’t think.

Howle: OK … what’s the material like on this new album?
Buckingham: Basically, even though it’s been ten years since I’ve put out a solo album, I’ve gotten married and had children for the first time, so you get a different perspective not only on the present, but on the past 25 years, so it’s answered some questions for me. So I was interested in doing something kind of intimate. There are certain songs that I have been doing six or seven years that started off as ensemble pieces on record, that have made their way on stage as single guitar and voice. The impact with audiences was so obvious to me, I thought, what would it be like with someone sitting in your living room. There’s no drums, no real bass; there’s a very intimate feel to it.

Howle: And what else is in your future? Is Fleetwood Mac a done deal, or what’s going on with that?
Buckingham: (That tone again) Well, Fleetwood Mac is never a done deal! (Both laugh) That would be nice, at some point. My plan right now is to tour to support Under The Skin, and then I’ll go finish up the second solo album, and have that out 1st quarter of 2008, and then do this all over again. I’m giving myself a large window of time to do this – two albums in a row – and then when we’re done with all of that, I think that Fleetwood Mac will be hitting the road once again.

Howle: Well, whatever incarnation you choose, I think your fans will be out there for you, looking forward to seeing you no matter what. So get on out there and just have a good time, and thank you so much for your time … Everyone in Myrtle Beach is looking forward to seeing you.
Buckingham: Oh, it’s been my pleasure, Brian … we’re looking forward to it, too.
This article was originally published in the February 28 – March 15, 2007 issue of Alternatives NewsMagazine in Myrtle Beach, S.C.

Aftershow: The Review

Lindsey Buckingham wails on a lead of “Go Your Own Way” at House Of Blues. (Photo by Brian M. Howle)

By Brian M. Howle

Rating: ¶¶¶¶¶ 5 Lighters Up
There were probably some folks who thought about attending the Lindsey Buckingham concert at the North Myrtle Beach House Of Blues on Tuesday, March 13, 2007, and then somehow talked themselves out of it for a littany of foolish reasons.

If you did, now’s the time to kick yourself in the butt – repeatedly.

Out on tour to support his latest solo release, Under the Skin, Buckingham showed up loaded for bear. And as a result, the large crowd in attendance was treated to one of the greatest shows to ever grace the HOB music hall’s storied stage.

Lindsey opened up the show by himself with several great tunes, “Not Too Late,” the impish “Trouble” and “Never Going Back.” His formidable band – Neale Heywood (guitars/vocals), Brett Puggle (guitars/ keyboards/vocals) and Walfredo Reyes, Jr. (percussion/vocals) – backed him up with a constantly changing array of guitars, bass guitars, keyboards, synthesizers, percussion and sequenced rhythm tracks that created luscious, thick walls of sonic nirvana.

To appease those who may only know of the man through Fleetwood Mac, “Second Hand News” drew thunderous applause. Attired in leather jacket, black T and jeans, Buckingham has a smattering of gray in his hair, but the talent and ebullient, infectious enthusiasm endures, making him the consumate performer. Following with “Castaway Dreams,” the cynical “Red Rover,” “It Was You,” and “Big Love,” with sound reverberating thru the venue, as strong, deep vocals were immersed in chorused effect to compliment Lindsey’s rich, aural stylings.

The popular “Go Insane” was next, followed by the new CD’s title track, “Under the Skin,” as three acoustics rained down an etheral jaunt into self-discovery. Austere but with a full-stage setup, “World Turning” featured a hand-triggered percussion solo, with sequenced vocals. “So Afraid” slowed down the pace and featured killer dual guitar leads.

“Know I’m Not Wrong” was next, and if you thought four guys couldn’t reproduce the huge marching band sound of “Tusk,” well, think again. This was like spending a couple of hours in a studio that serves refreshing beverages to a couple of thousand friends, offering up only the very best
takes. The crowd finally exploded with glee as the opening riffs of “Go Your Own Way” echoed through the hall. The encores were the delightful “Holiday Road” (from the movie National Lampoon’s Vacation), “Turn It On,” “Show You How” and “Shut It Down.”

Many thanks to Lindsey and the guys for a great show, and special thanks to Nikki Herceg of Warner Brothers Records Publicity for her much-appreciated assistance.

Live Performace Rating Legend:
¶¶¶¶¶ 5 Lighters Up – Dude, Ya had to be there; Killer set
¶¶¶¶ 4 Lighters Up – Great show, you don’t leave feeling there was more they could have done
¶¶¶ 3 Lighters Up – Not necessarily bad; not necessarily good; had its moments and I didn’t feel ripped off
¶¶ 2 Lighters Up – Someone’s got an addiction problem or needs way more practice, but hey, the beer was cold
¶ 1 Lighter Up – I laughed; I cried; I want my money back, bitch
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This article was originally published in the March 29 – April 12, 2007 issue of Alternatives NewsMagazine in Myrtle Beach, S.C.

Chubby Checker: A Small Town Twist Of Fate

By Brian M. Howle

Odds are, a music artist and a lowly music writer – who both hail from a big city – is not that uncommon an occurrence. The odds of having one of the seminal music and pop culture icons and an entertainment editor from the same small town have to be astronomical.

I should have bought a lottery ticket last weekend. Because against all odds, I had the good fortune to interview the legendary Chubby Checker, who completely changed the music and pop culture scene in 1960 when he appeared on Dick Clark’s “American Bandstand” and introduced “The Twist” to the world. Both a song and a dance, “The Twist” solidly engraved his name in rock ‘n’ roll – and American – history.

Oh … and did I mention, he grew up in my hometown?

Born Ernest Evans in 1941 in Philadelphia, PA, the family moved to the little community of Spring Gully on the outskirts of Andrews, S.C., Chubby Checker turned two minutes and forty-two seconds of recording history into a lifetime of achievements. The amiable superstar granted me an interview last weekend, and I caught him tooling down Highway 101 on the California coast. With technology bridging the 3,000 miles of continent between us, he pulled over to a scenic overlook and reflected on his life, and his upcoming appearance at The Palace Theatre in the Broadway musical, “Grease!”.

Howle: Well, I guess I should tell you – you and I have something in common – I’m from Andrews.
Checker: Oh, you’re from Krypton, huh? (Both laugh)

Howle: Yes sir, it’s true.
Checker: Well, there aren’t many of us around, you know!

Howle: So how long has it been since you’ve been back home?
Checker: Well, if you remember, up until three years ago, I came back to Andrews every May for 18 years to raise money for the local kids. We helped them obtain books and school supplies, things they would need for schoolwork. And now I’m coming to Myrtle Beach to do “Grease!”.

Howle: So, how did your role In “Grease!” come about?
Checker: I started doing “Grease!” in 1996, when it first went on Broadway. Then they called me about three years later and I did it again, and then they called me about a year later – the intervals are starting to get closer together. (Laughs) They call me because I know the show, and if I’m not doing anything, I’ll do it – because it’s fun to do!

Howle: That’s great. How often does the tour come this way?
Checker: Well, I’ve never done the tour before, just Broadway. But I’ll be in Birmingham, Alabama on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, and then Friday, Saturday and Sunday in Myrtle Beach at The Palace.

Howle: Well, I just wanted to let you know that I’m not going to take up a lot of your time – but when they told me I had a chance to interview you…
Checker: Oh, it’s wonderful .. Hey, listen, there aren’t many of us, you know … South Carolinians are very special people. Most of them are very successful, and you constantly find them in places you’d least expect. Did you know that Chris Rock is also from Andrews?

Howle: Of course! His mom (Ruth Rock) is a friend of our social editor (Hilda M. Carter).
Checker: There are some incredible people in South Carolina. And, not only I’m I doing “Grease!” in South Carolina, but you know the Piggly Wiggly grocery chain? Chubby Checker’s Checker Bar; Chubby Checker’s “Outside The Bun” Hot Dogs – you’ll find them at all the Piggly Wiggly stores starting next week!

Howle: Well, our connection just gets stronger, because my father owned the Piggly Wiggly in Andrews for about 30 years!
Checker: What a blessing! I mean, my first big account is in my home state, where I was born. It’s just incredible. They will also be sold in Pennsylvania, in Giant Eagle stores. And there are some large drug store chains that are going to be carrying our products, and that will cover all 48 continuous states.

Howle: Hey, that’s quite an achievement for a hometown boy!
Checker: Yeah, how about that?

Howle: Well, how has the industry changed over the course of your career? I mean, how does it stack up now as opposed to, say, forty years ago?
Checker: The industry, to me, is like these telephones that we’re using right now. How do you ask Alexander Graham Bell, “What do you think of the telephone these days?” What would he say? Alexander would say, “Well, it’s gotten better!” But before I happened along, we weren’t doing this. Now, how do I use that, in comparison to me? Well, Bell said to Mr. Watson, “Mr. Watson, come here, I want you.” And then we knew we had the telephone. Chubby Checker went on American Bandstand, and the whole world was watching – and in two minutes and forty-two seconds, we did “The Twist”. Freestyle dancing to rock ‘n’ roll; pop music, and now, hip hop. “The Twist” started it, and then came “The Pony”, and then came “The Fly”, which is “The Shake,” and then “The Hucklebuck” – and it changed the world forever. Whenever I see people doing what they do, all I see is what we did to the music industry, and it’s been going on 24/7 as a result of the opportunity that we got to do back then.

Howle: It’s interesting how everything seems to be cyclical; that it keeps reshaping and reinventing itself, but it basically goes back to the same format.
Checker: Like I say, there is no performer who has ever lived that can say, before they came along, rock ‘n’ roll did not have a dance. We gave rock ‘n’ roll its dance, and it evolved. In fact, right now, a whole new generation of music is named after one of our songs: “The Hip Hop” is “The Pony,” it’s my dance. “Throw your hands in the air, and wave them like you just don’t care” … that is “The Fly” … and if you’re doing “The Fly,” you’re doing “The Shake,” and then that very nasty thing that we did, that’s “The Hucklebuck”!

Howle: (Laughing) Hey, that’s right!
Checker: Hey, it all goes to the forefront of the dance culture. How does that go? – “I like it, it has a good beat, and I can dance to it.” I know the dances they do to the beat; we discovered the movements that make it all happen. So I feel very incredible about it all. And you have to understand, the only song that was #1 twice since God breathed breath into Adam, was “The Twist.” No one had done it before Chubby Checker, and no one has done it since. We had the first Platinum record. Many have achieved it since, but we were the first. We also had 9 double-sided hit songs, and no one has every done that. Also, in 1960 or 1961, there were 100 albums on the charts. In the top 12, Chubby Checker had 5 of them. All at one time!

Howle: Well I’m 50, and the first dance I ever did was at the National Guard Armory in Andrews, when I was 7, and it was “The Twist!”
Checker: Well, if you weren’t doing it, you weren’t doing anything. (Laughs) I mean, it was the biggest explosion in the music industry. Look around a convenience store or grocery store sometime, at all the products that have “twist” in the name. It didn’t happen before 1960 and Chubby Checker, and the business community realized they wanted to be a part of that success, so they started naming their products after it.

Howle: I have tell you, it’s always been sorta neat to be able to tell folks that Chubby Checker is from where I’m from …
Checker: Hey, you’re from where I’m from! (Laughs) Hey, you have no idea how much I appreciate the people of Andrews and Spring Gully, of Williamsburg, Georgetown and Horry counties. The most important part of my life, and the seed that went into what is me, was developed right there. By the time I left South Carolina, when I was eight years old, the good stuff was all there. If it weren’t for the values of South Carolina and the things my dad instilled in me, I wouldn’t be the man I am now. Why do you think I went back for 18 years? I wanted to give something back to the place that had given me so much. I’ve never really done charity for anything else, because it’s that important to me.

Howle: And we appreciate it. Is there any particular message you want to give to the folks here?
Checker: Please – come see me! (Laughs)

Heed Chubby’s plea, folks. Make plans to come see this enchanting icon in “Grease!” at the Palace Theatre on July 2, 3 and 4. For tickets and information, call (843) 448-0566, or visit their website, www.palacetheatremyrtlebeach.com .
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The previous article was originally published on July 1, 2004 in Alternatives NewsMagazine.

The Saga Of The Pioneer SX-9000

By Brian M. Howle

These poor, poor kids. I feel so sorry for them. You know, kids today will never know the pure, unbridled joy of owning massive, heavy, powerful and acutely aesthetic stereo systems. And that’s just a doggone, crying shame.

Perhaps a little background is in order, to bring those of you (probably under the age of 30) scratchin’ your leetle noggins and wondering what the hell I’m talking about.

Just look at the electronics world around you. It is so beyond your comprehension it ain’t even funny, and you don’t have a clue what life was like before micro-sized stereo systems, PC speaker systems and – even worse, home theater systems – came along and ruined the thrill of assembling a component stereo system, the way God planned it.

In the early 1970s, yours truly was living large – young, free and single, life was good. No, really – life was very, very good.

While attending USC in Columbia, I came to the brilliant conclusion that higher education was not for me. I was ready, willing and able to contribute directly to the workforce of our great nation.

At the same time, I had also come to appreciate the finer electronic toys of the day, which presented a rather thorny conundrum: How the hell do you buy top-of-the-line stereo goodies while contributing directly to the workforce of our great nation as a 20-year-old without a college degree, or a job with highly-sought-after skills commensurate with a nice, hefty paycheck?

The answer was, of course, you don’t. But as in many other instances, I never let that stop me from chasing the dream.

So just about every weekend, while my friends and I made blowing the week’s wages on partying and carousing an Olympic event, I made the drive down to Five Points in Columbia, where the town’s high-dollar, avant garde stereo store held my Holy Grail in the window display for all to see and marvel in hallowed Stereo Review awe:

The Pioneer SX-9000.

Now, this bad boy was not just any stereo amplifier/receiver, folks. No, no… this was THE consummate stereo amplifier/receiver. The Cadillac, The Rolls Royce, The Porche, nay; The Ferrari of home audio electronics. If anything ever was, this was all that – and a bag of chips.

Keep in mind that – at the time – most stereos had a volume, balance, tone, function selector (AM, FM, Phono, Aux), a headphone jack, and maybe all of 3 to10 watts of power. As Arnold would say, “Little girlie stereos.”

The SX-9000 was about the size small suitcase, and weighed about as much as a cast-iron engine block.

The size and weight were due to the massive heat sinks of the amplifier, necessary to cool off the ear-splitting 70 watts of power that it cranked out to (get this) up to three pairs of speakers -each! 210 total watts!

It wasn’t just a brute, though – it had a ton of practical and very cool features: AM and FM (stereo or mono) tuners, 2 tape monitors (and record/playback headphone jacks), 2 phonograph (hey Dad, what’s a phonograph?) inputs, 2 auxiliary inputs (for reel-to-reel tape decks or the newfangled cassette decks), high and low bandpass filters, FM muting and loudness switches.

Need more?

A mini-mixing/recording board, it also boasted stereo microphone inputs with balance controls, input controls, and a built-in reverb unit, assignable to either left, right or both channels. With a reel-to-reel tape deck (with sound-on-sound capability), it was like having your own 4-track recording machine. The Beatles recorded Sgt. Pepper on a 4-track, kids.

I’m tellin’ ya, this thing was just cool as grits.

And prior to this generation of stereos, the old-fashioned tuning needle was the only thing that lit up in the display window.

But the SX-9000 had those new, cutting-edge LEDs that indicated function selection, needle meters for signal strength and tuning, a way-cool oscilloscope-green display for the different tone color selections, and the way, way, way-cool reverberation intensity display, where opposing graphic lines crossed as the reverb was turned up.

And, unlike the other units, all of these features were accessible through the front panel! Brilliant!

To top it all off, the whole thing was all encased in a gorgeous, oiled, real-wood Oak cabinet. Sweeeeeeet!

Much like the way that Wayne Campbell would slide by the music shop and play the Stratocaster – only to put it back on display in the movie, “Wayne’s World” – I went in every Saturday and chatted with the sales guys, theoretically putting together my dream system.

But at $500 (about $10,000 in today’s money), the likelihood of my owning an SX-9000 was about as likely as me hooking up with, say, Linda Ronstadt. (Hey, my motto was: If you’re gonna dream, dream big.)

And since dreams are free, we went all out: Advent’s large speaker cabinets (in tandem, no less; that meant 2 speakers on each side, stacked for maximum frequency range; a Dual 1228 turntable (hey Dad, what’s a turntable?), and an Akai 12” Reel-to-Reel tape recorder. All told, I would have had to shell out around $2,500 for the whole shootin’ match.

My annual income at the time was about $5,000. Do the math, and feel the pain.

Sometimes, on Sunday, I would drive back down there and just press my leetle nose against the window, dreaming of the day my Playboy-approved bachelor’s pad would showcase my eclectic, expensive and oh-so-happenin’-with-the-ladies taste in music. Sigh…

Of course, that bastard Monday always rolled around, and while I rolled wheelbarrows of cement back and forth on the construction site of the nuclear power plant site where I worked as a laborer, the reality was oh, so unkind.

A couple of weeks later – after I figured out that the market for wheelbarrow pilots was pretty much flooded – I discovered a career in graphic arts, working for printing companies, newspapers and magazines.

Ah yes, the big time had finally arrived.

Now, there was still no way I could afford my dream system. But after I began working for a local buy & sell classified shopping publication called – cleverly enough – The Horry News & Shopper, I realized that I could place a wanted-to-buy ad for something nearly as good as what I wanted, and still be able to afford it. Brilliant!

So, I made my little 1 column x 1 inch ad and waited for the fortuitous calls that would fulfill my dreams to start pouring in.

And sure enough, a former serviceman called me with not one, not two, but three complete stereo systems for sale. Seems he couldn’t make up his mind on what he wanted, so he bought all three and then compared them in his living room, each system for a week.

Man, he must have been one hell of a wheelbarrow specialist in whatever part of the world that he was stationed.

There were two Pioneer systems (the smallest units they made) that didn’t really jazz me … but the third system was anchored by a Marantz 2240.

Well, it was no SX-9000, but it was dang close. Marantz was a top-name manufacturer, and with 40-watts x 2 channels, did the job of impressing friends and family just fine.

I paid $100 cash for it, on the spot, and he packed it back up in the original carton and even gently placed it in the back seat of my car for me.

Later, I picked up a used turntable (hey Dad, what’s a turntable?) at a pawn shop for about $20; and as fate would have it, a new colleague at work had a couple of used Advent speakers that I obtained in exchange for installing his car stereo (what a maroon that guy was). I then proceeded to play each and every one of my 2,500-plus albums (hey Dad, what’s an album?) with sincere, unabashed glee.

That is, until one of my friend’s unemployed, redneck roommates and her equally unemployed, redneck boyfriend broke into our house in broad daylight – while we were at work – and stole all of it (though we didn’t know this at the time). And they also stole my roommate’s gun collection (about a dozen different firearms, from black powder pistols to an AR-15 semi-automatic rifle).

Enraged, I couldn’t stand the resulting silence – along with that mocking empty spot in the living room – and I ran down to the mall and bought a cheaper, wannabe Technics system thru a finance company, with loanshark interest rates.

Which should tell you how much I wanted happenin’ tunes in my humble abode.

That little system filled my needs for a decade, and I eventually put together a slightly better system over time.

A few years later, I found out – undeniably – who stole our stuff, but God had already equalled the score with them through a series of accidents, personal losses and jail time for other crimes that they committed, so I just let it go.

Oh, I wanted to kick that sorry sack of crap’s butt to within an inch of his life – but I did the Christian thing, turned the other cheek and let it go.

And as it should be, the Good Lord took note.

About two years ago, I briefly worked for a classified shopper, which has since gone belly up. But while I was there, I befriended a young girl in the sales department. 30 years my junior, she shared a love of music that made us best buds at work – and along the way, I told her the story of the SX-9000.

One day, she approached me for advice on what to do with a box of stereo components that her crazy landlady had – for some reason – decided to bequeath to her, out of the blue. I told her to bring them to the office and I would appraise their worth, and she could then sell them thru our paper.

The next day, she brought them in. There was an older Panasonic unit, a fairly new Radio Shack Optimus unit, and, down at the bottom …

One mint-condition Pioneer SX-9000. Which she gave to me.

Yeah, if you’re gonna dream, dream big. And don’t forget to turn the other cheek.

Anyone know where Linda Ronstadt is these days?
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The previous article was originally published in the October 5, 2006 issue of Alternatives NewsMagazine.

Ciao, Numero Tresh

(Note: The following is a reprint from February, 2000. I’m placing it here for my friend Amy, in Indianapolis, and for those who may be new to NASCAR and needing some reference for understanding the average fan (if they are truly “old school”).

By Brian M. Howle

As this is being written, it is almost a week and a half since the tragic loss of NASCAR’s preeminent driver, Dale Earnhardt, in the February 18, 2000 running of the Daytona 500.

By now, even if you personally hate NASCAR, you know almost everything there could possibly be to know about the accident. And given the unparralelled coverage by the television media, you also know a lot about Earnhardt’s life; his tribulations and triumphs – on the track, and off.

So, for all of the “non-believers” out there (those of you uneducated in the ways of stock car racing, and in what it is that draws the ravenously loyal fans to the tracks in ever-increasing numbers), here’s my humble attempt to give you a little insight:

When the stock car bug has bitten you, it’s a done deal.

Once upon a rural Southern time, there lived a young freckled-face boy who was pulled into the world of stock car racing like a moth is drawn to a flame. He was a “spayshul” child; today, you would label him as ADHD. Constantly moving, the boy just couldn’t stay still for anything – not for all the tea in China …

Except on Saturday afternoons, between the end of winter and the onset of fall.

During those months, he would disappear for hours, listening to races on tinny-sounding AM radios. On particularly glorious days, his father would allow him to listen on the family car’s radio – which made it all the easier for the boy to slip deep into his imagination.

As the drawling announcers rattled along with race descriptions that rivaled an auctioneer’s pace, he would grip the steering wheel and hunker down in the seat, barely able to see over the massive steel dashboard, bouncing up and down on the seat right along with his favorite driver as the announcers painted moving pictures of a 2-ton stock car careening into a high-banked curve, as every imperfection in the unforgiving track shook and rattled the entire vehicle a thousand times a minute. He would glance out the side windows periodically, keeping tabs on all of the “bad guys”, and waiting for his hero to pull alongside.

In the late ‘50s and early ‘60s, his hero was #22, Glen “Fireball” Roberts.

“Fireball” was the quintessential prototype for today’s modern drivers. He was ruggedly handsome, amiable with the public, and – unlike the vast majority of his colleagues – well-educated and well-spoken. But above all else, he was a “Driver’s Driver”, and a man’s man.

As you might expect, the technology back then was not what it is now. In fact, they raced on everyday, get-’em-at-your-local-Firestone-or-Goodyear-dealer street tires. “Fireball” ran – and won – a Daytona race on one set of regular, street tires.

Although his car number – 22 – remained constant, he drove about every make of car that was contending at one time or another, starting out in Chevy’s (in the mid-’50s, NASCAR ran convertibles – driver safety was not an early priority), Pontiacs, and finally, Fords. His color schemes changed over the years: the Chevy’s were white and black; the Pontiacs were black and gold.

And then came the wondrous day that “Fireball” began driving a Ford, the boy’s most favorite make of them all. But when “Fireball” switched to Fords, he came up with a theretofore-unheard-of paint scheme that required a man confident in his masculinity: Lavender.

The purple 1963 and 1964 Galaxie 500s became the universe for the leetle freckled-face boy, and he gleefully shared in his hero’s every victory, and pouted in his hero’s every defeat. And more often than not – or so it seemed at the time – there would be victorious late Saturday afternoon celebrations that carried the boy happily through his busy week of school. Life was good.

On March 26, 1964, the little boy was listening to the World 600 race from the Charlotte Motor Speedway when the announcers began screaming the accounts of an horrific crash unfolding before them. A frozen chill ran down his spine when he heard “Fireball’s’ number called out – he had crashed hard, and his car had flipped, coming to a rest on its roof – in a time when safety bladders in racing gas tanks were just a glint in some inventor’s eye – the ruptured tank poured gasoline into the car’s interior, where it pooled in the roof panel and burned mercilessly. Paralysis and nausea and the fear or God rendered the boy immobile as they described fellow driver, Ned Jarrett, as he stopped his car on the track and hurried over to “Fireball’s” rescue, helping to pull him from the hellish inferno.

The newspaper accounts the following day didn’t do much to ease the boy’s aching heart. It was deadly serious, and the doctor’s would only say “wait and see”.

For the better part of the following month, the boy listlessly attended classes and avoided play with his friends. His hero was in trouble, and needed his daily complement of exhaustively long prayers to a kind and loving God, to heal his hero and make the world right again.

One morning the boy awoke to the sound of his father’s voice. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he looked up to his dad’s face to ask why he was being awakened.

“Son, I’m sorry to have to tell you this … but your buddy didn’t make it,” he said as softly as he could, knowing full well that his son’s little heart was about to break wide open. “He passed away during the night.”

The boy cried and cried for days, feeling as if the whole world had come to a terrible end. He didn’t know how to mourn the loss of his idol. And to make matters worse, his friends didn’t seem to share his pain – since they still had their heroes, all baseball or football players.

As with all things, the passing of time eased the boy’s pain and loss. He gradually found other drivers to cheer for, although none would ever covet the place in his heart held by his idol. Many years later, as an adult, the boy continued his passion with NASCAR, attending several races a year whenever possible. He found a new hero, a Huck Finn look-alike from the hills of northern Georgia named Bill Elliott, who drove – of course – a Ford. And like all young men, the day came when he met his one true love – a beautiful young Brazilian girl. Through no fault of her own, she was completely unaccustomed to this strange racing fraternity. Because, in her country, there was no NASCAR – but there was Formula One.

They each shared their love for racing in different arenas, but began to educated the other in the ways of their league. A mutual respect and understanding of rules and drivers was formed, and they spent alternating viewing schedules keeping up with Formula One early on Sunday mornings (usually from halfway around the world), and then afternoons bathed in stock car glory.

One of the first things she noticed – about a league that had no wrong in his eyes – was the man’s emphatic disdain and dislike for one particular driver.

“Why do you dislike the driver of that #3 car so much?” she asked in total innocence.

She patiently listened for the next hour or so as the man raved and ranted about the time #3 put this driver or that driver “in the wall’ on the last lap, using the ol’ “chrome horn” to push aside the competition to win yet another race, on the way to winning yet another Winston Cup title. It was clear to her that he did not care at all for #3. Besides, #3 drove a Chevy.

Now, it all made sense to her.

And then she explained to him a similar set of circumstances that existed in Formula One, where one particular driver seemed to have repeated conflicts – usually ending up with a crash – with her country’s national hero, Ayrton Senna. He smiled an understanding smile at this revelation; he had seen Senna drive.

Formula One, unlike NASCAR, does not have races rained out. Both leagues use wide, slick racing tires, but Formula One has “rain tires” with tread for dispersing the water. During one such race, the young man watched in amazement as Senna – unphased by the huge puddles of water that could send a car flying off the track with no notice – screamed through the pack and passed every single driver in the field – twice! Senna was fearless, bold, and extraordinarily talented. It was awesome to watch.

For the next few years they watched many races, and attended a few as well. One Sunday morning, he awoke to the alarm and switched on the television, as a Formula One race was about to begin in Italy. Early in the race, he saw the colors of their favorite blur across the screen after coming out of a sharp corner, never making the turn, smashing into the outer wall and then wildy limping along the retaining wall until it finally rolled to a stop. There was no movement from the cockpit as the announcers began to ponder the possible extent of his injuries.

The young man reluctantly awakened his sleeping beauty, and softly told her the sad news. They watched the replays and theorized on what had caused the crash, but it didn’t really matter what had caused it. Her country’s one true hero had been taken away, and it became a national week of mourning in Brazil.

Late that afternoon, as the young man watched the much-despised #3 win yet another race, he dejectedly reach for the remote to avoid having to endure the Victory Lane celebration. But before he could switch the channel, the driver of #3 clambered out of his chariot and faced the television reporters for the obligatory post-race interview. And then, the driver said something that the young man never expected.

Before he thanked his primary sponsor, his car manufacturer, his car owner, or anyone else, the first sentence out of his mouth was:

“This win is for Ayrton Senna, who was tragically killed in an accident in Italy this morning”, began the uncharacteristically subdued winner. “He was, without a doubt, the greatest driver in the world, and all of racing will miss him greatly.”

I have no doubt in making the statement that, for all practical purposes, a good 95% of the fans had no idea who this Brazilian driver was, or why this American racer was praising him. I know that without my beloved in my life, I probably wouldn’t have, either.

But at that exact moment, all the disdain and ill-feelings I had ever had about this Chevrolet-driving rascal melted away. I now saw a man who respected all forms of racing, and who kept abreast of them with a kindred interest.

That same driver lost his best friend later that year at Daytona, when Neil Bonnett crashed in the fourth turn during a practice session. And it had a solemn impact upon him.

Many other fans softened their dislike towards the successful icon of the sport. Once reviled and booed loudly at driver introductions, his well-earned nickname of “The Intimidator” continued to be legend on the track, but a different man began to show himself to the attentive public. A loving wife, a renewed involvement with his three older children – all of whom were driving stock cars (even his oldest daughter, for a time), and the apple of his twinkling eye, his eight-year-old daughter – all combined to cloak him in an evolutionary change of temperment.

Oh, sure he would still tap the rear bumper of anyone in his way, but even his staunchest dectractor would admit to you in a moment of unfettered honesty – no one, and I mean no one, could drive a stock car like Dale Earnhardt. And I doubt very seriously if anyone ever will again. Not like him.

And so, while those of us who grew up as young freckled-face boys or girls in small towns across the nation – listening to radio broadcasts of our fledgling sport – mourn the loss of the modern day NASCAR legend, I find comfort in knowing that somewhere up in Heaven, Senna is feeling a tap on his rear bumper. And when he looks in his mirror, he sees a grinning Earnhardt waving at him.

I just hope they’re both paying attention when “Fireball” passes them.
###
The previous article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, February 28, 2000.

Diary Of A Mad Lifeguard – Part I

By Brian M. Howle

As the rat-a-tat-tat, fast paced delivery of the local news reporter chatters in the background, I mundanely go about my housekeeping duties, alternating my attention from the dish washing to the television to my constantly inquiring cat. Somewhere between the casserole dish and the twenty-sixth demand to be fed, my ears perked up when I realized the reporter was relating a story about Horry County’s program to certify lifeguards. With the drying rack and the cat’s tummy both full, I reposed to my little room to gather up the memories of my lifeguarding days.

Long before the masses became enthralled with those who risk life, limb and implants on “Baywatch”, the whim of the whistle cast its evolving spell over me. Years of attending Boy Scout summer camp resulted in a preponderance of aquatic merit badges, and somewhere along the line a Red Cross lifeguard certification. I never gave it much thought until the country club outside of town built their pool, necessitating the need for a lifeguard. Three or four of my Scout buddies and I rotated on the duty roster, which was a good thing when we realized how painfully boring the job was. We opened the pool in the morning, checking the chlorination system and taking ph levels, vacuuming the bottom, skimming the top and, of course, emptying the bug collectors. Then we would open the snack stand, power up the equipment, stock the drink machine, date the member register book, slap on the zinc oxide and clamber on up in the stand.

Perched a lofty eight feet above the water’s surface, we were afforded a Kingfisher’s view of the pool’s L-shaped layout: To the right was the shallow end and the kiddie pool; to the left, the foreboding deep end, replete with the ominous Alfred Hitchcock-Stephen King Memorial Diving Board. I wish I had a dollar for every time I heard “Mommy, Mommy, look at me!” followed by the unmistakable crack of a fracturing bone. Note to would-be deep pool owners: If you just have to have a diving board, set it up for the least amount of spring possible and then have it welded in place. And have at least eight feet of open pool on either side of it. Just trust me on this.

Miles of sutures later, my initial enamorement with this field of work began to fade, and I left the profession to find a job with less cursing, screaming and open head wounds.

Naturally, it would end up being pulpwooding, where statistically there is hardly a blip on the radar when it comes to cursing, screaming and open head wounds.

I was a “piler”, heaping the lops after the saw operator cut the tree down, then cut it into 6-foot sections. To give you an idea of what a pulpwood crew is like, just think of the character Jar Jar Binks from the Star Wars prequel, and then imagine 8 or 9 of them. Keep in mind, at least three of them run the chainsaws with the three-foot blade.

On the plus side, I bulked up on pure muscle for the first and only time in my life. On the minus side, my chainsaw operator nearly dropped an 80-foot loblolly on meesa, whereupon meesa began to thinksa about another linesa of worksa. How rude!

A grueling year of hard studying in college followed my Paul Bunyan days, so when the next summer came along, some of my friends convinced me to apply for a lifeguard position at Huntington Beach State Park at Murrells Inlet, where most had already worked at least two summers. My roommate, Danny and my friend Joe – both from Andrews – were going to work there again, so I dusted off the ol’ Scout papers and headed over to see the Park Superintendent, Mr. Lee Jordan.

Now, for months before the interview, I had listened to my friends relating their exploits as lifeguards and thought, “Yeah, sure, that could happen.” I also heard a thousand renditions of their impersonations of Mr. Jordan. He seemed to have a proclivity for using the old “You know?” to the beginning, middle and end of just about every sentence. And he had one of those great, gruffy but lovable voices that was easily imitated.

My buds were by my side as I was led into Mr. Jordan’s office, where he smiled at me and motioned for us to sit while he closed the office door. He began by apologizing for a small delay in our meeting.

“Well, Brian, these boys speak mighty highly of you, you know?” was his first sentence, and my friends were sitting on either side of him, slightly behind his field of vision.

“THANK YHA HA HA HA HA…” was my first impression on Mr. Jordan.

Thirty minutes and about 79 “You know’s” later, we convinced Mr. Jordan that I was indeed qualified for the daunting task that lay ahead. On June 1, the SCDPRT would employ a full crew of five lifeguards for Huntington Beach State Park. Thus began the best summer of my life.

My friend, Joe Bouknight, was Head Lifeguard by virtue of seniority and the ability to annoy the hell out of you until you capitulated to his point of view. We revered him mightily, and were quick to respond to his every command.

Yeah, right.

We came to look upon our friend Joe not as Head Lifeguard, but as a father. He was our daddy.

Daddy Joe.

And it would naturally follow that if he was our daddy, then we were all his little doting sons.

Danny Joe, my roommate and best friend during college and for several years after.

Mike Joe, a previous guard from North Litchfield attending Newberry College.

Dog, who was the Superintendent’s son, whose name was Mike, but we already had a Mike and besides, this guy was a hot dog when it came to trying to pull macho on the beach bunnies so they had already named him Hot Dog. But everyone just called him Dog.

And yours truly, Brian Joe, although a few weeks later my name sorta changed when, after receiving a box of misprinted checks from my bank, I attempted to pronounce the mistake while we were having a kegger, and the “Brain” on the label just kinda came out “Brayan” and for whatever reason, Brayan has followed me to this day on reunion occasions.

First thing I learned was: being blonde and freckled is a bad thing when you’re out in the sun all day. Now, when I worked at the pool, I had an umbrella overhead, and when no one was around (on those wonderful 100+ degree days) I would hang in the cool snack bar. I never really had a chance to over do it.

Lifeguarding at an ocean, however, is a whole ‘nother kettle of fish. I thought I had applied enough sunscreen to do the job, but after the first two days the painful reality of 1st, 2nd, and 3rd degree burns began to set in. My feet and knees were most vulnerable, and let me tell you, those feet and knees do a lot of bending that you probably take for granted. You get burned like I did, you won’t take it for granted ever again, I promise you.

So for a few weeks, I pretty much got the much coveted “chair” assignment – staying the entire day in one of two guard stands – and kept my knees and feet covered with white towels and quarts of zinc oxide. My buddies had to pick me up and put me in the car and then back out when we went out at night, and I cried myself to sleep a lot, but other than that, it wasn’t that bad.

There were many indoctrination ceremonies that had been handed down from year to year in the Lifeguard trade, so the first month was a little strange. The statute of limitations thing prevents me from disclosing any of them, unfortunately, but take my word for it – most of the stories you’ve probably heard about lifeguards are mostly true.

We were housed in the former garage of Atalaya, the massive mansion built by philanthroper Archer Huntington for his sculptress wife, Anna Hyatt Huntington. They more or less threw in a half dozen metal bunk beds, a couple of closet units and an old, rusty, deathtrap of an electric stove, which was fortuitously located right beside the entrance to the bathroom/shower where the constant pool of standing water just dared you to connect the dots.

But, hey, it did have electricity (which meant we could set up our 1,000-watt stereos to maximize that cave echo effect from blasting tunes in an all-brick room), and hey, it was free. But Lordy, if those walls could talk.

When fully healed and able to wander the miles of beach that make up Huntington, I learned all the obligatory tricks of the trade.

The Whistle Twirl: (an absolute must, there is no cheating on this one) where one twirls the lanyard around one’s hand until the whistle comes to a snap in the palm of your hand, perfectly, and then the twirl is reversed for a back side move.

The Babe Alert (acoustic response): A series of monosyllabic grunts, coughs and whistles coded for “Must See T&A”.

The Babe Alert: (telepathic response): Not unlike many of nature’s animals, lifeguards have the innate ability to sense the presence of greatness.

The Frisbee Skip: The skill to casually toss a frisbee to anyone – from any angle, in any wind speed conditions – and hit them right in the palms.

The Frisbee Decapitation: The skill to launch a fris with the velocity of a jet, intended to do bodily harm to smartass dudes trying to poach in Guard territory.

The What A Cute Dog Response: Piling it on the honey with the butt-ugly dog.

The Don’t Bother Me With Stupid Questions When I Have A Hangover Response: Utilized sparingly, it would normally go sorta like this:

Stupid Tourist: “What are those guys doing?”

Bleary Lifeguard: “Fishing.”

Stupid Tourist: “ What are they fishing for?”

Bleary Lifeguard: “Fish.”

Yeah, if those walls could talk, I know five guys who would put out a contract on them.

- Next Issue -
Where The Rubber Meets The Beach

###
The previous article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, June 17, 1999.

Diary Of A Mad Lifeguard – Part II

By Brian M. Howle

In the previous issue, I began recounting my days as a lifeguard at Huntington Beach State Park in Murrells Inlet, circa 1973-74. The lifeguard crew consisted of “Daddy” Joe Bouknight, Danny “Joe” Bath. Mike “Joe” Merchant, Mike “Hot Dog” Jordan (but everyone just called him Dog) and myself, Brian “Joe” (or “Brayan”). We established that lifeguarding was one of the best jobs that any guy could ever wish for; that sunburn was an occupational hazard not to be taken lightly; that certain events will never see the light of day in this story; and that one learned all the cool tricks and traits of the trade in short order upon donning the shorts and T-shirts with the big, capital LIFEGUARD emblazoned front and back.

Speaking of which, I don’t know if the S.C. Department of Parks, Recreation and Tourism still sports the same logo as the one we were adorned with, but in light of the recent rash of political correctness sweeping the Country I sure hope so. I just have to believe they’ve changed it by now. The one we had consisted of the SCDPRT words arranged in a circular pattern, within an outer circle that turned downward in inward, tracing the outer circle for the uppermost quarter, then back inward horizontally until the lines met the perpendicular of the initial downline, and running longitudinally to the bottom before stopping short of the outer circle. Which is a drawn-out, Aristotelian logic way to say that this bad boy was way too phallic to escape anyone’s attention. On the other hand, it was a conversation starter.

Despite having a Freudian field day screenprinted on our trunks, T-shirts, hats and windbreakers, we actually took our jobs – the constant vigilance of watching swimmers in the water – pretty darn seriously. In the years before lifeguards were posted at the park, drownings were commonplace, especially on the north end of the park – because where Huntington stops, the inlet in Murrells Inlet begins, and currents in excess of 70 miles per hour are easily produced by the tidal shifts. Unlike the gentle, scalloped slope of the ocean floor on the beachfront, the perimeters of the inlet drop off steeply within a few feet of the waterline, creating it vertical vortex that will pull even the most accomplished body builder under in mere seconds. Large, unavoidable signs with huge letters spelling DANGEROUS CURRENTS – SWIMMING PROHIBITED had about the same effect as those $200 FINE FOR LITTERING signs do on the highways. Once a person stepped off that edge, the only question was where the body would surface – in the inlet marshes to the north, straight out off the coast, or on the shore to the South.

In the years where guards were employed, there were no drownings at Huntington. So keep that in mind as we go along.

There’s not much point in me – or any lifeguard – denying that this isn’t an ego-feeding endeavor. Real or imagined, the responsibility for the public’s safety and well-being imparts the aura of importance on you. However, keeping that aura in perspective can be tricky – and occasionally, downright embarrassing.

Like when the time when all five of us were on duty on a “slow” day, when only a dozen or so swimmers – mostly children – casually splashed along the receding breakers. Even with so few to watch, on this particular day there was an unusual absence of the greatest nemesis of our attention: generously filled bikinis. About that time, all was made right when several very attractive young ladies made their way thru the dunes and onto the beach.

Now, Dog – bless his leetle heart – had sonic behavioral attributes that were the basis for his name. Being the park superintendent’s son, I’m sure he felt the pressure of staying on point as far as protecting the masses was concerned. And overall, he pretty much did just that. But Dog wasn’t the brightest coin in the change drawer, so to speak, and his quest for coolness often resulted in him being his own worst enemy.

So when these ladies made their way past our little picnic table – where we all gathered on light crowd days – Dog’s ears perked up as he went into his “Hot Dog” mode. Two little girls were playing in the surf directly in front of us, and one of them began yelling excitedly. This apparently overloaded Dog’s attention response mechanism as he assessed the situation and sprang into action. First, he bolted upright from his seat, sorta half standing and half sitting, ears twitching, as he let his twirling whistle lose its inertia and dangle beside his hand. Then the hand raised towards his sunglasses – a dead giveaway to the rest of us, as Dog never touched his shades unless an impending water rescue was imminent.

We literally uttered a unison “Dog...” in all attempt to bring him up to speed, but it was too late. In a flash, the whistle and the sunglasses were flying off to his left and right as he took off, full throttle, towards the two little girls in a path which just happened intersect that of the newly arrived bikinis. Everyone froze as Dog covered the forty or so yards to the water, diving headfirst into the breakers between him and the two little girls.

But wait! Now there was only one child visible, as Dog had so astutely observed as the catalyst for his action. Popping up to the water’s surface, he threw his head back to clear the water from his eyes as he frantically began to scan for the missing girl. Back at the table, we exploded in that deep, wonderful laughing that makes you roll on the ground.

Dog was standing in about two feet of water.

The two girls were playing a standard game of “Let’s See Who Can Hold Their Breath The Longest,” and everyone on the beach was aware of it.

Except poor Dog.

Head hung low, Dog slowly made his way back to the table, where we were fighting as hard as we could to stop laughing. There is that decorum among friends, after all, that discourages rubbing it in. Dog returned to his seat, silent and sullen. After a few minutes, he glanced around, dropped his head again, and muttered a barely audible expletive.

“What’s the matter, Dog?” someone felt obliged to ask
.
“I lost my whistle and shades in the ocean,” same the disgusted reply.

Another explosion of hoots and guffaws ensued, and Dog just wandered on off to the southern limit of our watch area, where he stayed most of the day, whistleless and squinting.

In fairness to Dog, the rest of us had our own moments of not thinking it through. Every morning, we left our quarters in Atalaya and made our way to the beach, stopping by the concession stand between the parking lot and the beach to lug out the big, heavy first aid kit provided to us by the SCDPRT. About the size of it small suitcase, we hauled the weighty metal box onto the beach, set it down on the table, and then hauled it back concession stand each day, mindlessly and automatically. We never had it reason to open it – until one day in August.

In one of nature’s countless cycles, August signals the peak of the jellyfish population. Ordinarily, you’ll see several dead jellyfish washed up on shore or in the lapping waterline. But a mere 50 to 100 yards behind the breakers, there are literally hundreds of thousands of the gelatinous critters. The most feared of these is the deadly Portuguese man-of-war, capable of more than just a painful sting. These suckers can inflict severe injury upon contact; entanglement in the many stinging tentacles ensures a trip to the emergency room.

One sweltering August afternoon, a couple of guys disregarded our warnings of jellyfish infestation and plunged headlong into the breakers, whereupon one of them received a full facial wrap from a man-of-war.

The resulting wounds had the appearance of third-degree burns, and we at long last cracked open the big first aid kit and retrieved the baking soda and Solarcaine. We knew he was bound for the emergency room, but this poor guy needed immediate relief – no matter how slight – to his agony. We dressed his wounds as best we could and his buddy spirited him off to the hospital.

Now, to this day, I honestly don’t know if this particular first aid kit came from the manufacturer equipped this way or if someone in previous years “upgraded” it, but as we went about repacking the kit we made an interesting discovery.

Condoms.

I know, I know … we never really figured it out either. In all the first aid courses I attended, I never saw condoms among the gauze and alcohol swabs. But there they were, of the generic variety, in plain white plastic wrapping with only the word “condom” printed on the front.

Well, after the man-of-war incident, the beach was pretty much deserted, except for two or three families who set up their chairs and umbrellas against the duneline, as far from the water as they could possibly get. The only thing I know for sure about what happened next is, as Bart Simpson would say, “I didn’t do it.”

Still engrossed in trying to re-pack the kit as we had found it, I detected the sound of air being forced, followed by muted giggles. I turned towards the sounds, only to have a now-inflated condom bounce off of my forehead. The unison of cackles abruptly gave way to a combined group gasp of things gone terribly wrong as the semi-transparent balloon caught the ocean breeze, racing quickly over a brace of outstretched hands and heading for the dunes behind us. Everyone had begun to leap towards it when the collective realization snapped in that it was descending directly towards the family that had set up shop right behind us. There was a momentary freeze followed by a synchronized resuming of our seats. No one moved. No one said a word. An eerie silence fell over our usually raucous picnic table, interrupted only by the sound of the two small children playing at their inattentive parents’ feet.

I mustered up enough courage to take a painfully slow peek over my shoulder, which was quickly followed by an even more painful attempt to restrain an outburst of damning laughter. As it turned out, my colleagues had all made the same decision.

While his parents had their faces buried in their newspapers, little Junior was repeatedly batting his younger sister in the face with our latex Hindenburg.

Oh, the humanity!

The five of us fanned out in formation that would have made the U.S. Air Force’s Thunderbirds proud, and at about the same speed. Since the ocean was essentially deserted, it seemed like a good time to close the beach and call it a day. After it few minutes, we regrouped – far from the table – and realized that the kit would have to be retrieved. In a process we often used to determine who would get a weekend day off, I drew the short sea oat. As my very good friends snickered behind the duneline, I walked rigidly and quickly to the table, grabbed the handle on the kit, set my eyes straight down to the sand in front of me and made a beeline for the pathway between the dunes. About halfway there, the relaxing cadence of gently breaking waves was broken by a very loud “POP!”

I still wonder if those folks ever finished their paper.

- Next Issue -
Official Gate Crashers
###
The previous article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, July 1, 1999.

Diary Of A Mad Lifeguard – Part III

By Brian M. Howle

In this installment of recounting my lifeguard years, I would be remiss not to mention how working for a state entity differs greatly from today’s beach services. As a state employee, were public relations ambassadors as much as lifeguards. I never anticipated that in the long hours that made up the summer days of beach duty, meeting and getting to know the individuals who comprised the throngs of sun worshippers would become one of the most enjoyable aspects of the job. From points far north in Canada, through the upper Ohio valley, along the upper eastern seaboard, from the great plains and the arid southwest – the spectrum of visitors to Huntington Beach State Park is unbounded. When families plan that one week of unbridled relaxation and enjoyment, it doesn’t really matter where they’re from. The concept of having a good time is not tainted by location, social, racial or economic status. Note to would-be political aspirants: If you really want to get the skinny on what your constituents want, spend ten hours a day, six days a week, for three months standing on a state park beach.

We were under the direct supervision of the Park Superintendent, but as in all paramilitary settings, a couple of the park underlings – known to you civilians as Park Rangers – just couldn’t help becoming a little power crazy on those rare days when Mr. Jordan was away. An hour or so before we were scheduled to take up our positions on the beach, we would hear a loud ruckus outside the lifeguard quarters intended to rouse us from our blissful sleep. Alarmed, groggy and confused, we would rush outside to investigate the excitement.

Fifteen minutes later, we found ourselves picking up trash in the parking lots, still groggy and confused but no longer alarmed. This little game went on for about a month, with the Rangers absolutely assuring us that their authority was legitimate and all just a part of the chain of command.

That all changed one July morning when Mr. Jordan returned from a trip a day early – unbeknownst by our Ranger slavemasters – and proceeded to amble on over to where I was picking up the reeking vestiges of a watermelon feast.

“Good morning, son, how are you doing?” was his normally jovial first question.

“Just peachy, Mr. Jordan,” was my less than enthusiastic reply.

“Mind if I ask you something son?” he queried with a rather stern look.

“No sir,” I politely answered, “go right ahead.”

“What the hell are you doing out here picking up garbage?” This was not the question I was anticipating, and I guess Mr. Jordan read it in my face when my expression turned into that “What the hey?” look when it dawns on you that you’ve been hoo-dooed. He broke into a big, wide grin as he motioned for me to come with him, putting his arm around my shoulder and giving me one of those “guy” hugs – real quick, real light, just enough to say “You know, you’re alright’ without having to actually say ‘You know, you’re alright.” We climbed into his big pickup as Mr. Jordan keyed the mic on the two-way radio.

“Gentlemen, your slave labor enterprise does show me some initiative on your part, you know; nonetheless I would like to see both of you in my office in ten minutes.” He pulled up to the entrance of our quarters, putting the mic back on it s holder.

“Go get yourself a nice, cold drink, son, and rest up a little before you guys hit the beach, you know?” he said as I shut the truck door. Then he tipped his hat and sped off to his impending meeting with the Rangers.

At noon that day, we were engaged in our usual round of drawing sea oats to see who would have to haul the big water cooler back to the concession stand for a refill and then back – a task that we unanimously hated and tried to avoid at all times. The mid-day heat made the 300-yard round trip a grueling endeavor capable of evaporating your will to live. But before we had finished drawing oats, one of the guys literally dropped to his knees, uttering “I don’t believe it,” as he stared past the rest of us.

And there, distorted by the light-bending waves of heat rising from the blazing dunes, were the two Rangers, wobbling and struggling to bring the brand new, much larger water cooler. A little daily task that became their implicit responsibility. Courtesy of Mr. Jordan, you know?

Of course, Mr. Jordan’s sense of justice would most likely have resulted in our immediate execution had he known everything that went on.

Unlike today’s entrance to the park, the old entrance used a small gate house at the turn-in lane facing Highway 17. At night, the gates were closed and locked promptly at 11:00 p.m.; anyone arriving after that – regardless of whether camper or state employee – had to wait for the night watchman to return from his constant circuit of the park’s loop of roads. A sweetheart of a man, the watchman was a retired fellow of wonderful demeanor but woefully impaired vision, and not particularly in a hurry for anything. If you pulled up to the gate and saw his taillights disappearing around that first curve back towards the beach, you might as well take a little nap, ‘cause it would be a good hour or more before he made it back.

One night a couple of us double dated with sisters whose family was camping at the park. After a big night of riding the roller coaster, cruisin’ the boulevard, grabbing a burger at Wink’s and all the obligatory ‘we’re at the beach” activities with our dates, my buddy and I returned to the park to deliver these young ladies back into the safe charge of their father. A large, imposing figure of a man, he made clear to us that when it came to his daughters being “home” on time, punctuality ensured our continued good health.

Well, as we pulled up to the locked gates and watched the tail lights of the night watchman fading out of sight as he began his rounds, a rather unpleasant mental image began playing in our minds that basically consisted of a large, imposing foot and our backsides. Although the gates closed at 11:00 p.m., our dates’ curfew was 11:30 p.m., allowing us a final stroll on the beach before saying goodnight. However, it was already 11:15 p.m., and the prospect of stopping outside that camper at 12:15 p.m. made us sit lightly and on the edge of our seats.

At the time – 1973 – Huntington Beach State Park was in the process of becoming the beautifully maintained grounds that you see today. The landscaping around the entrance was old and a bit overgrown, and without any real definition as to composition or design. Creosote posts fanned out on either side of the gates, about four feet apart and linked with thick, heavy steel cable. After pacing back and forth a few minutes – and with my backside already experiencing anticipation pains – I wandered just a bit further to the left side of the gates. In the warm moonlight, I realized that there were no posts beyond about a twenty-five foot span. There were two large pines on either side of a group of azaleas, and my blueprint tracking program immediately deduced that my little Ford Maverick would make it between the pines with inches to spare. I tried to take the time to evaluate data and formulate a plan, but when I saw my watch showing 11:23 p.m., the plan clearly became driving that puppy ‘tween the pines.

I must confess to feeling a twinge of remorseful guilt as I savagely – but mercifully quickly – mowed down the azaleas in cold-chlorophylled murder. But, no time for remorse when it’s 11:24 p.m. The twisting, winding road into Huntington was not built for road course racing and required complete concentration in order to transform the normally ten minute drive to the campsites into a six minute sprint.

The sisters were hugging their dad goodnight at 11:29 p.m. Of course, I probably took two years off of everyone’s lives with the tire-squealing blur through the park, but our backsides were intact.

My buddy and I returned to the quarters to join our colleagues in recounting the evening’s events over a cold beer before going to sleep in preparation for another big day on the beach.

Around 12:30 a.m., one of my friends awakened me from a deep sleep. As I fought to clear my head, I became aware of muted, halting whispers, steeped in the intonation that signals alarm. My buddies were at the windows, which were positioned high on the twelve foot walls of our quarters – formerly the garage and before that, the stables – located at the rear of Atalaya. I saw the random beams of many flashlights flickering through the darkness beyond the windows, and heard the muffled voices of men.

Scampering to the windows, I perched on the top rail of a bunk bed and peered over the sill to the ground below. For an instant, sacrificing my backside to an irate father seemed like a preferable option.

The grounds around our parking area was swarming with a variety of law enforcement officers, along with Park Rangers, the night watchman, and some old guy were never saw before.

They were, of course, searching for the gate crasher. Solving the crime was of paramount importance, as the State of South Carolina would not be denied its $10 camping fee. One of the guys NOT in my car earlier in the night ventured outside to ascertain exactly how many years in prison I might be facing, while three pairs of very wide eyes observed from above. He spoke to one of the men for a few minutes, then nodded his head in agreement and headed back inside, where we circled in anticipation of his report.

“Well, they know someone crashed the gate.” was the first sentence.

“How do they know?” I asked in bewilderment, “There’s no way the watchman would notice the murdered azaleas in the daylight, much less the night.”

‘He didn’t,” came the reply in a tone which was increasingly cloaked in seriousness, “The night watchman from Brookgreen Gardens saw the car drive around the gates.’

The old guy we never saw before.

“And they want us to help them search for the car.” It was the proverbial nail in the coffin, the irony of all ironies, that I would be in the middle of the posse when the guy would finally spot my little white Maverick. I envisioned his excitement: “Yep, that’s it! That’s the varmint!” I could see him running his hand over the hood. “Yep, still warm, too.” The rattle of chains and the reverberation of locking cell doors began to echo in my mind.

“Well, Brian, grab a flashlight and put on some shoes,” mv friend matter-of-factly droned on, ‘We’re looking for a yellow Mustang.”

“What?” I stammered, still confused but beginning to understand, as the cell door magically clicked open and the chains fell to the floor.

Fortuitously for my friend and me, the Brookgreen guy had even worse vision than our watchman, combined with a complete inability to distinguish current makes of automobiles. I attribute the color discrepancy to the mercury vapor lights beside the guard house at the gates.

And so, we gleefully joined in the search, side by side with a blend of park Rangers, County police and Highway Patrol officers. An exhaustive effort, we even combed the beach while pursuing the evasive yellow Mustang. After an hour or so later, the group agreed the culprit had made it to the beach and headed for North Litchfield Beach, so they rounded up the wagons and headed off to continue the search.

And yes, lest you think I came away from this without learning anything, I did learn a very important lesson that night.

Stay the hell away from azaleas at our state parks.

- Next Issue -
The Best Perk Of All
###
The previous article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, July 15, 1999.

Diary Of A Mad Lifeguard – Part IV

By Brian M. Howle

In concluding my little mini-epic about lifeguarding at Huntington Beach State Park circa 1972-74, 1 have chosen the absolutely bestest, neato keeno thing about being a lifeguard as today’s topic:

The bikini buffet.

You can hear all the tall tales you want; you can ponder what your response would be to situations that usually result in a guy being inspired to pick up pen and paper and begin writing in ernest, “Dear Penthouse Forum;” you can scoff and cajole and be the die-hard doubting Thomas ‘til the cows come home. Nothing can prepare you for the reality of being exposed to a never-ending sea of mostly exposed flesh. Anyone who thinks they may be prone to spontaneous combustion when events trigger humongous blood pressure variations should never, ever consider this line of work.

The presence of a multitude of shapely young ladies combined with having a job that requires vigilante attention presents quite a conundrum to an eighteen to twenty year old male. (My experiences took place in the days of still-rampant sexism and inequality; there were no female lifeguards at the time, so all of my recollections are based on that premise).

For starters, your average eighteen to twenty year old male – of any
generation – has an attention span roughly equivalent to that of a cocker spaniel. Put that young man on the beach for eight to ten. hours a day amid a preponderance of scantily clad young honeys, and it’s like watching a mosquito in a nudist colony – he just doesn’t know where to start.
But once he does find a place to start, well, stand back and be amazed. I know I sure was, casually listening in on my more experienced colleagues during those first few weeks. I’m still not really sure which was more perplexing to figure out – the fact that these guys could actually concoct the dialogue the piled on those girls, or the fact that the girls seemed to take the bait – hook, line and sinker.

Regardless of the techniques employed when trolling for prospective dates, there were – and still are – two questions to be asked which always had a Nostradamus-like ability to size up the evening’s itinerary: “Where are you from?”, and “How long are you going to be here?” Actually, these can be used by civilians under similar circumstances with the same results. The key is in the answer. What you wanted to hear was this: For question one, the farther away their hometown, the better; For question two, the solid lock answer was “Tomorrow.” I can’t explain why, but it seems that as that vacation time winds down, ladies are more apt to be a more giving person, in a manner of speaking.

Now, sometimes a family would pull into a campsite with a surplus of daughters, and that wasn’t all that unusual. But from time to time, we would encounter a father who seemed to want to thin out the mob at his dinner table.

One family from upstate comes to mind, comprised of three daughters. The oldest was eighteen, and a very pretty young lady; the middle girl was sixteen, and also very pretty; and the youngest was an off-limits thirteen, but without any doubt one of the most beautiful creatures we had ever seen. Some bloom earlier than others, as we all know, but this was a most exceptional instance unlike any I have ever witnessed. Annual regulars to Huntington, the two older sisters were noticeably annoyed by the constant stream of guys walking right past them to approach their “baby” sister. It was always a source of great amusement to watch the would-be suitors stroll over to this girl and strike up a conversation. It would take a minute or two, but when they eventually took their eyes of the body and looked her directly in the face, their body language screamed the realization that “it ain’t gonna happen.” The body said twenty one; the face said ten to twenty.

Her dad apparently didn’t want this girl to feel left out by her siblings, so whenever one of us dated one of the older sisters, he would ask another of us to double date with the youngest. We obliged, of course, but rest assured – we were perfect gentlemen. Hey, even a lifeguard is capable of having a conscience.

Another family that visited on a yearly basis was from central Pennsylvania. There were no battles of conscience here, though. Five daughters, including a set of twins, comprised this ready made match for the five of us. Their father made no attempt to hide his desire to marry them off as quickly as possible, in a joking sort of way. The odd part about dating one of these sisters, however, was the ritual involved when stopping by their campsite to take them out. Talk about opposite expectations – when you dated one of these girls you were expected to first sit down at the picnic table with dad for a friendly chat, whereupon dad would insist you join him for a beer; more often than not, for two. Then you were given clearance to head on out on your date. The thing was, dad brought his own beer from Pennsylvania. I don’t know if it’s still true today, but back then, beer in S.C. was known as 3.2 beer, for the percentage of alcohol. Pennsylvania beer, however, was 6.4. You didn’t have to possess a degree in quantum physics to figure out those two beers were like a six-pack of our weenie beer. We always started out of the park with great attitudes, though.

The overwhelming majority of young ladies came to the park from nearby motels or private homes where beaches or beach access didn’t exist, so dating campers was relatively infrequent. But of all our encounters, there was one involving park visitors that left an indelible mark on our memories.

One late July morning, two extended-body vans rolled into the North campsite without much fanfare and proceeded to set up for a week’s stay. Later than afternoon, all settled in, the occupants made their way out to our domain on the beach. It was like a small invasion.

We were under attack from twenty-seven lovely members of an Ohio Girl Scout troop.

Now, native ladies are wonderful creatures, just as bright and charming and beautiful as any women ever to visit our lovely South. But overall, the biggest single difference between Southern belles and Northern gals goes beyond personality.

Lordy, those Northern girls are downright aggressive.

It was fairly apparent by the end of that first day on the beach that this group of females was on a mission. And unlike most other “group” encounters, there was no “I want to go out with that
one” infighting within their ranks. Nope, these gals wanted lifeguards, with no particular preference other than it had to be a lifeguard. And not one intended to go home empty handed.
Well, twenty-seven of them and five of us … you do the math. It was like an onslaught of Estée Lauder-laden locusts. Every night, we climbed up on the roof of Atalaya and watched the line of crouched, running silhouettes as they stealthily made their way to our quarters in the warm moonlight. And every morning, we found it increasingly difficult to bounce out on the beach as we were accustomed. We concluded that these young ladies were pursuing a special merit badge, the likes of which was never described in any Boy Scout handbook we had ever read. Though we never complained (yeah, like you know guys who would), on the Sunday morning when they broke camp and rolled the big vans back toward Ohio, we exhaled a collective sigh of relief.

Although content that we had proudly represented our state park system as public relations ambassadors above and beyond the call of duty, we unanimously agreed to abstain from fraternizing with any more campers for awhile.

Until that bus load of Canadians showed up Monday morning.
###
The previous article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, July 29, 1999.

Troop 329: Scouts From Hell – Part I

By Brian M. Howle

Whenever I hear someone use the analogy, “Oh, don’t be such a Boy Scout” – usually as an admonishment towards one who tries to invoke some semblance of principle in a situation where everyone else “looks the other way” – one, and only one, thought goes through my mind:

They never met anyone from Troop 329.

I have no idea of the current status of my old Boy Scout Troop back in Andrews, S.C. My hope is that it still exists, and that the newest generation of young boys growing up in small town America are afforded the same lessons that my generation was taught, as well as those preceding us.

In the dark ages preceding today’s entertainment buffet, there wasn’t it whole lot to do as a child in my hometown. Oh, we played all the usual games of football, baseball, basketball and other male bonding sports common across the land. We may well have been the last generation to share a love for “Kick The Can”. But besides those games, general play in someone’s house or yard was about it.

Fortunately for us, there were a few men who took on the task of organizing Boy Scout Troop 329, Coastal Carolina Council Chapter of the Boy Scouts of America. Mr. Jerome Moscow was the Scoutmaster when I first came up from the Cub Scouts. He was a fine and honorable man who extolled the virtues of Scouting, literally “from the book” – the Boy Scout Handbook. The weekly meetings held in the little Lion’s Club hut on Rosemary Avenue were prompt and rigid: Uniforms were expected to be pristine and exactly to specifications. Fulfillment of requirements for achieving rank – from Tenderfoot to Eagle – was tediously reviewed and certified. It was very ‘50s Americana oriented – it’s just that it was the mid ‘60s at the time.

Mr. Moscow retired not long after my age group came into Scouting (I don’t think we personally had anything to do with it, it was just his time to move on). We all wondered who it would be to take the banner and lead us onward and upward, in the true spirit of Scouting.

And then, a young man born and raised in our little town took the reigns of Troop 329. Sambo Harper, known for his years of playing football at Clemson and his rolling, boisterous laugh, was the new head honcho.

Our lives would never be the same.

Sambo was one of those odd compilations of conflicting character traits. On the one hand, he was just a regular guy – it little rowdy, a little raunchy, and a lot on the heavy side. On the other hand, being a National Guardsman, he was also a great believer in the ways of military standards when it came to discipline and organization.

Being in the Scouts was pretty neat and all when Mr. Moscow ran the show. But, it became a lot of fun – mixed with a lot of humiliation and anguish – when Sambo became Scoutmaster.

The meetings began with a lot of back and forth “comments” between Sambo and us, something that would never have been acceptable during the previous regimes. He had a couple of guys to assist him in keeping us in line, but the one I remember best was Luther Langley. As a naive, gullible kid, my first brush with adult sarcasm, cynicism and humor came from watching these guys roast each other on every subject imaginable. Not long after their tenure began, my friends and I started “getting” a lot of the humor on nightly television shows that normally went right over our heads. And Sambo and Luther can take credit for that.

Our Troop consisted of several patrols, each numbering around 6 to 8 boys. As usual, my best friend, “T”, and I were together in the Cobra Patrol. We painstakingly painted our Cobra logo on our canvas backpacks, stitched up our little Cobra flag for leading us into the wild, and started taking this Scouting thing pretty darn seriously.

The Rowell family had a farm about 5 miles outside of town, and they allowed the Scouts to use an area back in the woods for our weekend camping excursions. There was a shabby little shed-like area for group congregations where, on what seemed like almost every Friday afternoon, we unloaded our supplies and made our way to our respective campsites for a two-day stay. Within a hundred yards of this area, there is a fresh water spring that makes its way out into the surrounding swamps (for newcomers to my exploits, Andrews is little more than a small raised area surrounded by swamps and wetlands). The temperature of that springwater is absolutely freezing – it seems to be about 34˚ by my recollection. But it saved us from the laborious task of hauling coolers filled with ice out to the boonies. First thing we did upon arriving was to take our drinks and perishable foods to the spring for immersion into the chilly waters – nature’s own refrigerator. More on the spring – and the surrounding swamps – later.

Then we would set about rounding up firewood – or rather, running for firewood. Each patrol had to accumulate enough wood for two days’ and nights’ worth of cooking – and in the winter, for keeping us from freezing to death. So, getting out there and finding trees and limbs that had naturally fallen and aged was of paramount importance. Otherwise, a lot of back-breaking – and usually accident-prone – axe work was required to load up on green wood, which tended to be a real pain getting to burn.

Once the firewood as gathered, we set up our tents, carefully ditching around the edges for drainage in the event of rain (you only forget to do that once, by the way), and clearing any debris from the campsite that may have cropped up since the last visit (when nature calls in the dead of night and you venture out in the dark to, well, you know… you don’t want to break your neck tripping over something that wasn’t there before – again, you only forget to do that once, also).

With campfires crackling and burgers sizzling, we would have our supper and then make our way over to the old shed. The itinerary for the weekend’s events would be explained, the leaders would trade insults with one another, and then we all headed for the big cow pasture adjacent to our camping area. It didn’t matter how many times you went camping – there was one thing that we absolutely lived for on each camping trip.

Capture The Flag.

As darkness fell, we would choose up sides and take opposing ends of the vast pasture. It encompassed about 12 acres, a clear field in the middle of swamps and woods, with just two little knobs of scrubby little trees at either end. Both sides signaled their readiness with flashlights and yells, and the game was on.

There was a definite take-no-prisoners mentality involved in this contest, and everyone knew it. This was no place for the weak or faint of heart. Most slithered on the ground, slowly – very slowly – to avoid crawling through one of the numerous “pasture muffins” so thoughtfully left behind by the grazing cows during the week – inching our way towards the enemy’s stronghold. Detection by the other side could result in serious contusions and lacerations, but no one seemed to mind. It was all part and parcel of the game.

Personally, I preferred the “Banzai” approach – running wide open through the darkness in a beeline, braced for the unseen collisions with anyone or anything along the way – eyes fixed on the small glow of a flashlight affixed underneath the “flag” hung upon a scraggly branch of the small trees that comprised the enemy base. Akin to my no-holds-barred approach to “Kick The Can”, the element of brazen surprise (or unwitting stupidity) seemed to have winning results most of the time. I would fly by the unsuspecting last line of the enemy’s in an oblique curve and snatch the flag from the limb, and then kick it into high gear for the long run back to home base.

On one particular night, I failed to take into account a member of the other side in my body count, as I flashed by the limb and grabbed the flag. Somewhere between their base and the center line, I had the misfortune of encountering Siggy Tanner, who was a few years older and a lot bigger than me. Siggy introduced me to “The Corkscrew” – a form of contact that involved a fist, taking the slightly raised knuckle of the middle finger and applying it to the temple of the victim in a rapid and hard motion. I don’t remember the first part of it, but its I regained consciousness, I recall the relief of all the guys standing around me.

“Man, I’ve never seen anyone go into convulsions like that before!” was the general phrase the seemed to be real popular.

Even though Sambo and Luther banished the use of “The Corkscrew” from any further contests, I avoided Siggy like the plague after that.

Bruised, battered, bleeding and completely elated, we returned to our campsites for a nightcap of marshmallows dangling from thin limbs and hot chocolate, as we recounted our exploits of the evening. Then we crawled into our cozy sleeping bags and drifted off into restful sleep.

Daylight brought about the sounds of more crackling fires and the smell of frying bacon and eggs, and muffled hollering in the hazy distance of other campsites awakening. Not being it morning person, I usually stayed in my warm sleeping bag long after the others had started their day. After breakfast, we began pursuing various tasks required for the next rank, or for merit badges. Or we would just revel in being kids in the woods, doing all the mindless stuff that occasionally resulted in someone requiring it trip back into town for stitches or a cast. But we wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Lunch normally consisted of sandwiches or canned food that didn’t neccessarily require cooking, as we conserved as much wood as possible for breakfast and supper . Afternoons consisted of games of football or baseball in the pasture, or with us paying close attention as Sambo and Luther taught us how to tie various knots and lash trees together to build rope bridges and signal towers. We all learned morse code, using signal flags or flashlights; we didn’t realize it at the time, but later on, this came in right handy.

Nighttime fell on the second day, and campfires were once again stoked and roaring for the big supper on Saturday nights. We usually feasted on burgers, hot dogs, or stews that we contrived utilizing some strange combinations of food groups. Since my dad owned the Piggly Wiggly, I had it habit of popping in the store on Friday afternoon and asking the butcher, Wyman, to set me up with a nice thick steak. I got a lot of glaring stares across the ol’ campfire, as others would eye my Porterhouse, then look forlornly at their pitiful little hot dogs or burgers, then look back at my steak, saliva dribbling down their chins.

My reaction to their glares was, “Hey, sorry, you should have picked a dad who owns a grocery store”.

I probably should have rethought that approach, looking back on it. One night – one very dark night – a group of us hiked over to the spring to retrieve some ice-cold Cokes from the clear depths. Unbeknownst to me, there was it conspiracy afoot. As we started back to our campsites, one of the guys feigned forgetfulness, stating that we had forgotten to get one for Sambo and Luther.

“Brian, how about grabbing a couple more Cokes, O.K.?” was the well-rehearsed setup from the guy with the flashlight.

“Sure, no problem,’” I unwittingly obliged, as I ran back the mere few feet to the spring and scooped up the drinks.

When I turned back to join them, I could only hear the sound of fleeting feet becoming more and more distant, amid squeals of laughter. I was left alone in the darkness, the two cold Cokes clinking beside me.

I panicked and began to run towards where I thought we had entered the spring, but within seconds I had begun to mire down in the ever-present swamp. Unable to see my way, I quickly bogged down to my knees in the freezing muck.

“Hey, come on guys, I’m stuck! I’m getting wet and it’s cold out here!” I screamed in terror. “Please guys, come back!” I fought in vain to extricate myself, and then I realized that one of my shoes had been sucked from my foot. And then I realized that, for dome unfathomable reason, I had worn my new shoes.

Now, the cold, the mud, the abandonment paled in comparison to the scenario of explaining to my mom why I had gone camping in my new shoes.

A lone whipperwill mocked me as I searched the foreboding woods for my friends. Less than 30 yards away, my buddies huddled, stifling their laughter as they listened to me begin to cry. Actually, I began to wail.

Well, they proved to have a conscious after all, and returned to pull me from the swamp, trying their best to hide their overwhelming desire to burst into laughter at my situation. But I could not leave until I retrieved my shoe. I sloshed around for what seemed like an eternity on my hands and knees, desperately searching for my lost Florsheims. And then, just as I was about to have a complete and total nervous breakdown, I felt it slide along my fingers.

All were forgiven for their cruel little joke as I happily made my way back to camp. The shoes were impaled on sticks beside the fire as we all laughed and replayed the scene a dozen times. I was in the middle of razzing “T” for his involvement in the matter, when one of the guys hollered out:

“HEY! BRIAN! YOUR SHOES ARE ON FIRE!”

Mortified, I wheeled around to find my shoes obscured by a cloud of smoke. Placed too close to a fire too hot, they looked to be goners. I grabbed them off of the stakes, only to launch them into the darkness as the searing heat burned my hands.

Well, it turned out they were merely “steaming”, not burning, and yet another round of laughter rang through the night air. The whipperwill concurred.

When dried, the shoes were a little stiffer, but I still had both of them.

Later, as we lay in our tents, “T” asked me, “Psst … Brian .. what are you thinking about?”

“I’m gonna shoot that damn whipperwill”, I said as I closed my eyes.

- Next Issue -
Beware The Red Hats
###
The previous article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, May 4, 2000.

Troop 329: Scouts From Hell – Part II

By Brian M. Howle

In the last issue, I began recalling the experiences of Boy Scout Troop 329 from my hometown, Andrews, S.C.. As one of the remaining bastions of simple, honest mentoring, Scouting provided my friends and me a positive way to seek out our confidence – and a great outlet for controlled mischief. Our Scoutmaster, Sambo Harper, and his assistant, Luther Langley, schooled us in the ways of Scouting – and allowed us to be ourselves as we participated in a myriad of activities.

The virtues of decency and helpfulness were instilled in us despite our best efforts to avoid them. We became ravenous for merit badges and spent long hours quizzing one another on the eve of final accreditation to attain the next rank. When all of the prerequisite tasks of proper Scouting were completed, we turned our attention to camping out – anywhere, anytime.

Sambo was in the National Guard during his tenure as our Scoutmaster. As a result, we became familiar with the majority of military bivouac gear, provisions and protocol. I guess Sambo had a good line on used stuff, since we came to be in the possession of a couple of huge tents – like the ones used to provide emergency shelter for the newly homeless in Homestead, Fla. after Hurricane Andrew decimated their homes. We were also issued rain ponchos, canteens, a variety of specialty belts which contained oodles of neat little pouches and hooks and keeno guy stuff like that. At some point we even dined on C-Rations while attending Jamborees or public service events, finally coming to be at one with our fathers in reminiscing about the coveted tin of pound cake. Straight military issue, these meal packs also contained the then standard issue mini-pack of cigarettes – an inclusion that eventually resulted in Sambo and Luther pre-opening our packs to confiscate the forbidden smokes before some of the less sensible of us scarfed them up and puffed away the evidence before being busted.

When it came to an outdoor excursion, Troop 329 was equipped second to none. Although we had use of an established campsigte located on the Rowell farm outside of town, we did not simply load up the gear and kids in the backs of pickups for every trip out into the wilds. Sambo and Luther drilled us on the use of a compass and map reading, and would drive us to various locations around the two-county area and drop off a patrol with a sealed envelope containing the coordinates, a compass and a timed start. They would then drive to a different place, drop off the next patrol, return to the Scout Hut in town and load up another patrol or two for more of the same. They would spend their personal free time during the week mapping out the assorted routes, hiking the courses to ensure correct coordinates and time tables.

We never asked, but I think we may have surprised our leaders with our success on these maneuvers. The alloted time may have been exceeded occasionally, but no patrol ever became lost or disoriented. And there are simply some things that elude description to truly convey the importance of our coming to realize the potential of our abilities. Those map and compass hikes were a catalyst for immersing ourselves into voluntary basic training.

Outsiders would have had a hard time understanding our seemingly conflicting modes of behavior. We had the mechanics of outdoor life down to an art, swarming over a new campsite and establishing an operational base, complete with working mess area and deluxe “four-holer” latrine in less than an hour. Because we knew that the sooner camp was made, the sooner we could begin looking for trouble. Which was probably the only thing we did faster than setting up camp.

No one knows for sure exactly when it happened, but not long after taking over the reigns of 329, Sambo implemented his single greatest innovation – simple, red baseball caps.

Long-standing tradition had imposed those hard-to-keep-on little boat-shaped, pleated Scout hats as part of the strict uniform code. Besides making you look like a real dweeb, they were almost impossible to keep on your belt when not using for inspection assembly. And while we realized, as we blended in with hundreds of other Scouts at Jamborees or camp, that uniform appearance was an integral part of the organization as a whole – well, that basic childhood need to be different still gnawed at our collective gut.

That all changed when Sambo issued his proclamation that we would all wear identical red baseball caps, with the 329 numbers sewn on front, above the bill. After clearing the change through official Scout channels, ol’ Sambo figured out that when we piled out of the back of the pickups on campouts, he could quickly locate ANY member of our troop with just a glance. As with any new idea, there were some who scoffed and shook their heads in disapproval whenever we would march into a camp with other troops. But it didn’t take them long to recognize the benefits of quick identification and accountability.

It also didn’t take them long to recognize that when the red hats were around, there might just be a small chance that their guys may be in harm’s way.

We attended many public service projects, in addition to the Jamborees and camps. One such outing took us to Francis Marion National Forest, near McClellanville via U.S. Hwy. 17, where we participated in trail blazing on a grand scale. The Palmetto Trail’s trailhead is located just off Hwy. 17, where one may now begin the long trek through the forests and swamps of the coastal plains. The trail cutting was assigned to troops in specific segments – usually one-half to one mile in length – and utilized dozens of troops. Armed with compasses, machetes and axes, we mapped the trail, clearin medium trees and underbrush as we went. International Paper Company provided harvesters and skidders for the large trees, but for the most part it was good ol’ fashioned hand-to-plant combat.

The military services used this occasion to ply their spell over wide-eyed youths captivated by the assortment of hardware brought to the show. We witnessed equipment demonstrations of vehicles, artillery pieces and every automatic weapon in the U.S. arsenal. We ooh’d and aah’d at the engagement mobilization of a screeching Jeep equipped with a mounted cannon, fell our own heartbeats race with the tension of hand-to-hand combat (complete with the bayonet-thru-the-dummy’s-heart finale), and set land speed records lining up for our turn at firing the .60 caliber tripod mounted machine gun or the M-16s. Our only disappointment was when we learned that despite our offer of signed waivers, we would not be allowed anywhere near live grenades. Which, in retrospect, was probably a good idea.

Sambo’s righthand man, Luther, had a habit of mixing scouting weekends with hunting. Long before we stirred from our comfy sleeping bags, Luther was up and decked out in full hunting attire, pursuing various game depending on the season.
On one particular outing, he yammered on and on about finding the perfect spot for putting up a duck blind as the eve of duck season fell. Relief from “duck mania” came only when he retired early in the evening in preparation for his pre-dawn start. While he slept, we quietly – and carefully – replaced his birdshot shells with “Double Ought” buckshot, which is used for deer and wild boar. Happy and content in his secluded blind, we could only imagine his reaction as he trained the sight of his shotgun on the first incoming duck, and then squeezed the trigger – only to see the doomed fowl disappear in a puff of feathers.

Retribution inevitably followed such pranks, usually after much thought and planning by our beloved leaders. But for incidental error or disobedience, Sambo issued his absolute favorite and most used form of punishment – hugging trees.

Anything, from incomplete uniform at inspection to wantonly ignoring specific orders, would get you wrapped around a gree. It may sound silly, but hugging trees would quickly “get your mind right” to Sambo’s edicts. You spend an hour or so holding an oak or ine and you’ll get with the program in short order. Besides the obvious physical discomfort of standing for long periods of time with your arms around the tree, there were several types of critters who would happily attach themselves to your body in the most uncomfortable of places. Chiggers, ticks and “redbugs” are not welcome visitors on a campout.

As we passed through our youth, our rowdiness and play seemed to be all that mattered. But when we attended a Jamboree in the middle of a wet and miserable winter, the real worth of our training shined through in practice.

We set up our camp in record time. We stocked our firewood and maintained our campfire for the entire weekend, while all others struggled to build theirs just to cook one meal. Then we set about building a pair of signal towers on either side of the expansive camping area, lashing logs together with yards of rope to form strong, stable platforms for signaling and observation. It was a private line as it turned out, as no other troop present was capable of flag signaling, or even morse code with flashlights.

As our contemporaries huddled in wet, cold and hungry groups around us, we reveled in our accomplishments. The many competitions over the weekend were consistently dominated by the troop with the red hats. And everyone knew it.

My friends and I have come to appreciate the disciplines and ideals that these men instilled within us, as our lives stretch into the abyss of middle-aged reflection. Every member of our troop from that era has gone on to lead respectable, successful lives. And each of us have passed on the values that we learned to our children – at every opportunity.

Amid the mindless clutter of today’s assortment of video and computer games, cable TV and cell phones for our children to master, there’s something to be said abou the knowledge of tying a square knot or starting a fire with a stick and some twine. Oh, I know – there are those of you who will laugh this off as useless nostalgia, good only for reminiscing rednecks. And that’s O.K., too.

Let’s see you start a fire with a Nintendo controller.
###
The previous article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, May 18, 2000.

Paddlin’ Up Memories – Part I

By Brian M. Howle

A week or so back, everyone in America needed a break. We desperately sought some kind of release, relief, refuge, acceptance, whatever … because the events of September 11 are that deeply burned into our frontal consciousness. It has been the single most draining experience – physically as well as emotionally – of my entire life. I can’t fathom what it must be like for those who lived through Pearl Harbor, or the German V-1 bombings of London, or D-Day, Pork Chop Hill or Khe San – only to go through this, yet again.

My sweetie belongs to a Canoeing & Rafting club through her work, and has been attending various excursions around the waterways of our gorgeous state. As after every issue, I head inland for some serious R&R. Somehow, it seems to end up as slave labor a lot of the time – but it keeps me off the street, and I’m not complaining. After the last issue (which was in the final two days of pre-press deadline when the terrorists’ attacks occurred ), I just wanted to disappear. Fortunately, my prayers were answered.

Her group had a scheduled trip that following Saturday, information which I had lost in the shuffle of thinking two weeks ahead (a little impairment shared by others in my business). On her previous trip, they had ventured out onto the Congaree River outside of Columbia, where it’s more swamp than river. I had heard the tales of picking up canoes and walking over rocks; of the insects and scratches from low-hanging branches; of deep-woods-induced, each-paddling-against-the-other bouts of arguments and fights. This was not a canoeing trip, thankfully. This half-day sojourn would be conducted in the comfy confines of sea kayaks.

We hit the road bright and early – and amazingly, on time. We arrived at the gathering spot, a convenience store/gas station just off of I-95 on Exit 68 (for access to St. George or Branchville). The leader of her group turned out to be Lou, an old post-college friend of mine from the mid-‘70s. Lou was the college roommate of one of my old lifeguarding compadres; when I lived in the Columbia area, they were frequent running mates of mine on the social treadmill of mid-‘70s Columbia. We caught up on who’s where and who’s gone and who’s got kids in college as we waited for the outfitter to arrive, and I couldn’t stop thinking to myself how nice it is to see old friends, even those who were in our lives but for a brief time. But in light of the past weeks’ horrors, it’s the sort of thing that a lot of folks may find themselves thinking these days:

“Thank you, God, for each and every day, and the many daily miracles that pass before our eyes and through our very souls – if only we take the time to see them.”

The outfitter showed up and introduced himself as Zack. The remainder of the group had arrived, so Zack instructed us to follow him to the landing where we would put in. His compact pickup carried several different personal vessels on top, and a customized trailer held about a dozen sea kayaks. We rolled through the early morning mist, turning down a winding, sandy lane that melted into the sandy expanses of the Edisto Rivers banks, passing several deer hunters on their stands – poised atop hunting-accessory-festooned pickups with bright, chrome dog boxes hanging over the tailgates. As we pulled into the landing area, there were several more hunters gathered there as well, listening for the bays of the hounds to give them direction in the hunt.

We unloaded the kayaks and our personal gear, and then the group partially split up as vehicles were transferred to the finishing point downriver. And yes, the usual complement of Deliverance references were made throughout the day, but the vehicle transfer always makes me hear banjos in the background.

When they returned, Zack reviewed kayaking etiquette and safety information, and began loading the individual members of our group into size/weight/experience-matched kayaks.

Note to novice kayakers: When you first sit in your kayak, make sure those little foot pegs inside the bow – that you absolutely must have in order to brace yourself for paddling, and also for keeping your balance in the kayak before you ever dip the paddle – are tightly secured. Oh yeah. Zack came over and set the pegs, or so I thought, and I happily signaled for him to push me off the bank. As he did so, I swung the double-bladed paddle over to begin my initial stroke, and pushed hard with my feet to get that leverage and balance thing going.

For about 1.3 seconds, I resembled a Road Runner cartoon – except, in my scene, the dang kayak didn’t capsize, but it flirted with inundation on each side about 6 times before I managed to steady it. I immediately yelled out, “Did anybody see that? Did you see how close I came to losing it?” Of course, they all did. Once again, I provided the comic relief at the very outset of a trip on the waters. (See, I was the first – and only – person thrown out of the raft when we did a white-water rafting trip up in Nantahala National Forest a few years back). I know at least one little girl who enjoyed the moment, if no one else. Zack pulled my kayak back up on the bank and made the necessary adjustments to my pegs, making sure they were locked in this time. I should have taken a moment and drained the small amount of water that had spilled in during my haywire-gyro-imitation, but I didn’t realize it was in there at the time. I think the adrenaline rush of impending cold-water dousing made me impervious to it for the first 15 minutes or so.

Well, everyone had done their little practice paddling routines, so Zack gave us the signal to begin. It turned out Zack had presented me with his old kayak, and it was a stiletto on the smooth river. Zack had a beautiful fiberglass kayak, but he couldn’t “open it up” because he had to watch over the entire group, usually holding back at the rear to assist those in distress. Overall, the group did well; there was the occasional, momentary encounter with a low limb on a bend in the river, where the currents run faster – but besides that, we made good time.

As the kayaks glided across the glass surface of the Edisto River, we marveled at the glorious beauty that surrounded us. Massive live oaks and towering cypress trees line the white, sandy banks, with various pines weaving themselves throughout the tapestry of foliage. The banks undulate from sweeping, low beaches to shear-faced bluffs that rise over 50 feet from the river. Groups of docks and boardwalks announce the homes of those who live on this magnificent waterway – from the simplest old pre-mobile home trailers with their big ol’ Confederate flags on display, to Taraesque landscapes that encompass white-columned southern mansions with flowing concrete abutments that front wrought-iron, bannistered steps that wind downward to the softly lapping black water.

But for the majority of the trip, there is no sign of civilization as you drift down the dark ribbon of water. Birds dive across the vistas, flitting about the lower limbs – and now and then, a deer hound or two happen upon us, as they determinedly scour the ground, searching for the scent of that trophy buck. They glance at us, momentarily, then swing the wagging tails back into action as they scurry off into the underbrush, never giving us another thought as they disappeared into the silence of the woods.

After setting a rapid pace and leading the way, Lou dropped back during one of the “wait-up” moments (where the group has to “wait-up” for a slow poke to catch up, with Zack’s accommodating experience) and we chatted some more. As the group restarted, I found myself out front. Good ol’ Zack, bless his little heart. He gave me a rocket, and once you’re out front – with no obstructions to your view (like the other folks in the group) – then you begin to get a sense of what it must have been like for those early explorers in coastal South Carolina. Because, for all of our technology and advances; for all of our social and spiritual growth; for all we have devised to entertain and self-medicate ourselves in the name of progress – this view has not changed in centuries. It is far removed, untouched from or by time, protected by the children of nature and the ravages of elements that man generally avoids.

And it was just the thing I needed.

We stopped around the halfway point and beached our kayaks on a landing for a lunch break. This was where I discovered the extent of my water intake during the spin cycle on takeoff. I had been sitting in about 3 inches of water the entire time, oblivious to it as I drank in the beauty around us. The group exchanged choices of lunch, and it appears that your basic peanut butter & jelly sandwich escapes the trauma of soft-sided personal coolers stuffed in the bow of a kayak much better than any other sandwich or food item.

We re-embarked on our journey, and everyone had pretty much mastered the art of kayaking at this point. Zack cruised up front with me, as we cut quietly through the swirling currents ahead of the group. Suddenly, a large fish – either a catfish or a carp – shot up from the surface of the river, hanging mid-air a la Michael Jordan, snapping a dragonfly out of mid-flight, then plunging loudly back into the murky deep. Zack and I gave each other that “Whoa!” look, and immediately looked back to ask if the others had caught the sight. We were about 100 yards ahead of the rest of the group – I can’t stress how nice it was to have the thoroughbred kayak – so we “waited up””, debating whether it was catfish or carp. Either way, that sucker was big.

With nature all around us, the call of nature finally got the better of the group by the time we made the landing at Colleton State Park. I bolted for the facilities, which were on the other side of the park from the landing – a trip made all the more challenging with the stiffness my knees had developed after being stuffed inside the kayak for three hours. By the time I made it back out, members of the group were heading for their cars. Most had decided to call it a day, but three others wanted to go the remaining leg, so we helped Zack load up our kayaks and bid our friends goodbye. We caught a ride back to our car with a young couple from Orangeburg. They were students at Auburn; she was from Orangeburg, and he moved here from Alabama after they began dating.

Now, my mother is from this area, from the nearby town of Branchville. During the course of our conversation, the girl mentioned that we should try to catch “Railroad Daze” in Branchville. It’s a festival that commemorates the fact that Branchville, S.C. is the world’s oldest railroad junction. The Best Friend chugged up from Charleston, and Branchville was were you either went to Columbia, or took the split to Orangeburg and then later, to Augusta. I hadn’t been to Branchville in around 15 years, and I somehow always managed to miss the festival. I then told her how much I wanted to catch it, because my sweetie has never been there, and the whole family-roots thing.

“Well,” she turned and chirped, “today’s your lucky day, then. It’s going on this weekend.”

- Next Issue -
Branchville Bound
###
The previous column originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, October 11, 2001.

Paddlin’ Up Memories – Part II

By Brian M. Howle

In the previous column, I had begun relating the events of a recent weekend excursion over in Orangeburg County, S.C.. My sweetie had arranged a kayaking trip through a group at her place of work, and we had a great time on a gorgeous, sunny fall day. We met a young couple from the area, and when I mentioned my mother was from nearby Branchville, the girl mentioned that we should try to catch “Railroad Daze.” It’s a festival that commemorates the fact that Branchville is the world’s oldest railroad junction. I had always wanted to go, but never seemed to find the time, or could not remember the date – a fact that I lamented out loud.

“Well”, she turned and chirped, “today’s your lucky day, then. It’s going on this weekend”.

We pulled out onto the main road and made a beeline for Branchville, approaching from a direction that was foreign to me; all my previous trips there came from Andrews. The last community we passed through on the way was Bowman, where the Main Street began at the blinking light, then you turned right and went one block, where it ended at the next blinking light. Take that left, and next thing you know, you’re entering the suburbs of Branchville. But this road was not that road, so I was “flying blind” as we made our way.

The sight of cars parked alongside the highway signaled that we were entering town. You have to understand – for me, this was unimaginable. So many people in Branchville that they’re parking on the side of the road – a half mile, from downtown? Waaaay too weird.

When I finally recognized some landmarks and realized which road we were on, I knew how to get to my mother’s old home. But when we reached Main Street, our path was blocked by State Troopers, who were directing traffic around town via a one-way circle which made its way back to the point where we entered town. I had never ventured more than four blocks from my grandmother’s house as a child (actually, they wouldn’t let me out of their sight, and four blocks was pretty much the whole town from my perspective at the time), so this route was a new experience for me.

As we crossed over the other main highway that intersects Main Street, anticipation began pumping through my veins. I knew Mama Ruth’s house was just a few blocks away, I knew we were behind it, and that the old school playground – wher I used to swing for hours on time – was on my right. Yes there it was And the church that was righ beside the school! I began looking over toward Main Street, searching for the high brick walls that encircled the back and side yards of the big house. I was looking for those majestic Magnolias that skirted the sides of the front porch – the ones that flooded the warm night air with the sweet odor of Magnolia blossoms; the smell that permeated the old non-air conditioned house in the spring and summer. Many an hour, I determinedly chased after “lightning bugs” (fireflies to the Yankees amongst you) that hovered around the flowers. Captured inside a Duke’s mayonnaise jar with holes punched in the lid, I would keep them beside me for the free light show, as I rocked in the big wicker glider that graced the cool, breezy porch.

I didn’t see any of that.

We parked a block behind the house. As we made our way towards it, my memories were shattered.

The old walled fence was gone. The Magnolias were gone. But, the house was beautiful – even more beautiful than when I was a child. The new owners had completely renovated the outside, with some additions to the back and sides. A gorgeous, lush lawn runs around the sides, where a large wrap-around deck hugs the back and rear of the house. A small open porch that opened off of the kitchen /breakfast area had been enclosed and slightly enlarged. The other side of the yard still retained a section of the original brick fence that joined the house to a storage building. The old smokehouse (a tool shed by the time of my arrival in the day) that sat behind the back dining room had also been renovated.

The house sits right on Main Street, where the highway has a slight dogleg to it as you head South. From the front porch, or the “lookout” room that topped the porch upstairs, one could observe anything coming into or going out of town – for as far as the eye could see. We walked around front, as State Troopers were directing traffic away from downtown, right before the big parade. My great-grandfather’s house is still standing and in remarkable condition, directly across the street from Mama Ruth’s home. We ventured up on the porch where I peered through the familiar, slightly distorted original panes of antique glass in the front door. Although the furnishings were different, somehow – in a very odd, but very comforting way – somehow, it seemed the same.

There was a mirror at the end of the foyer, just like Mama Ruth had. To the right, a small bureau chest sat beneath it, just like Mama Ruth’s. A sideboard graced the open space beneath the carved banister railing of the staircase, just like Mama Ruth’s. I shivered at the similarities. I looked over to the entry to what we called “The Parlor”, or “The Pink Room”, or “Mudd’s room” (my great-grandmother’s bedroom). And there, I saw something that I never, ever dreamed would be seen in this house.

Sitting just inside the French doors to the room – in my great-grandmother’s bedroom – was a full set of drums, complete with crash cymbals and a high-hat.

I couldn’t stand it any longer. I rang the doorbell, and continued looking through the window, hands cupped around my brow to fight off the reflective glare from Main Street. For a brief moment, we heard thundering little feet racing down the stairs, but only caught the blur of a small child on his way to the kitchen. I leaned over the right side of the porch and looked towards the back. They were barbecuing on the fencedin patio side, but no one was attending the cooker. The family was having a gathering, and at this particular moment, everyone was inside.

We made our way back around to the new addition, and stepped up on the deck. A door leading into the small room opened slightly as we approached. We announced our presence, and the door opened wide. A delightful young woman greeted us, and in a blurted few sentences; I gave her the basic background story on my family’s previous ownership. She smiled in wide acknowledgement as I began telling her little “things” about th house; where things were located (or where they used to be located); where we played as children, where the adults gathered, and on and on. A group of women were sitting around the breakfast table, and the smilingly granted us permission to kidnap their host for a few minutes. she led us on a tour of the house, back through the old dining room, where all the men folk were now gathered watching college football on TV. From there, through the old rear kitchen (now converted into a laundry room), and on to the old screened-in back porch, which has been enclosed and walled off at the other end (which had led a small hallway just outside my grandmother’s bedroom and a bathroom), just off the base of the stairs.

We went back through the dining room and kitchen, through the old den and into the front hallway. There I related stories about my cousins and me sliding down the stairs on our rear ends, and how it seemed to be just so absolutely delightful at the time. I enquired about the “lookout room” upstairs, my favorite place to hide away on rainy days – and she told me they had turned that into her son’s bedroom, after he had fallen in love with the room on first sight. Lemme tell ya – that kid has great taste and a good eye for detail. We knew we were keeping our thoughtful host from her guests and family, and began making our way back towards the side room.

It was then that I realized that, although they had made extensive renovations to the outside of the house, the inside had been kept very much as it was. All the wood floors and paneling, moulding and details are still unpainted, varnished wood. New paint and sorne needed plaster had been applied to other surfaces, but the wood’s glorious grain and patina is the unrivaled star of the home.

After meeting her husband and children, we bid our host goodbye – along with her entire group – and made our way back to the car, as I stopped every four or five feet to marvel at the beauty of the old homestead. As we opened the doors and sat down, I allowed myself a few minutes to take in what had just transpired – and to soak in the sweet irony of it all.

Oh … I’m sorry, I just realized that I’m keeping the point to myself. You see, mom’s family has long lineage. And in the South, that means – at some point in time – someone in my family probably held the title of slave owner.

Of course, by the time I first visited Branchville, things had been slow to change. Heck, things had been slow to change everywhere in America. I was eleven years old when the Civil Rights Act of 1964 gave blacks the right to vote, folks – and that was a Federal statute just coming to change with the times.

Across the street from Mam Ruth’s house, beside Big Daddy’s old house, there runs a narrow, shady dirt alley, which winds back from the highway and disappears into lush foilage. A few yards back sat the home of my grandmother’s right hand – her maid, Daisy. I would ramble over there and play games with her son, and vividly remember noticing the discrepancies between Daisy’s family’s standard of living and my family’s.

Her house had no indoor plumbing. The floor was not parquet, not tile, not berber, not even brick – it was dirt. Broken windowpanes were covered with yellowing cardboard patches, and insulation was non-existent. Chickens wandered through the middle of our circle while we played marbles, aimlessly pecking for specks of food on the living room’s tightly packed, broom-swept dirt floor.

But every morning, for as long as Mama Ruth lived there in my lifetime and even before, Daisy would come on over to the big house. She cooked, cleaned, shopped for groceries, and helped tend to children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren; as well as son- and daughter-in-laws. She was my grandmother’s closest ally, and the two spent countless hours debating the current political, social or religious differences of the day. Two women of like age, bound by destiny and circumstance to become lifetime friends – but quantum physic equations apart in economics, social standing and legal rights – chatting the evening away in rocking chairs, all the while shelling bushels of butter beans or snap peas.

Three generations later, the ways of the world have made deep inroads into correcting the wrongs of our past. My children can’t imagine a public water fountain, restroom or dining room marked “Colored”. And the only sheets they’ll ever wear will be for toga parties in college.

You see, the folks who bought the house are black. In and of itself, this doesn’t matter, really. It didn’t when these folks applied for the loan to purchase Mama Ruth’s house, because now the law says you can’t discriminate because of race. It didn’t matter when they pumped a considerable amount of that money into the local economy during the renovation project. It didn’t matter when they increased the value of the property by doing so, either. When it comes to money, there is no black or white – only green.

All that matters is that a young, vibrant, highly educated professional couple has returned to this venerable old antebellum community. They have breathed new life into an old, comfortable home, where new generations of children will bruise their little backsides sliding down that beckoning staircase and revel in Easter egg hunts in the yard’s many hidden nooks and cranies. A home where they will gather on Thanksgivings, Christmases and birthdays to share in bountiful feasts among those they love the most.

I don’t mean to be disrespectful to any of my ancestors – but I’ll bet anything that somewhere in a local cemetery, there’s a whole lot of spinnin’ goin’ on. Bet that breeze feels good o the ol’ front porch, too.

Sorry, Tom. I guess you’re wrong, after all. You can go home again.

Just don’t look for the old Magnolia trees. The new lady of the house is allergic to them.
###
The previous article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, October 25, 2001.

Camp Guns & Woeses – Part I

By Brian M. Howle

The Summer of 1965 was a pivotal year in the development of yours truly. My only brother – seven years my senior – graduated from high school and was commissioned into the U.S. Air Force Academy. My sister – ten years my senior – had just graduated from U.S.C. and was traveling Europe before beginning her post-graduate work.

And I was 11 years old.

Well, I’m pretty sure that my folks looked at each other one day and realized that – except for the hyperactive 11-year-old – the nest was just about bare. Then they watched me zoom through the house, as I attempted to complete about two dozen tasks at one time, yammering away incessantly all the while. Then they looked back at each other.

Oh yeah, I was going to be spending time at a summer camp that year.

So, in typical parent trickery, they called me into their bedroom one day in the Spring, and showed me a beautiful, full-color brochure which extolled the wondrous adventures and activities of the Citadel Boys Camp.

“Look, Brian, you’ll be paddling boats, and sailing, and hiking, and swimming and a whole schedule full of things to do”, they smilingly began, as they baited the trap, “and it’s just filled with boys your age. Oh, you’ll have the best time … You’ll just love it!”

Well, yeah, the pictures were colorful, and all the kids were smiling and doing all sorts of really cool stuff. But like a feral puppy not quite sure of taking such an unknown leap of faith, I was a bit apprehensive.

“Um … how long does this camp last?” I asked.

“Two whole, fun-filled weeks!” was the that’s-right-go-on-and-stick-your-paw-in-the-bear-trap response.

I was starting to sway … it did sound awfully good.

“What else do they do there?” I inquired with a sprinkling of interest.

“Oh, lots of things .. you can take up archery, and shooting skeet, and…” they began, as I quickly cut them off.

“Skeet? With a shotgun?” I perkedly asked.

“Oh yes, and you can also take marksmanship in their indoor shooting range”, they merrily chirped, taking a step back to watch the trap snap shut, “with real military .22 rifles!”

Yes! Kids with guns! My kinda place.

“Okay, sounds good to me”, I said, never hearing the twang of the spring’s release, never seeing the impaling crunch of reality’s brutal jaws coming, “Sign me up, I want to go!”

So, spring turns to summer and one glorious sunshine-filled day, we loaded up the ol’ Galaxie 500 with my foot locker (filled with enough underwear to endure a nuclear winter, each pair emblazoned with my name in Magic Marker on the waistband) and headed South for Charleston. It was a beautiful day, and my folks were smiling and chatting, as I aimlessly stared through the window – counting all the telephone poles, mailboxes, signal lights and Fords – between Andrews and Charleston. I was oblivious to the changes that were about to unfold before me.

As Dad wheeled our turquoise battleship into the Citadel compound, I looked up at the tall, arching gates.

Big gates. Big, heavy, steel and wrought iron gates. Gates joined to high, thick walls and rows of black, pointed wrought iron. Kinda like a fort.

And being like a fort meant, like being in the military.

And being in the military meant discipline.

Oh, this was going to be a long two weeks.

Gene Autry’s “Don’t Fence Me In” played at megavolume in my head, as we passed by the huge parade ground in the middle of the compound. Huge, majestic live oaks, heavily draped with moss, stand over the lush grounds, encircled by imposing castle-style buildings that comprise the physical plant of The Citadel.

Dad pulled up to the unloading zone, and I was having some serious second thoughts about this whole deal. I shared my concern with my mother.

“Listen, I paid good money for you to come here and enjoy yourself”, she sternly informed me, “and by crackie, you’re going to enjoy yourself”.

Mama always had a way of explaining things to me so that I could understand.

I helped Dad haul the foot locker over to a loading cart, and we swung it over to join with all the other foot lockers, where they were tagged and send off for delivery to our assigned rooms.

The guy in charge of signing everyone in led my folks and me inside the dormitory. Each dorm is shaped like a huge box, with 20-ft.-thick walls serving as the barracks. Four stories high, each upper floor’s balcony railing overlooks the quadrangle in the middle – which I would come to intimately know and loathe as “The Quad”. The mesmerizing checkerboard pattern that runs across the center of the building makes perfect 90˚-turn marching a snap. And where the huge expanse of open tile – surrounded by a perfectly square enclosure with multi-leveled baffles and nothing but flat, reflective surfaces all around – acts as an acoustic amplifier to the nth degree, amplifying even the slightest of sounds to massively reverberate throughout the entire building.

I thought back for a moment… nope, this was not in the brochure, either.

The room was, not surprisingly at this point, very austere and small – but it was located in one of the four corners – and the acoustic design essentially missed the corners. This came to be extremely important during my stay, although I didn’t know it at the time.

There was a momentary glimmer of hope of salvaging anything out of this looming debacle when we ran into a friend of mine from Andrews, R.A. Green, who was also attending the same session.

Well, the grand tour was about over, so I walked my folks out to the car. There, Mom and Dad wished me well, as they cheerfully and speedily headed back to our comfy, quiet little home.

Things quickly changed after the parents left. The charming politeness afforded us in the presence of our doting parents evaporated under the hot Carolina sun, as gentlemen transformed into screaming neanderthals.

Now, up to this point, there didn’t seem to be much importance put on where we happened to be at any given time. But that wasn’t going to last long.

Our names were called out, and they began to herd us into our assigned squads. where I lost track of R.A. Once in, you were quickly encouraged to hate anyone not in your particular squad.

Our first order of business was learning how to fall into formation (where the handy checkerboard began to make more sense); and the second order was to learn difference between our right and left.

And dang if they weren’t downright rude about it.

One little kid in the next squad couldn’t hang with the pressure of repeatedly getting: wrong, and as his counselor (juniors and seniors with a serious ous need for control) leaned into his face to insult and demean him, to poor kid wet himself, profusely.

Again, not in the brochure.

Now, I didn’t find anything remotely amusing about this kid’s humiliation – but someone behind me did, and made very funny remark. Predictably, I exploded into laughter, which swiftly put the counselor in my face, to within eyelashes of a head butt.

“YOU THINK THAT’S FUNNY, LITTLE BOY?” He seemed sincere, yet, irate. “I’LL TELL YOU WHAT’S FUNNY WHEN YOU NEED TO KNOW! YOU UNDERSTAND?”

Suddenly, all those Sunday nights watching The Ed Sullivan Show played in my head, and the great lineup of Jewish comedians snapped into my mental Rolodex.

“Youuuuu don’t know from phunny”. I laughingly snorted.

In retrospect, that response was probably not in my best interest. But at the time, there was no Internet, so I couldn’t do the research that would have clued me in to the fact that there is no “Department of Humor” in military life.

“WHAT DID YOU SAY TO ME? ARE YOU CRAZY? DROP RIGHT NOW AND GIVE ME TWENTY!” he screamed, microns away from my nose, as I tried not to notice the bulging veins in his forehead.

I looked him square in the eye and said, “Twenty”.

I had never seen a man’s head explode before, but this guy came about as close as I’d ever seen. Fortunately, an actual officer – who was quietly overseeing the proceedings, intervened and calmed my counselor down. Then he pulled me out of formation and walked me over to the cool shade of the balconies. Then he quietly invited me to spend the night sitting in a lone chair placed in the center of the quad after we got all settled in.

Not in the brochure.

I was then led back to my Squad – as the previously loud and cluttered noise ceased and gave way to thundering silence – and we made our way to the supply office.

There, we were issued our official camp uniform – white T-shirts, blue shorts, white socks and tennis shoes, and blue caps. Then we gathered our towels and linens, and marched back to our rooms.

Now, apparently, there is a serious belief on the part of our military to make sure that – if an invading army did happen to overrun the barracks – they would nonetheless be so impressed by the fact that you can bounce a quarter off the sheets, it would distract them long enough for our boys to kill them. I could easily imagine the scenario:

“Ivan, can you believe how well these beds are made?”

“No, comrade, it is truly a miracle how these infidels can .. AAAaaaarrrrrrggghhhh!”

After an hour or so of mastering the square-corner sheeting technique, we were called to formation once again. They trotted us out, across the big parade ground, and over to the official Citadel barber shop for our summer haircuts.

As luck would have it, my squad was the first to arrive, and my counselor quickly moved me to the front of the line. Once inside the cool confines of the air-conditioned building, we became relaxed.

The doors swung open to the shop, and the sweet old man behind the chair motioned me on over. I took my seat, as he placed the little barber bib around my neck and spun the chair around to face the mirror.

“So, what did you have in mind today, young man?” he pleasantly asked.

“Oh, just a little off the top, the sides are fine”. I nonchalantly replied, settling myself in the big, cushy barber’s chair.

I watched in the mirror as he clicked on the electric clippers and ran a blue-liquid-soaked-comb thru my sunbleached bangs, parting it this way and that, making sure to find the exact natural part.

Then he placed the clippers on my forehead, right below the hairline, and made a single pass down the middle of my head, all the way back to my neck.

When he stepped back to align his next pass, my jaw dropped to my lap. I had a reverse Mohawk.

Eight or nine passes later, I was as bald as the day I was born.

And though I was young, and didn’t know much, I knew this:

This was not in the brochure.

- Next Issue -
Gimme Back My Bullets
###
The previous article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, August 1, 2002.

Camp Guns & Woeses – Part II

By Brian M. Howle

In the previous issue, I had begun to recall my days at the Citadel Boys Camp in Charleston, S.C., where I spent the longest two weeks of my life. Hoo-Dooed into attending by my parents’ masterful plan to have two weeks in the wake of my siblings’ departure from the nest (my sister was traveling Europe prior to post-graduate work; and my brother was about to attend the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs, CO), I quickly discovered that this camp was not at all like any other I had attended.

And initially, that was not a good thing as far as I was concerned.

At eleven years of age, I didn’t quite make the connection between The Citadel – the military college – and the camp. But shortly after our parents left us on that first day, the reality – and to me, the horror – of living in a military-style environment created my first bout of anxiety and stress.

After being tricked into receiving “buzz cut” haircuts at the campus barbershop, we were a bunch of small, pasty, squeaky-voiced, bald little rats, trying to come to terms with the concept of precision discipline.

And therein lay the paradox.

To say the least, I was not your prime candidate for officer material. I just happened that I didn’t particularly care for having to immediately follow every order and instruction that was barked to me during the most mundane of daily tasks. I had no problem doing things, or following orders, as long as the reasons were known and explained.

But common-sense reason and military thinking can not exist in the same universe. And so, my first order of business was to make myself invisible to those in command. After my initial encounter with an adult officer on the first day (the counselors were all college students, but chompin’ at the bit to taste the absolute power they had over our lives) – where I was invited to spend that first night at camp, sitting in a chair, alone, in the middle of the quadrangle that centered our dormitory barracks – I had an emergency meeting with me, myself and I … and we all agreed to keep our mouth shut. At least, as best as we could.

Morning inspection was the first indicator that abject stupidity is no stranger to any institution. Shocked out of deep slumber by a scratchy, skipping record playing Revelie, we were lined up outside – hey, it’s dark at 5:30 a.m., by the way – and made to stand at attention while our rooms were ransacked in an apparent attempt to find contraband. What contraband a bunch of 11-13 year-old kids in 1965 would possess remains a mystery to me, but they tore up our rooms nonetheless. Any beds not properly made – and as I mentioned last issue, military sticklers really have a thing about that quarter-sheeted bed – were demolished and re-made (sometimes four or five times) before anyone took the first marching-in-formation step towards the chow hall for breakfast.

When we finally did make it to breakfast, I have to admit that these folks had a handle on preparing food for masses of hungry youngins. Boy Scout Camp and Camp St. Christopher had their good points over El Cid in most areas, but the men and women of this kitchen put them to shame. And this one, lonely little nicety gave many the will to endure the day that followed.

Once I became a bit more adapted to avoiding the butt-chewings, things settled in to make life tolerable. My roommate, Greg, was from Savannah; a slight wisp of a boy with a great sense of humor, we made a good “Mutt & Jeff” pairing, as I was in my celebrated “Husky” stage of life. Now, I was not obese, mind you, but chubby – and waddling my way through prepubescence was proving to become a bit of a drag.

We quickly bonded and began our plan to avoid the daily drills that offered the best chance of landing one on the “quad” for a variety of infractions. We decided to just fall in line as far as all the reindeer games went – make our room spotless, keep our uniforms clean and fresh, and tried to stay in the back of the squad as much as possible.

After being briefed on the multitude of recreational options that awaited us, the counselors began scheduling our daily itineraries to match up with our personal interests. There was a ton of stuff to do – swimming, diving, sailing, marksmanship, crafts, bowling, archery, handball, basketball, baseball, flag football (nothing like unprotected contact sports overseen by blood-thirsty counselors, who repeatedly barked out “I don’t feel a thing” whenever someone limped over to the sidelines to show their dislocated finger or exposed, broken leg bone), and a plethora of para-military endeavors. I stood at the sign-up table, mulling over my choices for the afternoon agenda.

“Can I sign up for skeet shooting at 2:00 p.m.?” I politely asked, making sure not to make eye contact with anyone over 13.

“Love to help you out, kid”, was the dry response from the counselor as be checked over my pre-planned itinerary – which I didn’t know about, “but you’ve got tutoring every afternoon for two weeks – from 2 to 5”.

Tutoring? Wow, talk about your true definition of a military snafu.

“No, no, no, sir”, I sternly replied, determined that I was going to straighten this all out right here and now, repercussions be damned, “I didn’t sign up for any tutoring. I came to have fun.”

There … couldn’t get any plainer than that. Now we would start the fun stuff as soon as ….

“No, no mistake, bud”, came the that’s-final-so-don’tbother-me-about-it-anymore retort. “Your mother signed you up for math and science”.

I love my mother, I really do. But at that moment, for some reason, I wanted to know the location of the armory, with all of its high-powered rifles.

Yep, mom had gone and ruined my camp right out of the gate. The counselor gave me four or five textbooks, and an assortment of workbooks and ledgers. Then he waved me off in the direction of my impending class.

On the way to the math class, I made some life-changing decisions. By my reasoning, if I didn’t get math during the nine months of my last grade – which I passed – then two weeks of this wasn’t going to result in anyone shouting “Eureaka! By George, I think he’s got it!”

And I also reasoned that – like looking the instructor who ordered me to “drop and give him twenty” (pushups were the immediate means of extracting unwavering obedience from anyone) in the eye and calmly replying, “Twenty” – even these people weren’t going to start wailing on a kid. So I took a huge leap of faith, and entered the classroom.

I never opened the first book. Instead, I took the ledgers that came with the gig and made drawings for three hours (a skill which I had already honed in school), until the instructor gave us the “dismissed” order at 5:00 p.m. After a couple of days of not turning in homework, we had another little “meeting of the minds”, and I spent another couple of nights sitting in the lone chair in the middle of the quad, counting the alternating squares a thousand times over.

But after two days, my afternoon schedule was once again wide open. I was excused from any further waste of time with the tutorer.

And except for that one last obstacle, from there on out it became easier to adjust to this new lifestyle. I was hyper, and having 10-14 hours of non-stop activity was what I really needed. As long as I was busy, I was fine.

Or as long as no one tried to hang the mantle of responsibility on me.

After about five days of morning inspections, Greg and I made the big grade – our room was judged the most perfectly arranged of all those in our squad. As a reward, inspection winners were given the honor of leading our squad for the entire day – to breakfast, to activities, to lunch, to parade practice, to supper, and to whatever nightly entertainment was scheduled for the day. So they called our names, and we fell out of formation to take command of the squad.

Big mistake.

About halfway to the mess hall, as we marched and sang our little marching songs, we were passed – very slowly – by a carload of young ladies in a cute, little white Mustang convertible. There to see Citadel students, they addressed us with that “come hither” vocabulary that seemed to – in my mind – invite us to become, um, better acquainted. Keep in mind, they were 18-22; years old; we were all of 11-13.

But, after all, folks around there did like to say that the military way of life made men out of boys.

So, I turned to face my squad as we marched, and gave the order to fall out and become better acquainted.

We swarmed the Mustang, much to the dismay and surprise of the young women, literally falling in their laps and begging for kisses. They squealed in typical girl reaction, and hurriedly asked us to exit the vehicle.

Only as we vacated the car and began to reassemble for our march, did I notice a lone figure, standing at the entrance of the nearest building. In full dress uniform, he was much older, very rugged looking, and not at all amused, and he glowered at us without saying a word. Then he spotted a counselor in the distance, and called to him. They convened as we continued on our way, and I felt a disturbing vibe as they leaned over the rail, whispering to each other, trying to make out our destination.

After we readied our next activity, I forgot about the incident and went about having fun. The rest of the day was good, and supper was particularly delightful that night. After we led our squad back to the barracks, a counselor knocked on our door and asked us to step out for a minute.

When we did, we froze. There, standing in the night shadows, was the silhouette of the officer who had observed our “Charge of the Lightheatered Brigade” on the Mustang.

Oh, we could have done it in front of a Corporal, or a Sargeant, or a Lieutenant, or even a Major or Colonel. But that would have been too easy.

No, instead, ol’ Greg and I had put our squad in dire circumstances by launching our little foray on the gals in front of the president of the Citadel.

General Harris.

- Next Issue -
How I Came To Absolutely Loathe Potatoes
###
The previous article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, August 15, 2002.

Camp Guns & Woeses – Part III

By Brian M. Howle

The previous two issues sorted out my days at the Citadel Boys Camp in Charleston, SC. Last issue, I had just recounted leading my squad in an all-out charge on a cute little Mustang full of college gals who had come to visit their cadet boyfriends. As fate would have it, our little “black op” was witnessed by the President of the Citadel, General Harris.

As penance for our unwanted intrusion on the Mustang, we pulled KP duty for most of the remaining days at camp. And as any good soldier knows – as a bottom feeder, if you screw up on the base level, you develop daily, personal relationships with zillions of potatoes in the never-ending quest to provide the troops with adequate amounts of starch and carbohydrates.

Say what you want about Asians … from the perspective of feeding the troops with a minimum of fuss, that whole rice thing suddenly made a lot of sense to me.

The first weekend at camp was a mixed event for yours truly. One the one hand, it meant I had reached the halfway point – my suffering would soon be over, and I would be back in the comfort of my house, in my hometown, with my now-very-normal;-no,-more-than-normal friends.

On the other hand, it meant I would come face to face with being the only kid in the house for the first time in my life – as my brother had been commissioned to attend the United States Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs, CO.

My parents spotted me among the sea of camp clones (hundreds of kids dressed in white T-shirts, blue shorts, blue baseball caps, white socks and tennis shoes) and waved me in the direction of our car. Jack was all decked out in his Air Force cadet dress uniform, looking sharp and drawing envious looks from some of my counselors. I had all year to figure out this thing that was about to happen, but for reasons unknown to me to this day, I just didn’t realize that the day would come when he would actually leave.

Looking back, it was an emotional day for everyone as we made our way to the airport. My brother was about to plunge into military school without the benefit of close proximity to home and friends, and among a sea of total strangers. My parents were watching their second-born and oldest son, leave home for a school almost all the way across the nation. And I was about to lose the protection and comfort of my big brother out in the real world.

I can’t remember how it went at the airport. I vaguely remember watching his plane quickly disappear into the horizon, winging its way to Colorado. And I don’t remember what we did afterwards, or where we went to eat.

I only remember how hard I cried myself to sleep that night, when I realized how much I missed my brother. I couldn’t understand why I was so upset – but I would have my answer sooner than I thought.

The following Monday, I finally got my chance to hit the skeet range. Mom’s failed attempt at having me tutored during my stay resulted in missing sign-up at the start of camp, and after I managed to extricate myself from the debacle I had to wait until the following week. Now, it was time for me to face some unspoken demons.

During the previous year, my Uncle Claude Martin (my mom’s oldest brother) had been killed in a hunting accident near his home. A 10-year-old boy – my age – on his first hunting trip, was left alone at the edge of a field. As Uncle Claude tried to slip through some hedges, the boy – startled, scared and much too young to be left alone with a gun – wheeled at the sound and pulled both triggers of his shotgun. It was clearly a tragic accident, but Uncle Claude was dead.

My mother’s father was a banker and a state senator from Branchville, S.C. In 1929, the stock market crash virtually wiped out the bank. Then in 1930, while returning to Columbia to vote on pending legislation, he and another senator were killed by a drunk driver in a horribly violent, head-on collision. My grandmother was suddenly a widow with five young children to raise.

Mama Ruth was not a meek woman. She had the intestinal fortitude of a Marine drill instructor when it came to raising her children, amid the pain and loss of her husband and their father. Uncle Bubba (as family and friends called him) took the mantle of oldest son and ran with it, completing college and then law school. His younger brother, Uncle G.W., completed college and then medical school. The girls – my mom, her sisters Margie and Minnie Claire – all completed college, and all pursued professional careers.

Yes, they all had great strength and were very goal oriented. But it was Uncle Bubba’s constant vigil at the helm of the family that saw them all through the hard times. I saw how much his death devastated my mother, aunts and Uncle G.W., but I didn’t realize at the time that it literally crushed my grandmother. She was never quite the same woman after Bubba’s death.

Making its way into a confusing cauldron of mixed signals about that same time was my desire to spend as much time as possible with my dad. It became confusing when we went hunting – up until my uncle’s death, I was only allowed to use a .22 caliber rifle and a .410 shotgun, and then only for target practice. Seeing his youngest boy on the cusp of adolescence, my father deemed me ready for the “big” shotgun.

There was no Andy Griffith episode for me to refer to on this one. I really knew only two things about shotguns: (1) They were very, very loud and scary; and (2) They killed my uncle.

So there was my paradox – trying to please my dad’s desire to see me through a rite of passage that all Howle men had conquered, while reeling from the subconscious raging fear and horror of suffering the same fate as Uncle Bubba.

I managed to placate my dad for a few hunting trips by having the “good” bad luck of a lack of game to shoot. He would try to get me to shoot the 20-gauge at tin cans (first thing I learned about the shotgun: little number, big kick), but I evaded his attempts. And I avoided that 12-gauge like the plague.

Now, here I was at a military summer camp where guns were praised and touted, with a variety of firearms programs for campers to pursue. Because I didn’t have the same anti-gun link with a rifle, I had been kicking butt at the indoor rifle range for a week, earning my Marksmanship medal in short order.

Now it was time to step up to the plate.

There was a firearm safety class before we were allowed on the skeet range, and everyone got the basic skinny on the do’s and don’ts of shotgun etiquette. Then we trotted outside to the range, and I tried to fade to the back of the line. But one of my counselors, who witnessed my tirade after being forced to miss that first week of skeet shooting – and then had to put up with my ensuing attitude – made dang sure I was up at the front of the line for this one.

While I was busy praying for a 20-gauge to be among the fold, God sent a clear message when I realized that they were all 12-gauge.

The kid in front of me eagerly took his place, adjusting his glasses and placing the shotgun up against his shoulder. He bobbed for a second, then called out “PULL!” The clay pigeon sailed from its launching hut, high over the reeds of the marshes along the Ashley River. He fired and missed, but he was not deterred. He was ecstatic, and he grudgingly shuffled to the back of the line to await his next turn.

Rich, my counselor, took me under his arm and led me to the shooting mark. I was never more terrified in my entire life, and as I tried to raise the heavy 12-gauge my whole body was shaking. The only comforting benefit was that with my back to my peers, they couldn’t see the tears streaming down my face.

But Rich had sensed my uneasiness around the shotguns, and through his persistent daily chats, he had come to figure out my phobia. I was seconds away from heaving the 12-gauge into the marsh and having a massive breakdown when he leaned over and whispered, “It’s just birdshot, Brian. You’re shooting over the marsh. There’s no one out there for over a mile. You don’t have to be scared, just yell ‘pull’ and lead the pigeon a little; keep the barrel moving and gently squeeze the trigger. You’re not going to kill anyone.”

I wasn’t shaking anymore, but I was still crying, and unable to shoot.

Rich took a deep breath and said, “Your Uncle Bubba would want you to do this, you know.”

Something clicked. Well, yeah, of course; Uncle Bubba was an avid outdoorsman. He hunted, fished and camped regularly, and his main getaway was a little concrete block cottage nestled on the white, sandy banks of the Edisto River. And now that I thought about it, I realized that just every memory of visiting with Uncle Bubba included a drive out to the river cottage.

The tears abated, and the rush of fresh courage and understanding flowed through my being with soothing warmth. I tightly gripped the shotgun, pulled it close to my shoulder and calmly called out, “PULL!”

The clay disc flew out of the little hut, silently gliding across the still afternoon sky. I followed it about halfway through my turn, leading it like Rich had told me, and then I shut my eye and pulled the trigger.

The gun didn’t sound like a cannon this time. And the much-feared kick of the big gauge gun was nothing – not at all like I had imagined. And about the time I was realizing all of this, I opened my eyes at the same moment I heard my fellow campers screaming in delight – and watched as the disc exploded into dust.

A crowbar couldn’t have pried the smile from my face as I made my way to the back of the line, as my friends shook my hand and slapped me on the back while they heaped congratulations on me. Uncharacteristically for me, I didn’t showboat or gloat. I just took it all in, enjoying the conquest of my fear while understanding – for the first time in my life – that this thing called life could be handled.

Oh, I was still galaxies away from maturity and growing up. I had a penchant for doing things the hard way and I successfully kept that foible intact for years to come. Umm … from time to time, still do.

But here – among an environment that I absolutely hated; among kids that I initially avoided; among disciplines and routines that were the least of my character traits; and among counselors that I initially provoked and constantly disrespected – we were all fortunate enough to have these cadet counselors. They were all fine young men of character who listened to their “kids,” and then set about helping them conquer their demons. Over the last few days of camp, I discovered every kid in my squad had some little “issue” that Rich and his counterparts helped to overcome.

That last night, as I listened to my little AM radio playing The Rolling Stones’ “I Can’t Get No (Satisfaction)” through my earphone, I honestly thought I might have found a way of life that I needed. Sure, there was all that unnecessary (to me) military protocols stuff – but if it helped me overcome my deepest fear then maybe, just maybe, this was the life for me.

My epiphany was cut short when a hushed whisper beckoned my roommate and me to “come watch the fun,” as blurry shadows danced across the screen door to our room. We quickly tiptoed outside, where a line of kids was scurrying up the staircase at the entrance to our corner room. Following the group, we serpentined up to the fourth floor (a serious violation of rules made clear on day one, but disregarded on the final night because, hey, what could they do?).

The line disappeared into the doorway of an unoccupied room, where we could discern the stifled laughter of all the kids standing in the darkened room. At first, I couldn’t figure out what we were doing there. And then, I heard a muffled cry.

There was a kid who had been a major pain-in-the butt the entire two weeks. The typical “troubled loner,” he had been responsible for ratting out almost every person who did the least little thing wrong during our stay. When he wasn’t being a snitch, he whined and complained and played out major scenes of conflict with just about every kid – and this was payback time.

Lulled into the room with the promise of purveying the latest issue of Playboy, he had been shoved into one of the standing, metal lockers. The door was then slammed shut and locked, and the entire locker was tipped over – door first – onto the floor. He was trapped in a now unvented metal coffin, in the Indigo blackness of night, screaming and kicking and crying as the others laughed at his misfortune. As much as I disliked the guy, this just didn’t seem very funny to me. I slipped back to my room, popped the radio earpiece back in and thought some more about my earlier revelations.

Fortunately for me, I got over my thoughts of military life.

And that first Monday after being back home, at my weekly Boy Scout meeting, I think I wore my school clothes and took the demerits for not being in uniform.

And for some strange reason, I didn’t mind.

After all, I had a shotgun.
###
The previous article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, August 29, 2002.

All You Need To Know Is moe. Is A Go At House Of Blues July 22, 2009

By Brian M. Howle

There are some great things about being young (or not so young) and having some form of musical eccentricities enter your life, so much so that it becomes not just a genre or music, but a way of life.

And those who know moe., know what I mean.

For those you don’t, well, now’s the time to catch up with the hipsters of this generation, as the jam-thrilling music of moe. hits the stage at House Of Blues in N. Myrtle Beach, SC on Wednesday, July 22, 2009.

Here’s a more detailed look into this very popular (and very-well attended) band, from their website:

moe. is the preeminent progressive rock band on the music scene today. In a remarkable career that’s touched upon three decades and produced 17 albums, the quintet of Al Schnier and Chuck Garvey on guitars and vocals, Rob Derhak on bass and vocals, Jim Loughlin on percussion and vibes, and Vinnie Amico on Drums, continues to push the standard for performance art.

Critical acclaim and a solid national and international fan base has built a dedicated following that grows each year. Whether touring across the globe, headlining music festivals, or sharing the stage with such celebrated acts as the Allmans, The Who, or Robert Plant, among others, what keeps moe. at the forefront of the music scene is not only the energy and vitality of their music and songwriting, but the showmanship in which it is delivered.

From its humble, inconspicuous beginnings as a local bar band in Buffalo in the late 1980s, to headlining Radio City Music Hall on New Year’s Eve the past two years, moe.’s journey has been one of hard work, perseverance, and dedication. Their music is clever, melodic, refined; their performances are entertaining, mesmerizing and epic. There’s a reason that Rolling Stone magazine placed Chuck and Al among the top twenty new “guitar gods,” why the pair were featured in Guitar World and Modern Guitar; why Jim and Vinnie have been featured in Drum! magazine; why Rob in Bass Player and State of Mind magazines — all in the last year — because they’re that good! The renowned guitar play between Al and Chuck is fast becoming the stuff of legend. The exceptional vibe and percussion work by Jim is brilliant. The understated bass play by Rob is masterful. The seamless, efficiency of Vinnie’s drum play is extraordinary. The interaction among the five represents rock and roll at its best.

The news keeps getting better— moe. is just hitting its creative stride. Their much anticipated album, Sticks and Stones, was released in January 2008, coming a year after the critically acclaimed, The Conch, and only months after the release of Warts and All Volume 5. They continue to tour extensively: from San Fran to Amsterdam, from Tokyo to Toronto, from Chi Town to Bean Town, from Austin to Atlanta, playing and packing venues large and small, or intimate and grand. Long a featured act at music festivals, the past year they performed at Lollapalooza, Langerado, All-Good, Ottawa BluesFest, and Vegoose, to name a few; yet made time to promote and perform at their own festivals — Summer Camp, Snoe.down, and moe.Down.

By all accounts, for this “legendary jam band,” as Rolling Stone magazine recently described them, it would be best to keep your eyes on this band and your ears tuned in to their music. Witness history in the making. This is welcome news for the moe. faithful and the band’s ever-expanding fan base. Yet — even better news for the world of rock and roll — moe. has finally come into their own.

Got all that? Good .. then listen to your copy of Sticks and Stones, get stuck and stoned and head on down to House Of Blues in N. Myrtle Beach, SC on Wednesday, July 22, 2009 for An Evening with moe.. Doors open 7:30pm. For ticket info call 843-272-3000 or Ticketmaster 843-679-9333; or visit www.houseofblues.com or www.ticketmaster.com.
###
This article also appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, July 2, 2009.

Night Of The Tanned Terrorists

By Brian M. Howle

As a resident of the Socastee area of Myrtle Beach, one tends to become oblivious to the constant buzzing of all types of aircraft which scurry in and out of the Myrtle Beach International airport. My apartment seems to be directly under the flight paths of most of the larger military aircraft, as the huge behemoths lumber overhead at what appear to be too-slow-to-stay-in-the-air speeds. This alone would cause most folks to feel alarm – but for me, the mere sight of the planes brings back much more than that.

During my college years, several of my friends and I worked for the S.C. Dept. of Parks, Recreation and Tourism during the summer. For three glorious months, studies and term papers were but a distant memory, lost in the haze of sun, sand and the never-ending waves of bikini-clad young ladies in need of company. Huntington Beach State Park in Murrells Inlet was our domain, and as lifeguards, the converted garage of Atalaya (the main restidence of philanthroper Archer Huntington; the name is Spanish for “Castle in the Sand”) was our home for the summer.

The pay was not that great – in fact, it was probably below minimum wage. But the pay wasn’t the single most important factor in our decision to work there. In some lines of work, there are “perks” that go with the territory, and, well … let’s just say there are some pretty neat perks associated with this particular job. And at some point in future columns, I will share some of them with you, depending on my research into some statue of limitation issues. But for now, here’s the story of why I’m leery of the big planes:

One of my buddies, Joe Bouknight, was the head lifeguard. Actually, the title was more for show than anything else, as we all shared the same duties and pay. The only time I can remember that title coming into play was when a group of very attractive young ladies happened by the lifeguard stand one day, and as the five of us jockeyed for attention and allowed the testosterone to influence our demeanor, Joe suddenly remembered his title. A couple of us were instructed to make our rounds up the shoreline while he – in his position of great importance and authority – made sure no one stole the 400 lb. lifeguard stands. Which was always a real threat, since it was common knowledge those stands were virtual babe magnets.

Joe’s father was a retired Air Force Chaplain. His family moved to my hometonw of Andrews, SC, the summer before my senior year of high school, and we became fast friends right away. Joe was an excellent student, replete with all the honors – STAR student, National Honor Society member, Marshall – and an academic record that made him a Who’s Who shoo-in. Of course, all of this meant he was a perfect canfederate for youthful mischief, and we bonded immediately.

As fate would have it, Joe’s dad decided to take a long-awaited sojourn to Europe with one of his old Air Force buddines during the summer. Both men could take advantage of one of the constant military flights – known as “hops” due to numerous layovers and plane changes – across the big pond for a few weeks of sighseeing and retracing steps from their service during World War II. Al the plans were arranged during the school year, and the two men were giddy with anticipation as the big day neared. The only item that escaped their attention during the planning stage was how to get to Charleston Air Force Base for a midnight flight to Germany.

Ever the helpful son, Joe volunteered to take his dad to the airbase. After all, it was a midnight departure time, and with our schedule of beach duty – stumbling to the stands around 9am in the morning, give or take an hour – it was a perfect plan. Of course, Joe would need a co-pilot for the long drive back late at night, and there was never any question as to who would be best suited for the task.

So, on the appointed day, we packed up the floatation rings and zinc oxide and headed for Andrews to pick up his dad and his dad’s friend. They had their luggage sitting out in the driveway as we pulled up, and before poor Joe could even give his mom a hug, they were in the car, honking the horn and hollering “Let’s GO!” It was bernusing to see these two older gentlemen acting like a couple of kids going to the fair for the first time, especially since I had Joe’s dad as a teacher during that final year of high school. None of my other classmates ever saw this reserved, quiet, soft-spoken man in the light that I now observed.

An hour and a half later, we were passing through the gates of the airbase, with Joe’s dad navigating our route to the boarding area. We hauled the luggage to the check-in while his dad tended to the paperwork and obtained his passes for the flight. As is usually the case at any airport – military or civilian – there was an unscheduled delay, estimated to be around an hour or more in duration. We offered to stay during the wait, but Joe’s dad told us to go on back to Huntington so we would be well rested for the next day’s work. We wished them a safe flight and headed back to the car. On the way out of the parking lot, Joe turned off of the road to the main gate, driving slowly as he alternated his attention from the street to something he seemed to be searching for up above the surrounding buildings.

“What are you looking for?” I asked, as I peered out into the dark silhouettes of unlit, unmarked buildings.

“I want to see the C-5As,” came the reply. “I saw their tailfins when we were driving in.”

For those of vou not familiar with military aircraft, the C-5A is the Air Force equivilant of the Boeing 747 commercial airliner, and as we rounded a corner, four massive tailfins – 5-stories tall – loomed over the last row of buildings. Awash in high-intensity lighting, these impressive giants dwarfed everything around them, including a nearby C-141 Starlifter (which is what usually flies around my neighborhood when the military is conducting training maneuvers in our area). Joe wheeled his Volkswagen Squareback between two buildings that boardred the tarmac where the planes were parked. He turned off the headlights and ignition, which launched a teeny little red flag somewhere deep within that part of my brain (not often used) that had – on many previous occasions – vainly attempted to tell me something that I never seemed to quite grasp.

“Um, Joe … How long are we going to sit here looking at the big white planes?”, I asked as I began to take in the enormity of these gleaming goliaths, the fine hair-like tentacles of the onset of nervousness lightly making their presence known as they ventured out a little further from the recesses of my brain.

“Who’s sitting?” was the answer that trailed off as Joe shut his door and began walking towards the tarmac.

“Um, Joe I began again as I fumbled for the door handle, hurrying to get out and feebly attempting to bring the matter up for discussion, “Joe, what are you doing, Joe?” It occurred to me I sounded like the HAL 2000 computer in 2001: A Space Odyssey.

Joe didn’t notice the analogy, though, as he was fixated on the big planes, steadily walking towards them as if under some Svengali-like trance. I hurried to catch up with him, glancing around for some sign of life that would discourage any further advance, but it was the dead of night and nothing was around but us and the big planes. The I suddenly remembered – with a justifying reassurance – that Joe had been on numerous airbases, as his dad was a career Air Force man. Surely, he knew the parameters of what was allowed and would proceed only as far as needed.

About that time, I saw a small, red nylon rope on the pavement before us, held up only a few inches off the ground every thirty or so feet by small red cones. The little flag began to flutter in my head.

“Um, Joe,” I once again droned, coming to a stop at the rope, feeling that there was some significance to its presence. “Joe, I don’t think we should cross this rope.”

“Naw, it’s O.K., if it was restricted there would be armed guards on duty around the planes,” came another trailing reply, as he maintained his steady gait towards the now REALLY huge aircraft.

“Um, Joe … I dunno about this … I think …” Now my voice trailed off as I noticed a blue Air Force pickup heading in our direction, although it wasn’t speeding towards us. Al the same, I wasn’t feeling quite as adventurous now.

“Um, Joe … I think that truck is heading for us”, I emphatically implored as I came to a complete stop.

Sure enough, the truck pulled up beside us, and an airman stuck his head out the window and asked, “What the hell are you guys doing out here? I looked at Joe with a “good question” face.

“We just wanted to take a look at the C-5As,” Joe stated matter-of factly, smiling his usual boyish-charm smile, completely unphased by our position between the red rope and the planes.

“Well, you guys better clear outta here before …”. Now his voice trailed off as he cocked his head to look past us. “Um, never mind”, were his final words as he put his truck in gear and turned around, leaving us to look in the direction he was looking before he abruptly left.

What we saw were two more Air Force pickups heading towards us, but they were not just cruising the runways. They were going very, very fast.

“I think we should head back to the car now,” Joe said as he began a brisk pace in that direction, not noticing that I was already about 10 feet ahead of him and noticeably faster. We managed to make it about halfway back when the trucks skidded to a stop, tires squealing, one in front of us and one behind us. Then the door of the truck in front of us flew open, and an extremely tense, loud voice bellowed through the still night air.

“FREEZE! HANDS ON YOUR HEADS!” came the order, as the beam of a spotlight blinded us. “I SAID, HANDS ON YOUR HEADS! AND WALK TOWARDS MY VEHICLE. DO NOT MAKE ANY SUDDEN MOVES OR I WILL BLOW YOUR HEADS CLEAN OFF!”

Apparently, he was addressing Joe, as I was in front of his truck before he got to the “sudden moves” part. Content that I was following orders correctly, I turned slightly to look at him. That was when I first noticed the .45 automatic pistol in his hand.

The little flag was starting to whip around pretty good now.

And with good reason, for as I turned to look at him, he jammed the pistol into the back of my neck, pushing my head towards the hood of his truck. “HANDS ON THE HOOD, SPREAD YOUR FEET, DO NOT MOVE OR I WILL VENTILATE YOUR BRAIN.”

For some unknown reason, the surrealism of the moment overtook my thought process, and I turned towards Joe and sorta half-laughed, “Man, I don’t believe this.”

Surrealism quickly gave way to reality as a hard, heavy boot kicked my right foot out, widening my stanc even further, followed by, “I SAID DO NOT MOVE!” As the M.P. frisked us – while we stood barefoot, in pocketless shorts and tank tops – I heard the sounds of boots hitting the pavement behind us, accompanied by many metallic clicking noises. Since my head was almost touching the hood anyway, I very carefully tucked down a little more to look under my left arm, to see what the noises behind us were. There I found 12 fully equipped M.P.s, each with a fully loaded M-16 assault rifle pointed directly at us.

The little flag was now horizontal in a gale of fear.

At some point, Joe managed to stammer out our reason for being there, but it didn’t have much impact on our captors. We were ordered into the back of the truck behind us, all the while inches away from full metal jacket encounters of the close kind. We sat down in the bed of the truck, encircled by a dozen barrels which remained trained on us. Then the M.P. with the pistol – who was much older than the others, and very much in charge – walked to his truck and led both vehicles away from the planes.

As soon as he was in front of our truck, helmets and rifles went slamming down to the floor of the bed. “Man, what is it with you people?”, came a disgusted inquiry. “You guys make the THIRD set of idiots tonight wanting to see the big, shiny planes!”, was another M.P.’s comment. It was only then that we could see the faces of our captors, and along with their apparent lack of interest in blowing us away, we noticed most of them were just kids – even younger than us. For the first time since “FREEZE”, we relaxed a little.

“No crap, man”, volunteered another guy, “I had just made a sandwich, ‘cause I haven’t eaten yet, ,cause the first two sets of morons kept us out for two hours. When the alarm sounded, I tried to grab it on the way out the door, but I lost it jumping into the truck!”. As we rumbled along through a maze of buildings and sidestreets off of the tarmac, we asked them what was going to happen to us. “Oh, probably, ‘Don’t do this again’”, as he slapped one hand against the back of his other one. They all had a good laugh over that one.

Then the truck came to a stop, and helmets and rifles were quickly returned to their previous places, as we were marched into one of those foreboding quonset huts. A buzzer was pressed, a red light came on and the door clicked open as we were led inside.

We sat in complete silence as mufled voices were heard from behind a door which had a sign on it which read, “No Weapons Beyond This Point”. About 20 minutes later, the entry door opened, and more M.P.s came in, followed by Joe’s dad. He paused for a moment, giving Joe one of those looks that my dad has given me on occasion, then proceeded thru fhe “No Weapons” door.

About 5 minutes later, he emerged with the Base Security Commander, and he ooked at us and said, “Yes, that’s my on Joe, and that’s his friend Brian; I’ve known him his entire life. I promise if you let them go, they’ll never try this again”. Amen, Rev. Bouknight.

They held Mr.Bouknight’s plane until he got back, so at least we only embarrassed him and didn’t ruin his trip. The two blue trucks took us to Joe’s car and then escorted us to the main gate, ensuring the U.S. Air Force that their C-5As were safe and sound.

As we drove down I-26 through North Charleston, heading for the safety and sanctuary of Hwy. 17 and Huntington Beach State Park, we approached an interchange. On one of those big, green highway signs overhanging from an overpass read, “Naval Weapons Station”.

“You know”, Joe began as we slowed down slightly, “I’ve always wanted to see a Polaris submarine up close”.

I’ll bet you that to this day, you can still see the scar from my big toenail on the top of his right foot.
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The previous article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, March 25, 1999.

Vroom! Vroom! Vroom!

By Brian M. Howle

Glowing ribbons of magenta and azure run along the skin of night’s last gasp, illuminating billowing, cumulus clouds and wispy puffs of breakers on an undiscernable horizon. Fingers of radiant rapture entwine themselves into everything they envelope, kissing the warm trade wind breezes that caress the north Florida coastline. Ever-present seagulls glide silently upon the kind breeze, climbing effortlessly across the beaches and dunes, over the rows ofmotels, condos and homes, spanning the marshes and waterways of the natural coastline, then diving out of the lifting currents across a great expanse of smooth concrete and asphalt. They hover motionless, calculating the next wave of wind.

Suddenly, a wall of air pressure and gravity violently slam the seagulls upward, then downward and outward, only to disappear as quickly as it arrived. Nanoseconds later, an explosion of sound sends shock waves reverberating thru their disheveled bodies, igniting the birds “fight or flight” response as they flee in sheer terror towards the protective bosom of a rising February sun.

Welcome to Daytona Speedweeks.

Yes, dear hearts, it’s true. Despite advantages in social standing, upper middle class stature and the opportunity to experience higher education, I am a victim of my environment. Call me simple, call me common, call me redneck at heart – just don’t call me during a Nextel Cup race.

Singer Barbara Mandrell capitalized on the crossover of country music to mainstream with her song, “I Was Country Before Country Was Cool”. In the late ‘70s and early ‘80s, the woeful opuses devoted to heartache, alcohol and pickup trucks were embraced by the nation; nay, the world. Steel guitars, cowboy boots and cheatin’ hearts were as abundant as spandex, disco balls and cocaine. America had come to understand.

The acceptance, popularity and growth of stock car racing under the auspices of NASCAR was enevitable as far as I’m concerned. Then again, I do have some vestiges of predicating influences that may color my opinion.

Anyone who has been following this column should know by now that I was raised in a small town not far from the beach, the quiet little community of Andrews, SC. Approximately 20 miles west of Georgetown, Andrews is a relatively peaceful collection of nice, unassuming folks. Like anywhere else, it has its infrequent brush with notoriety or celebrity, the most notable example of the celebrity moniker being it is the home of the Intergalactic Ambassador of The Twist, Chubby Checker. Perched on the edge of Georgetown County, most residents work in the paper or steel mills of Georgetown, in the textile mill in town, in some scattered light industry or town businesses, or agricultural endeavors. And like anywhere else, today it boasts of all the franchised accoutrements – fast-food, strip malls, convenience stores and a Food Lion complex replete with a restaurant featuring Oriental cuisine.

That’s the Andrews of today. Back when I was a kid, if you didn’t have your groceries in the kitchen, gas in the take of your car or notebook paper for your kid’s homework by 5:00pm, on weekdays, it was like an elliptical orbit around the moon’s dark side in low gear, ‘cause it was a good 14 hours before you could do any of those things again. And if it was Wednesday, tack on another 5 hours, as all the businesses turned the “Closed” signs on their doors at noon. Most of the mills paid their employees on Thursdays: This meant for the three grocery stores – The Piggly Wiggly (which my father owned), the Red & White and the IGA (which we P.W. folk sorta looked down on) – it was time to break out the new case of cash register receipts, as well as for the dry goods stores in town. Saturdays offered a more leisurely shopping experience in most instances, as closing time was usually extended an hour.

For a child growing up at the time, it was light years removed from the current fare of adolescent amusement. No computers, no video games, no video stores, no Walkmans, no cable TV, no color TV, No MTV. No mopeds, no ATVs, no cell phones, no faxes, no waterparks, no multi-screened movie complexes. No digital cameras (although the advent of the Polaroid brought about a reaction akin to the discovery of the tapir’s jawbone by the primates of Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey) no CDs (although 8-tracks did make an appearance towards the end of high school), No strip bars (although one of my friends’ dad had a subscription to Playboy from day one), and NO Mickey D’s (although we did have Sam’s Restaurant, the salt lick for prepubescent teens and hormonal wildlings, where you pulled into the parking lot, flashed your lights and had child labor law violations take your order for dime tips).

I’m telling you, it was rough. Why, the metal container from someone’s supper of soup the night before was scarfed up and sacrificed to harm’s way as the all-consuming item of interest in a game of “Kick The Can”. Magnolia seed pods made excellent grenades in all-day games of “Soldier”, each of us determinedly placing the stem in our mouths, teeth clinching tightly as we pulled our hands away, releasing the “pin” and tossing high, arching lobs over banks of azaleas and camellias to annihilate our foes.

Hours were spent in wading safaris encompassing all the major ditches known to harbor legendary crustaceans- crawfish (known to you enlightened as “crayfish” or “prawn”) – each of us armed only with our knowledge of submerged rocks and bottles, and always with the latest contestant of the previous day’s “Kick The Can” affair. Because if you happened across that “grandaddy” with the 8-foot clawspan that the owner of the gas station had sworn to encounter as a child, well, you wanted some metal between you and that rascal. Amateurs quickly abandoned their grandmother’s hairnets for dredging during their initial hunts. Mistakes were repaired at the doctor’s office, tears were kissed away, ice cream was consumed and the subscription to Playboy was ensured.

About five miles north of town, just across the Black River, Highway 41 junctions Highway 521. On the northwest corner of the intersection sat a small, wooden gas station. And about 30 yards behind the station was Black River Speedway, a dirt track of less than half a mile in length: Hard, splinter infested stands for spectators, and a P.A. and scoring tower that consisted of four telephone poles pursuing four different versions of verticality, topped off with a glorified clubhouse that exceeded those constructed by my friends and me only by virtue of having electrical wiring. The mosquitoes were voracious (look at a topographic map of Andrews sometime – the town is virtually a small raised hump of land surrounded by swamp and rivers), dust was inescapable and permeated everything, and the noise was excruciatingly ear-splitting.

In other words, I experienced an epiphany.

My dad took me as often as he could, but when he couldn’t, I quickly found someone who was going. The smell of fresh cut grass, cotton candy, insect repellent, Old Spice, oil and gasoline, Lucky Strikes, burning rubber and the occasional whiff of ‘shine combined to burrow deep, entrenched folds in the halls of memories in my brain. Pepsi Colas with peanuts poured in, t-shirts with packs of smokes rolled up in the sleeves, ducktails and big, sweaty men with softball-sized chaws of chewing tobacco bulging out their cheeks. All these things flood through my mind at the speed of light whenever someone flips a starter switch and a big ol’ V-8 braps itself to life, the fuel flooding thru the ravenously thirsty four-barrel carburetor in parallel to my memories.

My dad has always had Fords. Always will. And as the good Lord intended, so have I (except for that meaningless indiscretion with a Grand Prix in ‘89). He eventually sold the Piggly Wiggly, only to become general manager of the local Ford dealership, Hemingway Motors – which is confusing as hell to outsiders since the town of Hemingway is 25 miles on up the road. I even worked there part-time during high school, deftly dispersing auto component’s to the mechanics after consulting the encrypted code book from hell in the parts department. So it was only natural and right that when the green flag dropped, whoever was driving a Ford – any Ford – was my guy.

And I wasn’t shy about it, either. Engine decibles were periodically challenged by my shredding vocal chords. Once, a man sitting down the row from me reached over an tugged my arm. “Next time that #94 (the only Ford in this particular race) comes by, let’s all stand up and holler ‘GO 94 FORD!’, alright?” Ever the gullible foil, next time by I rocketed up in the air screaming “GO 94 FORD!” for all the world to hear.

Which they did, quite easily, since I was the only one of the 150 or so in the crowd to do so.

As the crowd’s laughter subsided in my ears, I fought off the tears of humiliation and avoided all eye contact. But then that thing I mentioned earlier – as the Lord intended – came into play as my guy, #94, beat fenders and traded paint with every Chevy and Olds and Pontiac on the track, muscling his way past the leader coming out of the fourth turn on the last lap.

As he came back around, slowing to take the checkered flag from the flagman for his victory lap, I was startled by a loud chorus of “GO 94 FORD!” from the crowd around me. I turned to find my supposed antagonist with a conciliatory smile on his face, and extending his hand in friendship. As I shook his hand, he leaned over and winked at me. “Loyalty”, he drawled, “is what this sport is all about, Son”.

From the season’s final race in Atlanta (now Homestead, Fla.) in November until Speedweeks at Daytona in early February, those who share my advocation for the sport find themselves in an uncomfortable state of limbo. Saturday and Sunday afternoons contain black holes of time where 200 mph billboards and the soothing wail of 750 horsepower behemoths running at full song should exist. But come next Sunday, right after noon, the green flag will drop and 40 or so of the best drivers in the world will give 150,00 at the track -and millions more on TV – the best show going. Most fans are latecomers to the sport, drawn in by masterful promotion, unmatched excitement and the glitz of corporate sponsorship.

And the newest generation of kids in Andrews should concern themselves with only one thing – visiting the local MacDonald’s. Because the #94 MacDonald’s Winston Cup car, driven by Bill Elliott – and, coincidentally, a FORD – will need fresh tires on each pit stop.

Go ahead, kids … that Big Mac will put on a right front, and a Combo meal will put new rubber on all around.

With apologies to Barbara, “I Was NASCAR Before NASCAR Was Cool”.
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The previous article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, February 22, 1999.

Changing The World With A Wizard 9/16

By Brian M. Howle

Every generation – regardless of race, sex, creed or religion – has held it as their own personal ideal from the beginning of time: The concept of one’s individual actions – or as it member of a group – actually having a recognizable impact on the world around them. Sadly, only a select few every realize that dream.

I’m proud to say that some friends of mine and I once earned that distinction – in our own adolescent way.

Back in the days before the multitude of recreational distractions that now plague every neighborhood in the developed world – computers, TVs, CDs, cell phones, etc. – kids had to fend for themselves when it came to entertainment. Usually, this fell under the supervision of adults, and wisely so, as we all know that in idle mind is the Devil’s playground.

Ol’ Scratch surely must have looked upon my little group of friends as some twisted version of Disneyland.

As I have related many times before, growign up in Andrews, S.C. in the ‘60s had its limitations when it came to things to do for bored and restless youngin’s. Team games like football, basketball and baseball, and small group games like “Kick The Can” or “War Games” served us well in keeping our devious little minds preoccupied during the daylight hours. And the Boy Scouts provided a wonderful, controlled outlet for crossing over the much desired sunset-and-beyond stuff that we all dreamed of endlessly, wishing for time to rush by at light speed so we could all be old enough to do the forbidden things that older kids were allowed to do.

Nowadays, we would trade anything to relive those slow, carefree days of childhood – since time now seems to actually whiz by at the speed of light. Sigh …

Well, there were a handful of exceptions to our confined existence back then – and this is about a couple of them.

I should say in advance, my particular little clique of friends was pretty well-behaved for the better part of our youth. We didn’t engage in hard-core criminal activity or aminial sacrifice, or anything really weird like that. After all, most of my friends were Boy Scouts, and we lived by the standards we were taught.

Well, um … most of the time, anyway.

When your world is restricted to a 5-mile radius, it’s pretty hard to get into that much trouble.

Hmmmm … I can almost hear some of those who knew me then, choking right now.

O.K., so besides my own little individual adventures of some note, as a group, we were fairly harmless. For the most part.

There was the time that my best friend “T” and I were walking home from a trip to the soda fountain at Reynold’s Drug Store, knocking around with no particular interest in mind. As we walked across the old Lane railroad track on Morgan Avenue – which is Highway 41 – we noticed it dog laying in the middle of the highway.

Even then, I was a budding champion of animal protection, and was immediately concerned about this dog’s well-being. It didn’t seem to be injured as far its we could tell, and although it had no collar or tags, we were certain it was somebody’s pet. And that meant it was up to us to save the day.

We approached the docile little pooch and calmly exhorted it to get out of the road. The dog just gave us that dog look of indifference and stayed put. Then we noticed a truck heading into town that was obviously disregarding the speed limit, and showing no signs of slowing down for the relaxing mutt.

As we appealed to its sense of self-preservation, the dog continued to show no interest in abiding by our wishes, as it went about the usual dog ritual of licking itself with total disregard for socially acceptable behavior. And then I noticed the truck was less than 3 blocks away – and hadn’t slowed down it bit.

Well, so much for diplomacy … it was time for action. As “T” kept watch on the fast-approaching truck, I leaned over and tried to push the pup towards the curb. No response. I pushed a little harder. Still no response. And then I reached the panic point when “T” began screaming for me to get out of the road, lest I join the dog in his quest for termination. And so, I booted the rascal in an act of sheer desperation, one final attempt to save this helpless, sweet little doggie from becoming a frisbee.

The dog did finally move, and quite fast, too. But not before showing its thanks for the boot by chomping down on my hand on its way to the nearest yeard, where it promptly disappeared through some bushes.

Well, now I had a real problem. “T”, who went on to become a doctor, assessed the situation with amazing accuracy.

“Man, you’re gonna get it now, Brian. You’re gonna have to get a bunch of rabies shots now”, he said to me as I shook my bleeding hand far away from my body in an attempt to dislodge the dog germs from my hand. “I’ve never seen that dog before; I don’t know who it belongs to, and neither do you. Unless we call find it, you’re definitely gonna have to get those rabies sho…”

“Look, I’m not getting any shots, alright? That dog wasn’t foaming at the mouth or anything; he wasn’t running around like he was crazy with distemper or anything,” I retorted between screams of pain. “Besides, no one knows about this but you and me“.

“Oh, sure, like you’re gonna waltz into your house and your mama isn’t gonna ask how you ripped your hand open, Brian,”h snapped back with his uncanny, dead-on summarization of the situation.

“Hey, I can handle my mom, don’t worry about that. You just make sure you don’t rat me out, alright?” I pleaded, giving him that “Hey-you’re-my-best-friend-in-the-whole-world-and-I’d-never-rat-you-out” look. With some reluctance and a lot more begging on my part, he finally agreed to my plan.

About ten minutes after I got home, the phone rang while I was in the bathroom washing my gashed hand with soap and Listerine, biting on a towel to muffle the screams of searing pain, and I paid the ringing no attention. About tell seconds later, my inother burst into the bathroom.

“ARE YOU INSANE? MARY GAMBLE JUST CALLED AND SAID “T”TOLD HER YOU WERE BITTEN BY A STRAY DOG! GET IN THE CAR, WE’RE GOING TO DR. HARPER’S OFFICE RIGHT NOW!”

Although I later thanked my friend for his actions, during the next few hours I was seriously reconsidering my choice of best friend. How could he rat me out like that? I was silently furious as Dr. Harper examined my hand, turning it over a dozen times while exalting a series of “Hmmmm’s” before walking back to where he kept all the surgical stuff. I knew that didn’t bode well for me, but with Dr. Harper on one side and my steaming mom on the other, my options were limited.

Dr. Harper returned with some disinfectant derived from pure acid, as he scoured my hand with what I considered to be way too much enjoyment. Then he dressed it and went into the next room with my mom, as I leaned quietly towards the closed door trying to discern the low tone of the discussion they were having. When the door finally opened, Dr. Harper came back to me and said:

“Brian, if we can’t find that dog and verify that it doesn’t have rabies – and you’re not going to like this – you’re going to have to undergo a series of shots with this.”

He then produced the biggest, longest, scariest hypodermic needle my frightened little eyes had ever seen. To this day, I can’t believe I didn’t pass out.

Well, the dog was eventually found, and it turned out not to have rabies. But I was definitely leery about sharing any of my personal secrets with “T” for awhile after that.

As we got a little older, we got a little bolder. One night, several of us were spending a Friday night at my friend Van’s house. We soon tired of playing “Tripoly” and all the usual games to keep our wired little minds occupied. And then, well … then we had a really cool idea.

My dad had recently bought it 1954 Chevrolet 2-door coupe from the little old lady who lived next to the Piggly Wiggly that he owned. It was black with a white top; simple, basic transportation to take him from home to the store or to go fishing out at Jack Lake near Jamestown. It was his work car, and I was mesmerized by its presence. And one of the really cool things about this particular car that caught my attention right away was the fact that you didn’t need a key to start it up. It had one of those old-fashioned ignition wwitches that would turn with or without a key.

I don’t remember how it came up, but we decided to sneak out of Van’s house and run back over to my house in the middle of the night. Then, quietly, and with the stealth of a SWAT team, we lurked from the shadows of my yard and surrounded the Chevy. I jumped behind the wheel as lily friends moaned and groaned and pushed the 2-ton car (they used to make ‘em solid back then – all steel, not it speck of plastic) silently down Cottonwood until we were about a block and a half away from my house. Then they all climbed in and I fired up the stout 235 cubic inch 6-cylinder as we cruised out into the night. We stayed on the back roads as much as possible, and took some old logging roads when we could. We may have been young, but we had an amazing command of every road within 20 miles of Andrews, and to reach them without crossing the main highways. We didn’t speed; we weren’t drinking (yet), and we weren’t really raising any hell – just lumbering along at low speeds, taking in the wind and still night air as we cruised from point to point.

On one of those occasions where we actually had to drive on the main highway, we passed the town limit sign of a smal communiy between Andrews and Kingstree. And then, our little group had the collective thought of how we could change our little corner of the world.

A quick diversion back into town was required, as Van had to retrieve a Wizard 9/16” socket and a 1/2” ratchet front his home. His dad owned the Western Auto, and everything that Van utilized had the Wizard name on it. Quietly giggling and keeping an eye out for “the man”, we eased back into the safety of the back roads and headed for the neighboring communities.

When we reached the first little town limit sign, we doused the headlights and slowed down almost to a stop. Then one or two of us jumped out and ran over to the sign as the rest drove off in the darkness, just far enough away to keep tabs on everything while turning the car around. By the time we crept back to our friends, they had removed the nuts and bolts that held the sign on its posts, and with boisterous laughter, piled back into the Chevy with the town limit sign in tow.

We then cruised over to the next little town, and removed their sign its well. Only, this time, we replaced it with the one we had lifted from the previous town.

This went on for a couple of hours, until we had rearranged the world enough to confuse any unwitting stranger passing through a town theh thought to be 25 miles to their north or east, wondering how they had become so lost on a highway so simple.

All in all, we probably changed the names of a dozen towns that night, and never looked back. Of course, we also never had any concept of how much trouble we could have gotten into for our little prank, although we did have enough sense to make it a onetime event. It took some towns longer than others to realize their new identities, but eventually, they all got their signs back.

And today, whenever I pass one of those big, fancy, custom-made signs tha are so popular now, I can’t help but think:

If they had been around back then, I would have had to learn how to hot-wire daddy’s Piggly Wiggly delivery pickup.

And Van would have had to bring the entire Wizard line of tools along with him.
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The previous article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, May 18, 2000.

Kick The Can 8.0

By Brian M. Howle

During the Thanksgiving holiday break, I was once again in Columbia – at my beloved’s, frantically trying to finally complete the latest home improvement project that we had begun a few months back. There are certain jobs that mere mortals undertake which, when completed, give you a whole new appreciation for the craftsmen and artisans who do these things professionally, day in and day out.
In my eyes, anyone who lays ceramic tile for a living has been elevated to mythological “god” status. Don’t ever quibble with these folks about their rates for services rendered; they earn every single penny. Be nice to them.

Anyway, during one of the many much-needed breaks (required to realign my spine from the question mark formation that threatened to fuse my vertebrae together, after staying hunched over the backerboard and mortar for hours on end), I slipped out the kitchen door and began to play with our black Labrador Retriever, Maggie. Maggie’s most favorite game in the whole, wide world is fetching her “bone”, an odd-looking toy shaped like a bone, but consisting of two, small neon-green soccer balls on either end of the “bone”. As long as you can throw it, Maggie will happily chase it down and bring it back, lathering it with yet another coat of dog saliva in copious amounts.

While engaged in this relaxing game, I noticed some of the local kids playing in the woods behind our house. At first, I couldn’t really see them – I could hear them talking and laughing, and from time to time, see the tree limbs shaking in the general area of their play. Then I noticed electronic noises mixed in as well causing me to run to the kitchen door to listen for our phones ringing. But the sounds were not emanating from the house. The younguns were the source.

When they eventually made their way out of the woods, I discovered the source of the sounds I had heard. Among this hand of children, pagers, beepers, and cell phones were as prominent as pine needles in a Carolina forest.

I just had to shake my head in silent disapproval. And I think Maggie concurred with me, but then again, it could’ve been fleas.

For a guy who’s always considered himself pretty hip ‘n happenin’, there are some things that seem sadly out of place when it comes to the amenities endowed upon our children these days. And I’m beginning to worry that the entire, arnazing, bewildering, humbling, frustrating and thrilling experience of “childhood” may well be slipping further away from each uscceeding generation. My heart sinks at the thought of some child in the not-so-distant future having only one or two years of pure childhood.

My best guess at the current timeline for children is about 5, maybe 6 years, tops.

Now, when my friends and I were growing up, that timeline ran up to, oh, about 13 to 16 years. Of course, some matured earlier; others – like myself – took a leetle longer. But generally speaking, I’d say a good 13 years was spent in happy, unending, all-consuming, mindless play.

Every time I start up on the subject of differences between my early years and my kids’, that uneasy parallel – of hearing my parents say the exact same thing – pierces through my brain like a billboard featuring a 30-foot image of Katherine Harris, that much-maligned Florida Secretary of State. That being said, I begrudgingly begin the next sentence with …

When I was these kids’ age, there were hardly any electronic toys and gadgets. That’s mainly because, when we were kids, the few electronic toys and gadgets that did exist came from Japan, and at the time, “Made in Japan” was synonymous with “Piece of Crap”.

See, we had just bombed the Japanese back into the stone age, and their manufacturing facilities were gone. They cobbled together little shops and started churning out whatever they could to make a yen, and were slowly but steadily rebuilding their manufacturing infrastructure. And post-war restrictions on what raw materials they were allowed further slowed down their ability to produce top-quality items for export. As a result, a lot of their stuff was considered cheap junk.

I guess the Japanese didn’t care for that a whole lot. But hey, they sure did change their image, didn’t they? Now, anything we Americans spend the time and research to invent – and then toss away as unimportant – becomes yet another opportunity for the Japanese to perfect, produce and sell en masse back to us. Now, we look at Sony, Lexus, and Furbies they way they used to look at RCA, Cadillac, and hula hoops. Oh, well, that’s what we get for dropping the “big one”. Actually, the “big two’.

So, without the current fare of today’s distractions, we had to revert to using our wits and imagination. It was either that, or watch the pine trees grow. Not being horticulturally inclined or noticeably retarded, we chose to play.

There were the obligatory football, baseball and basketball games; the board games, the card games, the dizzying array of play games (Red Rover, Dodge Ball, Spin The Bottle, etc.); bicycling, skating, swimming, boating, hiking, and eventually, golfing. We had stuff to do.

But above all – more than anything in the whole world – we played Kick The Can.

A simple enough concept: Mark a spot for a “base” (usually on the walkway leading to the front door of the house at which we were playing), take an empty soup can and place it on the base, pick one person to be “it”, and line up everyone to one side. Then give the signal to start, and someone kicks the living daylights out of the can, sending it as far away from the base as possible. Everyone races out of sight (usually behind the house), whoever’s “it” retrieves the can and places it back on the base, and then tries to make visual confirmation of the others. Upon spotting a player, “it” would then quickly run back to the base, put one finger on the top of the can, and holler out, ‘One, Two, Three on …” and then say the person(s) name(s). Those caught would have to surrender, and then take a seat beside the base – a sort of makeshift “jail”.

There was only one way to “free” your buddies. You had to fake out “it”, stealthily approach the base and time it so you reached the can before “it’ did, and once again, kick the living daylights out of the can. Then all prisoners were reinstated in the game, and “it” would angrily retrieve the can and return it to the base, and start all over again.

Strategy was paramount for A successful game. Each had his own technique:

• Some took the “Clinton” approach – they simply hid in someone else’s yard until the game was over;

• Some utilized the “Gosh”” (a.k.a. Gore/Bush) approach – they made their presence and participation known, but stayed way back from the nitty-gritty action;

• Some employed the “Sand Piper” approach – making their way quietly but quickly to within sight of “it”, only to turn tail and run back into the safety of their hiding place;

• And a brave, select few (like myself) took the “Banzai” approach – Never stop running from the first kick; encircle the house and zip by the unsuspecting keeper of the can like a banshee, and just kick the living daylights out of that can.

Now, I watch these neighborhood kids at play, and can only imagine the scenario fo their version of our beloved game – Kick The Can, Version 8.0:

Blasphemy #1: The “can” would be available in designer colors, made of unbreakable state-of-the-art carbon fiber compounds, and light up like Tokyo on New Year’s Eve – price: $20 to $250.

Blasphemy #2: Of course, there would be a special “Kick The Can” Nike line of shoes – probably a Tiger Woods commercial, too, with Tiger driving a “can” beyond the city limits – price: $75 to $200. (Knock-offs for $20, though).

Blasphemy #3: Oh yeah, they make more than shoes. Nike shirts, shorts, socks, whatever – price: $10 to $60.

Blasphemy #4: “It” would have a battery of detection devices at his disposal: Video cameras, Radar (X , K Laser and Doppler), Infra-red Heat Seeking Monitors, Motion Detectors, Sound Detectors, Reconaissance Satellites -price: $80 to $3 billion (Hey, rich kids play, too).

Blasphemy #5: The active players would have the same technology, plus: for communication – Cell Phones, 2-Way Radios, Palm Pilots, Internet Access and GPS (Global Positioning Satellite) receivers for exact locations in planning attacks – price: $25 to $4500.

Blasphemy #6: Oh yeah, we used to play at night a lot: Night Vision Goggles – price: $150 to $850.

(Sigh) …

I can hear you now: “There he goes again, way out there where the loonies fly. What dreamer!”

Maybe so … but do you think those kids of the future will still at least have a Maggie in their lives? What’s that? You do?

Then you haven’t seen the latest item from Japan.

An electronic, robotic dog.

Maggie 8.0.

So … who’s way out there now, huh?

###
The previous article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, June 8, 2000.

Collective Soul Appearing At House Of Blues July 13; New Album Collective Soul (Rabbit) Due Out August 25th

By Brian M. Howle

Perennial favorites, Collective Soul, will be performing at House of Blues in N. Myrtle Beach, SC – along with Gavin DeGraw and Green River Ordinance – on July 13, 2009. Led by prolific songwriter/singer/guitarist Ed Roland, these boys have an approachable casualness for their fans but a frenetic edge to their performances. Over and over again, when I attend a Collective Soul concert, I hear those around me exclaiming, “Man! I forgot they did this one!” or “I didn’t realize they did this one, too!”. Their body of work is extensive and deeply varied – which helps to explain their wide range in fans, noting age to genre differences do not deter anyone from being drawn into their appealing brand of music and storytelling.

Globally known for mega-hits such as “Shine,” “December” and “The World I Know,” Collective Soul hails from Atlanta, GA and has produced 7 #1 singles and sold over 10 million records. The band broke into mainstream popularity with their 1993 debut album Hints, Allegations, and Things Left Unsaid. The group’s self-titled second album arrived the following year and logged a 76-week run on the Billboard Top 200. 1999’s critically acclaimed Dosage saw Collective Soul further its run as rock radio superstars. The first single “Heavy” set a new high mark for 15-weeks at #1 on the Mainstream Rock chart. “Tremble For My Beloved” also appears on the gold-certified soundtrack for the hit film Twilight.

I interviewed Ed a few years back, and it has always remained one of my most favorite interviews bar none. He is at once affable, relaxed and yet readily responsive and responsible; the son of a Baptist minister, he admits to having strong differences but even stronger, instilled values and lifestyle that have served him well in his musical endeavors. The best part is that these things come through clearly in his writing style, and many have become signature songs and generational anthems to their hordes of fans.

Also, multi-platinum rockers Collective Soul have revealed the title and track listing to their upcoming Loud & Proud/Roadrunner Records debut album, Collective Soul (Rabbit). The album, which is scheduled for an August 25th release date, was recorded at frontman Ed Roland’s Lake House studio and is self-produced. The first single, “Staring Down,” shipped to Hot A/C and Triple A formats on June 8, followed by the rocker “Welcome All Again,” which will ship on July 6 to Rock formats.

Collective Soul (Rabbit) track listing is as follows:
1. Welcome All Again
2. Fuzzy
3. Dig
4. You
5. My Days
6. Understanding
7. Staring Down
8. She Does
9. Lighten Up
10. Love
11. Hymn For My Father

Collective Soul recently announced a co-headline summer tour alongside platinum recording artist Gavin DeGraw. Be sure to catch them July 13, 2009 at House Of Blues, N. Myrtle Beach, SC (843-272-3000) with Gavin DeGraw and Green River Ordinance; and August 28, 2009 at The Fillmore, Charlotte, NC (704-549-5555) with Black Stone Cherry and Safety Suit. Tickets for all dates are currently on sale. A US headline date in August and September will follow.
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HOB Interview – Ed Roland: A Uniquely Collective Soul

Ed Roland (Photo by Ben Rose/WireImage.com ©2004)

By Brian M. Howle

Stockbridge, Georgia’s Collective Soul is in the midst of switching PR agencies, as they await the fall release of their new CD. The new agency was most gracious in accommodating Alternatives with a telephone interview of the group’s founder, songwriter and guitarist, Ed Roland, prior to their July 22, 2004 show at the House Of Blues in North Myrtle Beach.

Howle: How is your summer going? What are you up to in preparation for the upcoming tour?
Roland: Well, it’s kind of hard to hear you … I’m at Sea World (Orlando), and Jimmy Buffet is blaring in the background! ….

Howle: Okay, I’ll give you time to find a quiet spot …
Roland: There, that’s better … Well, I’m doing a sort of hybrid of a week of shows and vacationing with my little boy.

Howle: Well, that’s what’s really important when it comes down to it, huh?
Roland: Oh yes, it is, most definitely.

Howle: So, have you started the new tour yet?
Roland: Well, these are more like … this isn’t really a tour; we’ve just finished recording our new CD (Youth), and we start mixing it next week in LA. In between that and this, we decided to get out and do a few shows. But we really won’t kick the tour off until the record comes out, and that won’t be until the fall.

Howle: What’s your writing process? Are you a disciplined writer, or do the tunes just sorta come out of your head at will?
Roland: I’m not disciplined, that’s for sure. I can’t wake up, have a cup of coffee, and then put pen to paper by 9 a.m.; that’s definitely not me. But that doesn’t mean I don’t write in the morning – my life, it fits around wherever I am, so wherever it happens, it happens. I really don’t know the secret … if I truly knew that, I would have done it a long time ago. (Laughs) I’ll just keep going like this, and probably do it that way for the rest of my life. A lot of times it’s just me goofing off. During warm-ups between shows, I’ll be sitting in the back of the bus, warming up – I don’t have a regimented warm-up, I just have my guitar and I’ll start making things up as I go. And that’s how a lot of songs came out, over the years, because I have to write on the road so much.

Howle: So does it refine down into a collaboration with the band, or do you have finite ideas of how you want the parts to go?
Roland: Well, I’ve been writing longer than anybody in the band, so they sorta look to me for the writing. We work together on the songs, I think there’s one song on the new CD that I co-wrote with the producer, Dexter Green, who’s on a couple of songs. But for the most part, they look to me to write. And I present it to them, and it’s not always like, “Oh yeah, that’s great, Ed!” Sometimes it’s like, “Hey man, you need to come back in here with something else!” (Laughs) But that’s good, because it’s the way it should be. They’re proud of what we do.

Howle: How do you guys think “Dosage” (their previous release) turned out?
Roland: Dosage? Hey, I think it’s the best one we’ve done. Really, I’m very proud of that one.

Howle: Alright, here’s where we delve into that Barbara Walterseque question, sort of like “If you could be a tree?”. If you were reincarnated as a show venue (auditorium, amphitheater, etc.), which one would you most want to be – based on the experiences you’ve had playing there, or as a fan attending a show? I mean, is there any particular, favorite one, or one where there’s the best ambiance for the crowd, or the sound?
Roland: Wow … Tough question. … Wow … I can’t even remember the names of the venues, much less a favorite one. (Both laugh) Plus, I’m still trying to walk around a find a place where Jimmy Buffet isn’t blaring in my ear – man, they’ve got him playing everywhere! Um, what’s the one … Oh, I can’t think of the name, the one in San Francisco …I love that venue, it’s a great venue. And for all those bands that were there in the ‘60s … [Tom] Petty did a whole string of shows there about three or four years ago. It’s where all that underground music started …

Howle: The Filmore?
Roland: Oh, the Filmore, the Filmore! That’s it! Yeah, it’s a great sized venue, and it’s just a great vibe every time we go there. I love that!

Howle: Well, there just seem to be some places that have that vibe, that palpable vibe, and you can feel it.
Roland: Yeah, you can feel the history. I guess that’s what makes it, you know? You can be in any room, and if the people have the energy, that’s great and all. But in that place, you walk in and go “Wow, man!”, and look at all the posters on the wall, and it’s a pretty impressive place.

Howle: I know what you mean. So, what’s in the future for you and Collective Soul?
Roland: Just look for our new CD that’s coming out in the fall, entitled Youth. And we’re really excited; we had more time to record this one than any other, so we feel like we did it justice, having that time off to do it. And then we’ll be back on turn by then.

Howle: Alright, and you enjoy your stay with the family, and we’ll be looking forward to seeing Collective Soul here in Myrtle Beach.
Roland: Thank you, Brian, and you enjoy your summer, also.

There is one characteristic about Ed that is inescapable. His demeanor is that of the most positive, energetic and happy types of people you would ever want to meet. The kind of feel-good vibe that leaves you feeling better than before this person spoke to you. And anyone who has every attended a Collective Soul concert knows what I’m talking about. Ed is the consummate frontman, a blend of charisma, charm, extreme talent, unbridled energy and passionate performances. Discover the diverse musical styles of Collective Soul at www.sanctuaryrecords.com, and look for their new release, Youth, in stores this fall.
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The previous article appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, July 29, 2004.

Night Of The Camaroo Kid

By Brian M. Howle

Every year around this time, the first hints of yet another seasonal change make their presence known. The constant vigil for hurricanes, the first cool front that teases the sense before returning us to the relentless sub-tropical heat, the shrill call of the whistles on the football field – all signal fall’s impending arrival. But for me, the changes signal the anniversary of my absolute closet brush with death.

September 18, 1971 was my version of Roosevelt’s post-Pearl Harbor speech to Congress and the nation – for me, “a day which will live in infamy.” A year to the day since injuring my left knee while playing high school football, an old friend from grade school days was in town visiting his relatives, when we happened to meet at a convenience store. We decided to get together that evening to celebrate our reunion with a few more friends.

In those days, any reason to celebrate was acceptable on a weekend night in Andrews, our sleepy little hometown. If a particular cause was lacking, well, the fact that is was a weekend night in Andrews was good enough for us.

But now we had a legitimate reason to party, and all the necessary preparations were made in the harmless spirit of “boys being boys.” There was only one hangout for the younger set, Sam’s Drive-In (fast food franchises were still caloric gleams in our eyes, decades from arriving here), and all social itineraries for the under-thirty set were formulated in Sam’s parking lot. It was the nerve center for gossip, a meeting place for hormonal wildlings and the only place in town to get a burger at night. It was agreed we would make it our strategic command headquarters that evening.

Far removed from the social and cultural influences of Haight-Ashbury, there was no drug problem in the Andrews of 1971 due to two very important facts:

(1) There were no drugs (although I later learned one or two locals had ventured out into the world and come back to town “with a brand new plan,” as the Kentucky Headhunters would attest); and,

(2) No one seemed to consider alcohol a drug.

Well, that worked for us.

Obtaining alcohol – whether legally of age or not – was not a big trick. There were more bootleggers than churches, and let me tell you, Andrews has a few churches. The bootleggers were geared more to the after-hours clientele; more often than not, however, we simply drove out to one of several small grocery/gas stations (redneck prerunners to 7/11s) where the owner filled beer and wine orders via young boys who took your money, ran inside and gave the owner the cash and the order, then returned to your car carrying a brown paper bag crammed with clinking bottles. Generous tips ensured your “connection” kept you in good standing and expedient delivery.

So, not unlike many other nights, two of my friends – Leon (the Camaroo Kid; a moniker that resulted from a previous night of cruising around and attempting conversation while buttered) and Van (bassist in my first garage band) – and I stocked up on beer. But, since our old friend, Charles, was in town, we made sure to have enough to last the night. Each of us bought a case, including Charles.

As twilight began to fall, Sam’s parking lot was bustling with activity. The afternoon football games were over, the boats were all trailered back home after a day on the river, and the eternal cycle of boy-meets-girl/girl-meets-boy was chomping at the bit. We recalled days of old, insulted each other, laughed, hollered at every carload of girls that cruised by, and generally just had a large time. Young, alert, bright eyed, clear of mind and strong of body, we were all Spartacus. We were immortal.

The hours passed by and the empty bottles piled up. At some point, a dangerously low inventory of beer was realized, remedied by another quick run to the little store. A few jokes and a courageously fumbled attempt at pursuing a car full of girls later, we were dumfounded to discover our supply again running low. Satisfied that we were nowhere near the lethal parameters of blood-alcohol content, it was decided that the time had come to upgrade our intake. A short trip across town; lights dosed as we slowly rolled to a stop in a dark alley, a light toot of the horn, an exchange of money and product with a faceless silhouette, and the deal was done. We returned to Sam’s to catch up on anything we missed with sanguine haste.

Now, somewhere along the line, I was separated from my buddies. I don’t know why I was, but it was probably due to the fact that I was extremely intoxicated. Informed by others – for days and weeks afterwards – of my actions that night, the scenarios painted for me were not exactly flattering. Yes, I do vaguely remember climbing up on the back of a toilet at the BP station and passing out (wedged quite comfortably, thank you); No, I do not recall carrying on a conversation with a telephone pole for half an hour across the street from Sam’s, while my compatriots rolled on the ground in laughter.

I also vaguely remember something about Leon having a fight with his girlfriend at some point that night, but I think it was when I was AWOL. After my telephone pole debate, I wandered back to Sam’s parking lot and draped myself over the hood of Leon’s champagne gold 1968 Camaro, where I contentedly dozed off.

A firm hand shook my shoulder, and I opened my eyes. The blur standing over me was repeating a slap-back echo chorus of “GET UP!”

“Leave me alone, now, I’m comfortable!” I barked out in disgust at being bothered.

“No, get up, get up … we’re gonna go watch a race!” was the now discernable plea from the darkness.

What’s this? A race? And I’m in danger of missing out?

“Alright, alright, let’s go … but I call shotgun.” I said as I slid off the hood and wobbled towards the passenger door of Leon’s Camaro.

“No, sit in the back, I already called it,” growled back the voice.

“Alright, but if you don’t open door when I say to, I’m probably gonna throw up on your neck.” I replied as I pushed the seat forward to crawl into the tiny back seat.

“Um, hey, wait a minute … OK, you sit up front.” He wisely capitulated.

After he squeezed into the back seat, I plopped down and started to shut the door when I suddenly had the overwhelming urge to begin inquiring about someone named Ralph. The other occupants quietly congratulated themselves for allowing me quick access to the door.

As we made our way out of town, I became aware that there were now six of us in a car designed for two people and a loaf of bread. Besides Leon, Van, Charles and myself, two more friends – Greg and Ricky – had stuffed themselves into our ride. As we rolled along, steadily picking up speed, Ralph was on my mind again, and I tried to keep my eyes closed so that he would go away. I opened them after a few minutes just as a sign flashed by my window.

“Hey, that was Johnson Swamp bridge?” I asked out loud, my attention drifting as I noticed the telephone poles clicking by like a metronome gone berserk. “Where are we going, anyway? And who’s racing out here?”

“It’s out past Williamsburg High School,” came a shouted reply above the blaring 8-track tape and the loud attempts at conversation between those around me – and the growing whine of a small-block Chevy nearing full song.

The pace of the telephone poles slowed suddenly, and I was pressed hard against my door by a quick left turn. Greg, who was sitting on the shifter console between the front bucket seats, added to my G-force discomfort with his considerable added weight.

“Hey, I still don’t know who’s racing,” I hollered out again.

A voice from the back seat cut through the noise. “I think we are.”

It was at that exact moment when I realized that no matter how drunk you are, your parents’ common sense will still surface through the fog. Their constant warnings of the consequences of back-road street racing came to the fore of my awareness. That, and the fact that over a two year period, eighteen young men had died around our area in high-speed crashes.

As we made another hard left turn, I recognized a house that flashed by. I had dated a girl who lived on this road, and I knew that about two miles ahead of us there was a 15 MPH left-hard curve. I also knew there was no way we were going to make it.

In the company of my peers, I tried to be cool. I leaned over to my left to look at the speedometer as the needle passed 80, and then I sat back.

”You know, there’s a bad curve up here,” I stated loudly.

No one seemed to hear me as Leon shifted into top gear, foot glued to the gas pedal.

“I said, there’s a real BAD curve up here!” I repeated louder, growing increasingly nervous as we scalded down the worn blacktop.

I looked at Leon. He was hunched down on his seat, eyes fixed straight ahead, hands welded to the steering wheel.

“I SAID, THERE’S A REAL BAD CURVE UP HERE! YOU MIGHT WANT TO SLOW DOWN NOW!” There was no more false bravado. I wanted out.

The little yellow diamond-shaped 15 MPH sign loomed ahead as our headlights picked up its reflective paint. In an instant, it flashed by me.

I never bothered looking ahead again. I literally reached down and locked my arms around my legs, and tucked my head down between my feet. The paralyzing fear I had experienced for the previous minute or so disappeared. It was probably just a nano-second, but a warm calmness swept over me as I mused to myself, “So this is what it’s like to die.”

“Take the inside and you got it made,” Greg yelled, elbowing Leon in the ribs with his left arm while raising his beer for another swig as we entered the curve.

Or, as a mathematician would have said, “as we failed to maintain the radius and dissected the apex in a straight line.”

As the 8-track prophetically pounded out 3 Dog Night’s “Mama Told Me Not To Come,” Leon realized what I had been saying. He slammed the shifter down into first gear. Eyes closed and still tightly in my fetal position, I heard and felt the transmission explode as a result. We left the road at well over 100 MPH, clearing a small ditch that ran alongside the curve. The impact back on earth ripped the dual exhaust pipes from underneath the car. The noises were demonous.

We cut through an old barbed-wire fence, taking out rotting fenceposts like toothpicks. The doomed Camaro made a valiant attempt at following the outline of the curve for about fifty yards.

Then we hit a telephone pole, clipping it cleanly at the ground and snapping it again about ten feet up. That ten-foot section sailed right through the windshield – directly above me – and peeled back the roof almost to the back seat. Even though this all occurred at high speed, I was trapped in a Sam Peckenpaw-like film sequence, where everything seemed to be rolling by in super slow-motion. There was a bright blue-white flash that pierced through my closed eyelids as the transformer on the pole exploded. Then a very hard “WHUMPH!” – followed by swirling silence.

We had impacted a large dirt mound behind the pole, left behind by a power company crew as they cleared a right-of-way for the power line. The Camaro hurtled up, end over end and spinning, clipping the smaller saplings left behind by the crew. During this silent flight, I ran my tongue over pieces of teeth that were filling my mouth. I knew my dentist was going to be upset with me.

Suddenly, the slow-motion roll snapped back into real-time with a spine-jarring “THUMP!” Although the car had come to a stop, the silence was deafening, broken only by the angry hiss of steam from the mortally wounded Camaro.

Eyes still tightly shut, I heard Van call out from behind me, “Someone turn on the light!”

“Yeah, I can’t see anything, turn on the light,” another voice repeated.

I opened my eyes slowly. I was sitting upright, looking straight out over what used to be the front end of the car. Although I had accounted for at least two others by voice, I would not look to my left for fear of seeing one of my friends dead. And then there was a third voice from behind.

“Hey … I smell gas.”

That was all it took. I glanced quickly to my left as I started to extricate myself from the twisted mass. Leon was standing outside the car, just standing and looking at the remains of his beloved Camaro. Greg was hanging over the driver’s door; head, arms and torso outside, waist and legs dangling inside, trying desperately to climb out.

And then I was standing outside, too, frozen in awe at the sight before me in the dim moonlight. It appeared as if pages from a book were hanging from all the limbs around us; in actuality, they were the plates from the car’s battery, which exploded during the telephone pole incident. The sensory input was overwhelming: the strange, odorous brew of swamp, oil, gas, blood and beer permeated the cool night air. As Van was making his way through the rear window, I heard Charles and Ricky. I could not believe it. We had all survived.

Just then, I heard a car approaching. But from where? We couldn’t see the road; in fact, we couldn’t even tell where we had come from. A huge pine had stopped us from making another roll, and a heavy growth of trees and underbrush surrounded us after we sailed from the life-saving confines of the powerline clearing. Then, as the car drove by, I saw its headlights flash through the trees. Although I had accounted for everyone, I still didn’t know the extent of their injuries. Getting help as all I could think of, so I took off in the direction of the lights.

I bounced off of several trees in the darkness, but kept forging on at full gait. I saw the car’s backup lights as they slowly reversed, searching for signs of our car. They were just around the curve, in front of us, when they saw our headlights pinwheeling through the air. It was taxing for them, as they were also trying to avoid the power lines that were now draped across the dark highway at a 45˚ slice, lightly touching the pavement before rising back into the darkness, spitting out sparks with each swaying breeze.

Within thirty feet or so of reaching them, my legs were cut out from under me by the barbed-wire fence, enacting its revenge for our annihilation of its brethren in the field back where we left the road. Relatively unscathed by the wreck, my right knee would now join the left in providing me a lifetime of pain.

But the adrenaline levels at such a moment masked the pain, and I continued on. The folks in the car reeled back in startled surprise when I bounded out of the woods at full gait.

“Get an ambulance, get an ambulance!” I shouted at them as I ran in circles in front of their car. “No, get two ambulances … maybe three!” I rambled, as I started to wonder why none of the rest had joined me. I began spitting out my teeth, only to find it wasn’t teeth at all, but little chunks of safety glass from the side window, which I had slammed into during the multiple rolls.

“Hey, y’all follow my voice … Come to me!” I yelled.

“Brian? Where are you, Brian?” Charles was the first to answer.

“I’m on the road, come on out, follow my voice, but be careful, there’s a barbed-wire fence between us and the power lines are down in the road!” I yelled back.

“OH GOD, BRIAN WAS THROWN OUT ON THE ROAD!” Charles cried out, “KEEP HOLLERING, BRIAN, WE’LL FIND YOU!” He began weeping loudly.

“No, Charles, no; I’m alright, don’t worry,” I tried to assure him.

“THAT’S RIGHT, YOU’ll BE ALRIGHT, JUST KEEP HOLLERIN’ … I’LL FIND YOU!” Charles persisted. I hadn’t seen him most of the night, but apparently he was even more drunk than I had been.
I say “had been” because the moment that car stopped rolling, I was dead straight sober. For me, alcohol was no match for life-affirming brushes with the Reaper.

Everyone eventually made their way out of the swampy woods, and we gathered in the glare of our rescuers’ headlights to give thanks for our lives – and to whip up a real good cover story about the circumstances surrounding our attempt at flight. The pasture we plowed through before hitting the pole was home to an old sway-backed nag, who frequently stood at the fence while grazing. The old “Officer, I swear, it looked like the horse was standing in the road so I swerved to miss it” defense was employed and agreed on by all. That was our story and we stuck to it.

The ambulances and the Highway Patrol finally showed up. Ricky was the only one to go to the hospital, treated and released that night for a severe laceration on his hand. Besides ruining my knee on the fence, I had a small piece of chrome molding from the door impaled in my thigh (which I didn’t discover until the next morning). The others escaped virtually unscratched.

All these years later, as I watch all those sixteen to nineteen year-olds heading out for a night with their friends, I can only give them my prudent voice of experience: Don’t drink yourself into stupidity and then drive or ride in a car with someone who has, and don’t allow your friends to, either.

And don’t ever, ever get into a Camaro with Ralph – or Leon.
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The previous article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, September 9, 1999.

‘Red Horizon’ Is Don & Tad’s Excellent Odyssey

By Brian M. Howle

So you think the allure and intelligence of timestaking composition, thoughtful lyrics and the harmonic structure of real music is a dead art, huh?

Have I got the CD for you.

Born years ago of acoustic guitar duets – “Leo Kotke in stereo” in their words – Tad Lathrop and Don Giller have a nicely dovetailed partnership in musical endeavors that are more than worth the wait that preceded their debut release, Red Horizon.

It’s been a long, long time coming, but these are a couple of very gifted and persistent musicans from the New York area who have produced one sweet compilation of great, stay-in-you-mind tunes and delightful get-you-through-the-day music.

Todd Rundgren utilized Motown’s technique of putting the “single” right up front, the first track you hear – and it made him a household phenom with “Hello It’s Me” from Something/Anything?. Lathrop’s “Just Started Learning” earns that spot and sets the tone for what you are going to truly enjoy, if you’re ready for a hybrid sound recalling a Steely Dan/Firefall/Dan Fogleberg mix of influences, but with a very well-defined, orginal timbre all their own.

Be sure to give yourself some personal quiet time when you give this one a listen. Music is music, yeah, I know: but whenever you come across a true labor of love, that has taken these two musical troubadours all these years to produce, it is – as are most things crafted out of love – all the more enjoyable for the wait.

My personal favorites are the aforementioned lead track, “One Night Out” (with great, playful lead riffs), “Margo’s Theme” “City Lights,” and “Army of Ants.” Oh, what the hell, I like ‘em all. And am I biased? Of course … but I always am when it comes to extremely well crafted music, and even more so when an album can make you feel so good about the coming day, just because you took the time to listen to how good the medium can be.

Strike a blow to corporate crap and expand your music library with the good stuff. The CD is available at http://cdbaby.com/cd/lathropgiller and www.amazon.com – give it a listen and start this spring right.
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The previous article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, April 6, 2006.

Velvet Revolver Smokes House Of Blues

Slash does a vintage Les Paul justice on “Do It For The Kids”. (Photo by Brian Howle)

By Brian M. Howle

Take the most talented members of the biggest band of the early 90s (Slash, Duff McKagan and Matt Sorum of Guns N’ Roses), blend them with one of Slash’s old high school jammin’ friends (Dave Kushner); and add the most magnetic frontman/singer of the late 90s (Scott Weiland of Stone Temple Pilots), and, VOILA! – you have Velvet Revolver.

Without a doubt, the hottest ticket so far this year was Velvet Revolver’s December 7 appearance at House Of Blues in North Myrtle Beach. The line of concert-goers waiting for the doors to open snaked around the side and back of HOB, an hour and a half before the show.

Opening up for VR was Luna Halo, a happenin’ little four-piece band from Nashville, TN. Pumping out a nice blend of basic rock & nouveau’ punk, they proved to be a worthy appetizer for the main event.

The packed faithful roared in approval as VR opened the show with “Sucker Train Blues” and “Do It For The Kids,” both wide-open rockers from the new CD, Contraband. Lead singer Scott Weiland delighted the crowd with his usual theatrics, decked out in all-black attire and sporting his patent leather officer’s hat, trusty bullhorn close at hand.

They followed up with two more new tunes, “Headspace” and “Superhuman.” Then the boys dusted off a STP tune, “Crackerman,” to the absolute delight of the crowd. Three more cuts from Contraband followed – “Illegal i Song”; the gorgeously melodic ballad, “Fall To Pieces” – a quasi-autobiographical tune penned by Wieland (which evoked an old-school sea of lighters amongst the fans); and “Big Machine.”

It was time to let things get relaxed, so the boys cranked out Guns N’ Roses’ “It’s So Easy” to thunderous approval. Another STP favorite was served up with “Sex Type Thing,” followed by another new tune, the raucous “Set Me Free” from Contraband.

The masses just couldn’t get enough, and the possibility of a riot crossed my mind when the band departed the stage – but all that was put to rest when they came back out for the encores.

Slash then donned his trademark top hat and pulled out an acoustic guitar to twang the opening chords of GNR’s “Used To Love Her,” with Scott’s vocals in a well-suited match – along with the crowd.

VR then paid tribute to mentors Aerosmith with “No More No More” and followed that up with another GNR classic, “Mr. Brownstone,” before finishing up strong with Contraband’s final contribution to the evening’s great lineup, as they put their all into “Slither.”

Many a rock band have fallen victim to their environment and unceremoniously imploded. The rockwagon ride is not for the faint of heart, and breakdowns can be fatal. Velvet Revolver is the prototypical rock band of the new millennium, and they solidly made their mark on a savvy HOB audience without so much as an afterthought. The trials and tribulations of various band members are well-documented, but somewhere along the way, they all grew up. And unfortunately for the competition, they got even better.

Nope, there’s no broken axle on this rockwagon.
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The previous article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, December 16, 2004.

HOB Interview – Bassist Billy Sheehan Appearing With Fretboard Wizards Vai, Weiner & Sardinas At HOB March 18, 2005

By Brian M. Howle

Revolutionary bass player Billy Sheehan is releasing his second solo album, Cosmic Troubadour, through Favored Nations in February and will be holding down the groove for his longtime band-mate and now label President Steve Vai on March 18, 2005 in N. Myrtle Beach, SC at House of Blues. Joining Sheehan and Vai onstage will be guitar/keyboard virtuoso Tony MacAlpine, fellow Favored Nations artist David Weiner, and drummer Jeremy Colson. Eric Sardinas will open the show, showcasing his signature dobro/slide/blues/rock/fusion style that will simply blow you away.

Produced by Pat Regan, Cosmic Troubadour again sees Sheehan handling multi-instrumental duties and writing all of the material, as he did on his 2001 debut Compression (Favored Nations). The tracks cross a multitude of genres while still remaining true to his hard rock roots. Beginning with the prog-rock syncopation of “Toss It To The Flame,” to the pulsating bass line of the instrumental “The Suspense Is Killing Me” to the closing King Crimsonesque polyrhythm of “A Million Tears Ago,” Sheehan is able to juxtapose elements of funk and blues with a foundation in metal.

Sheehan was voted the “Best Rock Bass Player” 5 times in Guitar Player magazine’s Readers Poll, and has also had his rock n roll legacy cemented, literally, on the Hollywood Rockwalk at Guitar Center in 1999.

I had the good fortune to speak with Billy Sheehan about his career and the upcoming HOB show last weekend via telephone, as he granted Alternatives an interview to promote the show.

Howle: So, how’s the current tour going for you guys?
Sheehan: Well, it’s going great, actually. We’re having a really good time, and the shows have been just been fantastic so far.

Howle:: OK, go back to the beginning for me. What was the catalyst for your involvement in music, and who influenced you at the start?
Sheehan: Oh, man, that’s easy … I saw the Beatles on The Ed Sullivan Show, and I saw all those girls just going absolutely insane over the lads, you know (laughs) … and I was shy around girls, and I knew I loved music, so it all just made perfect sense to me!

Howle: Hey, seeing and hearing those boys on the Sullivan show is what got me into bands, too!
Sheehan: Hey, they seemed to have that kind of impact on guys at the time (laughs).

Howle:: What’s your writing style? Do you write from a lead line or a bass line perspective?
Sheehan: Well, both, actually … but it starts from a main line of melody, and then works from there. There are some songs, of course, that evolve from bass riffs that you play around with. Those might be bass-lined, but most of it is from normal writing, and then a bass line works itself into the song.

Howle: What do you feel has been the greatest innovation in music since you began – say, your favorite gear, or toy, that you use in recording and playing?
Sheehan: Well, kids now have the ability to record at home unlike anything we ever dreamed about. I mean, what would cost literally hundreds of thousands of dollars just a few years back – multi-track recorders, special audio effects and the like – you can now have all that on a home computer. It’s really leveled the playing field, and I think that’s a great thing; it’s really been a revolution. I don’t think we’ve seen a lot of results from it yet, but I think that’s coming.

Howle: Hey, I’ve always maintained that if I could have had this technology back when I was a kid, I’d rule the world now! To be constrained only by the limits of one’s imagination? My head would have exploded!
Sheehan: Oh, it’s the perfect thing for musicans who know what they’re doing, but even for those who are just starting out; having a studio in a box for what was the equivalent of several million dollars just twenty years ago. I think we’re in a great time for music’s evolution and change. I think the pendulum’s swung back the other way now, and it’s a very positive time for music.

Howle: Any new artists of interest that you’ve encountered or heard lately? Anyone out there catch your ear?
Sheehan: Well, with our touring schedule, it’s sometimes hard to catch a lot of new stuff. But I do have time to catch something on the radio or download some I-tunes now and then. Some of the bands I enjoy are, let’s see – As I Lay Dying, My Chemical Romance – they have some interesting stuff. As far as my own library, I’ve been attempting to get everything on CD. My collection is an eclectic mix of stuff, but it’s all the great music that had an affect on me throughout the course of my life. I thought it would be a hundred CDs or so; right now I’m at about 700 and looking at probably another 500 (both laugh) … but everything in my collection is something that had a personal affect on me.

Howle: So, what’s on the immediate horizon for you? What’s the feedback like for your latest CD, “Cosmic Troubadour?”
Sheehan: It’s been amazing. I’ve gotten some great e-mails from all over the world. It’s been out in Europe, and in Japan a little be longer – but people are diggin’ it, and that’s great to hear, because I worked really hard on this record. I always try to do my best – I always try to push the envelope, and out-do myself. And I never take the path of least resistance (both laugh again) … I always want to do more than what my capabilities are, and people have responded to it in a positive way, and I’m very, very pleased with that. And so far, right out of the gate, the shows on this tour are fantastic, and the crowds have been great. I’m very lucky, very thankful, and very happy about it.

Howle: Well, just so you know, Myrtle Beach has a knowledgable little rock culture that’s looking forward to seeing you guys onstage.
Sheehan: Oh, I have a couple of musician friends in Myrtle Beach, and they’ve told me it’s quite the place for music, so I’m looking forward to coming there and playing for you guys. It will be very, very cool.

There you have it, kids. For an incredible night of guitar (and bass) virtuosos – who will, individually and collectively, simply amaze you – be sure and catch the amazingly talented Steve Vai and his buddies – Sheehan, MacAlpine, Weiner & Colson – at House Of Blues in North Myrtle Beach on March 18, 2005. And make sure to get there early, because the opening act – Eric Sardinas – just may be the best thing you’ve never seen. Believe me, as Billy said – it will be very, very cool.
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The previous article appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, March 10, 2005.

HOB Interview – Johnny Winter: The Definitive Texas Bluesman

By Brian M. Howle

The working theory has always been: the blues was the American black man’s initial contribution to an original musical style, an impetus that precluded rock ‘n’ roll. No one would dispute it, mainly because you can’t fight facts – and the truth. And while many white men have sought the Holy Grail of bluesdom acceptance, only a select few are admitted to the “Legends in Their Time” blues club. The dean of this group is, without question, Johnny Winter.

Born in Beaumont, Texas on Feb. 23, 1944, Johnny Winter had learned to play clarinet, ukulele and guitar by age 5. He formed his first band, Johnny & The Jammers in 1959 at age 15, along with 12-year-old brother Edgar on keyboards. His first records were two original songs, recorded by Dart Records in 1960, and as his legend spread, he would sit in with his heroes – Muddy Waters, Bobby Bland and B.B. King – whenever they came to town. The true measure of his ability came in 1962, when B.B. King was playing a Beaumont club called The Raven. Folks were asking B.B. to allow young Johnny to play. So B.B. asked him for his union card (which he had), and after continuous requests, finally capitulated and called Winter up on stage. Johnny played his song, got a standing ovation, and then B.B. took back his guitar!

Brought to national prominence by a 1968 Rolling Stone article about blues artists on the Texas scene, Johnny became the object of a heated bidding war by various recording labels. In 1969, Columbia Records won out, and his self-titled Johnny Winter was released to rave reviews and massive sales. In the 35 years that have followed, he has recorded over 17 albums of his own music, and has performed on and/or produced another nine for other artists.

Johnny’s latest release is I’m a Bluesman, on Virgin Records, and is his first new CD in eight years. The band on the CD is his road-tested touring band, consisting of ace harmonica man James Montgomery, bassist Scott Spray, drummer Wayne June and guitarist Paul Nelson. The CD features guest appearances by such friends as keyboardist Reese Wynans (from Stevie Ray Vaughn’s celebrated backing group Double Trouble) and guitarist Mike Welch. A question of finding the time and the right material, plus a long recuperation from hip surgery, I’m a Bluesman contains 13 tracks. From three tunes by his friend, Paul Nelson; to songs by blues men Hop Wilson and Lazy Lester, who inspired Johnny during his early days in Texas; to his own compositions “Sweet Little Baby” (a slide drenched song he wrote during a tour stop in Central Europe’s picturesque Prague); the electrifying “Lone Wolf” (the album’s first single); and the finale of “Let’s Start Over Again,” composed with harmonica player James Montgomery. Pulse! reviewer Ted Drozdowski notes: “Winter is living the blues cliché that music players improve with age.”

In preparation for his appearance at House Of Blues in North Myrtle Beach, SC on July 20, I had the tremendously good fortune to speak with Johnny via telephone earlier this week.

Howle: Well, Mr. Winter, I must admit – I’m a musician first and a writer second, and right now I’m in a dual-world nirvana! It’s an honor to speak with you.
Winter: Ahhhhhh … well, thank you very much.

Howle: So, what’s the basis for the new CD, “I’m A Bluesman”? What’s on it?
Winter: Well, some really good blues.

Howle: Alright, I guess that’s a classic example of an understatement! How did you go about picking the material for this record?
Winter: Oh, we had all kinds of material. We had to go through it all, and decide what was good, and what was bad. The songs I picked were the ones I was going to sing, so they were the ones I was in tune with.

Howle: And what kind of gear are you using these days – guitar, amps, etc.?
Winter: I’ve got a Lazer guitar, and a Gibson Firebird that I use for slide work. I use a Music Man 4-10 amp.

Howle:: How did you hook up with harmonica player, James Montgomery?
Winter: Well, we just called him up and asked him if he’d be interested – and he was real interested! Oh yeah, I’ve loved working with James.

Howle: And how has the musical landscape changed over the course of your career? What do you see new that is coming up?
Winter: Hey, the blues … it comes and goes. I mean, it will hit it big for a time, and then it gets where it seems like no one is listening to it. You just have to stick with it.

Howle: Is there anyone out there who has caught your ear, any young artist you like?
Winter: Well, Derek Trucks is really good.

Howle: And finally, is there any message you’d like to extend to your fans here?
Winter: Well, I don’t have much to say, really … just please buy the CD and come see us at House Of Blues.

Ah, if only our politicians were as succinct and to the point. Johnny is a man of few words when describing himself, but his guitar and his music speak volumes when he and his band perform.

For anyone who loves the blues, or anyone who wants to find out what the blues is really all about – come see Johnny Winter at the House Of Blues on Tuesday, July 20, 2004 at 8:30 p.m. Your extra bonus for this show is opening act, the D.B. Bryant Band from Sumter, S.C. A regional favorite, no one enjoys performing for an audience more than D.B., who can hold his own with just about any blues guitarist. Whenever he picks up his natural finish Strat, grabs a Bud bottle and starts playing slide, that smile never stops. For tickets or information, call (843) 272-3000 or visit the website: www.hob.com
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The previous article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, July 15, 2004.

HOB Interview – Bucky Covington: Just A Good Ol’ Boy

By Brian M. Howle

No matter what anyone tells you, folks who watch American Idol tend to lean one particular way, no matter what. Yeah, we all marvel at the talent, but human nature – in particuarly, regional nature – will have us rooting for our “local” contestant every time. And if you deny it, you’re lying, plain and simple.

So it was really no surprise when I found myself pulling for “next-door neighbor,” 25-year-old Bucky Covington, of nearby Rockingham, NC when it got down to the final groups. The odds were against him on many levels, not the least of which being burdened with stereotypical southern taglines and misconceptions. But Bucky did us all proud and made the Final 8, before the American public went Postal and… well, that’s just my personal opinion.

But Bucky’s fortunes didn’t end with elimination from the contest’s finals. Sawyer Brown frontman Mark Miller saw the proverbial diamond-in-the-rough with young Master Covington, and quickly scooped him up, signing him to his Lyric Street Records label, and has released his first single, A Differnt World. Touring to promote the record, Covington will be appearing at the House Of Blues in N. Myrtle Beach on Sunday, September 2 (See Page 25 for details). I spoke to him via telephone about his upcoming show, his life post-Idol, and being southern in general.

Alternatives: Well, hey there, Bubba – tell me; what’s been going on …
Covington: (Laughing) Man, it’s been awhile since I’ve heard anyone say “Bubba,” (laughs) … now I know I’m back home!

Alternatives: Yeah, well, I was born and raised in the area, so I started to call you “homey,” but hearing your voice let me know it was ”gonna be fine!” (Laughs) So what’s been going on in Bucky Covington’s life since “American Idol?”
Covington: Man, things have been awesome … it was one of the best things I ever did. The perfect way to get your name out there, for sure. well, Mark Miller signed me up with Lyric Street Records, and seriously, the guy’s a genius. They put together a band for me, and man, I never knew how much work and how many people are behind every song you record. My management is great, and the fans, dude, the fans have been simply awesome.

Alternatives: Well, you had a lot of support from everywhere, but you should know that South Carolina was watching your back! (Laughs)
Covington: (Laughs) Oh, and to leave that show and come back home … see, I was in California for three months, which is not a bad thing but it’s a totally different vibe out there. But then I came back, and as soon as I got near home towards Rockingham – man, signs hanging up everywhere, radio stations are talking about me; television stations are running stories on me; it’s just totally mind-blowing.

Alternatives: What’s been the worst thing and the best thing about all the success you’ve encountered since the show?
Covington: Well, honestly, there’s not a lot of “worst part” to it … but if I had to pick anything, I guess the fact that now, anything you do becomes public knowledge. Now, that’s not a bad thing, because I’ve always tried to keep my nose clean and do right. And the best thing, is everything else!’
Alternatives: (Laughs) Oh, well, yeah!
Covington: Oh, the best thing is getting on that stage and performing. There’s just nothing else like it. I mean, I was on stage performing for dang-near free for 10 years, you know? Plus, hearing yourself on radio, seeing yourself on television, everyone knowing you know .. the pressure is all over it. But, then again, it helps in pushing you to do right, which is what my mamma always told me to do anyway. Our course, she doesn’t know about everything that went on when my Senior class went to Myrtle Beach for Senior Week!

Alternatives: (Both laugh) I’ve been to your home in Rockingham to see a few dozen NASCAR races when they still ran there. Who are “your boys” in the Chase right now?
Covington: I’d love to see Junior (Dale Earnhardt, Jr.) start doing well, what with all he’s going through – he’s a great guy; I had the chance to meet him. I like Jeff Gordon, too; we use DuPont paint in my dad’s body shop, so, product loyalty, man! And another guy I’ve met that I really like, Elliott Sadler is a really cool guy.

Alternatives: Yeah, those are great guys, you’re right about that! And folks underestimate the importance of product loyalty to long-time NASCAR fans. So, what’s in your future, Bucky?
Covington: Well, the single’s done great; it’s been in the top 5 twice, and the video went #1. Now we’re releasing the new single, Good to Be Us and we’re fixin’ to go shoot the video at the end of September. And God bless the fans and everything they’ve done for me on Different World, and I hope Good to Be Us does just as well.

Alternatives: Well, thank you for your time, Bucky. Keep up the good work and don’t forget where you come from – we’re all mighty proud of you. And we’ll be looking forward to seeing you here on Sunday, Sept. 2 at the House Of Blues, my friend.
Covington: Thank you, buddy. I can’t wait to see all my old – and new – friends in Myrtle Beach. See ya!
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This article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, August 30, 2007.

HOB Interview – Tesla’s Brian Wheat: Keepin’ It ‘Reel’

By Brian M. Howle

Much like their namesake, Tesla is one of those often-overlooked American rock bands that have shown fledgling musicans the true meaning of “never say die.” (See HOB article on Page 25). Surpassing the 20-year mark as a band, these boys have never left a crowd disappointed, and I can tell you from extensive experience – that ain’t always the case. So in preparation for their visit to the House Of Blues on Sept. 17, I spoke with bassist Brian Wheat as the band awaited that night’s show in New Hampshire.

Alternatives: First of all, allow me to congratulate you on having such a fine, strong, correctly-spelled first name!
Wheat: (Laughs) Oh, yeah, well thank you. And same to you, too!

Alternatives: How’s the current tour going for you guys? And where are you at the moment?
Wheat: Oh, it’s great, man. Right now I’m in Hampton Beach, New Hampshire for a show tonight. Yeah, the band is tight as ever, sounding good, and the crowds have been terrific. Just a great response, and we really appreciate it, too. Yeah, we’ve been traveling all over, and this is the final leg of our U.S. tour. Then we’re off to Australia, Japan and Europe on into November, and after that we’ll be back in the studio again, probably around March of next year.

Alternatives: Tell us about ‘Real To Reel,’ your latest CD.
Wheat: You can buy Real To Reel at all retail outlets, such as your Best Buys, Wal-Marts, K-marts, Targets, and your local record store. With this album, I think you really get to see where we came from and what we’re about. This is what Tesla grew up on before we became Tesla. This is where Brian Wheat learned how to play bass listening to Paul McCartney, or Frank Hannon listening to Jimmy Page, or Jeff Keith listening to Aerosmith or Humble Pie.

Alternatives: Does this live show reflect the album predominately, or are just some of the songs added to your standard set?
Wheat: Oh, there are like 4 or 5 of the RTR tunes, and the rest are all of your Tesla favorites!! The covers are always a kick to add into the show, and we love ‘em. It’s good to mix it up, and the fast seem to really enjoy it.

Alternatives: And there’s a very cool addition extra for your fans who attend this show, isn’t there?
Wheat: Oh yeah! You show your ticket stub after you’re in, and you’ll get a special CD of additional tunes by Tesla, 12 bonus tracks in all, called ‘Reel 2.’ It’s our way of saying “thanks” for supporting us and buying our music from us on our own label. Everyone’s been great to us over the years, and we just wanted to figure out a way to give something back. And this was the perfect way.

Alternatives: Sweet! I know folks will be tickled to find out they get a “freebie” out of seeing you live! So tell me, what’s your creative process [in songwriting] like?
Wheat: Well, it’s pretty standard, really. Someone pitches their idea and what it’s like – you know, basic groove, chorus, bridges and leads and all that, and then everyone else starts contributing ideas .. it pretty much goes like that. Sometimes things are worked out in your head before you even present it, but most of the time we work it off of each other and make it an honest collaboration. It can be handful, but it’s a lot of fun, and very rewarding when you have the finished product.

Alternatives: So, how’s the new guy? (Dave Rude, guitarist – not exactly new after a couple of years with the band – who replaced original guitarist Tommy Skeoch).
Wheat: Oh, he’s amazing, a great, kick-ass guitarist, and a really good guy, too. He’s been with Tesla for about two years now, and we just have a great time whatever we’re doing.

Alternatives: I understand you guys have formed your own recording label, “Tesla Electric Recording Company.” What’s it like to have your own label, and what are the key advantages and/or disadvantages?
Wheat: Man, the single greatest thing is the total freedom to do whatever we want, without the corporate thumb being involved, you know? Having that control, man – that’s it in a nutshell. That is unbelievably great. It opens up so many possibilities for everyone, and it’s so much less stressful. And we’re now in complete control of our finances and business decisions, so it makes us smarter businessmen and partners. It’s just a great deal all around. And there’s really not a disadvantage, as far as we can tell.

Alternatives: So when you guys come to a place like Myrtle Beach, which is a resort area besides just another HOB venue, do you get to take any time off to enjoy it? Or are you pretty much back in the bus and on the road after the show?
Wheat: (Laughs) No, sadly, we’re pretty much heading on to the next show in New Orleans. It would be nice to be able to do that, but no, not yet. But we sure hope to be able to come back and visit one day when we’re not committed to being someplace to do a show the next day, and can just hang out. That would be nice.

Alternatives: Well, we’d love to have you stay awhile with us here in paradise. Now, what’s in the future for Tesla?
Wheat: Oh, man, just to keep rockin’ and hoping folks come out and enjoy the show. Even though we can’t stay too long beyond the show (laughs), we always have a great time there. And we want everyone else to have a great time, too. So come on and help us rock the HOB – we’re looking forward to seeing everyone!

Thanks, Brian. You guys take care and we’ll see you on Monday, Sept. 17 among all the “signs.” So I urge you all – veteran Tesla fans and newbies alike – to be at HOB for this show, because every time these boys come to town, that HOB stage needs a day to cool off. See ya at the show!
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This article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, September 13, 2007.

HOB Review – Doobies Do It Right At HOB

The Doobie Brothers crank out “Dangerous’ to open the show at HOB. (Photo by Brian Howle)

By Brian M. Howle

The best of the best come our way here on the coast of South Carolina with quiet regularity, as the House Of Blues has come to spoil those who enjoy great music on a regular – or part-time – basis.

Last week was no exception, as The Doobie Brothers brought their legendary live performance to the HOB Music Venue on Friday, March 9, 2007.

I always hate it for folks who wait until the last minute to buy tickets to a show at HOB … because, when you’re a ‘70s rock icon band with oodles of Top 10 albums and singles, you need to live up to the hype – which isn’t easy after 30 or so long, hard years of touring.

And when your show sells out the joint, you dang sure better give the folks their money’s worth.

No problemo, kids.

With original members Tom Johnston and Patrick Simmons fronting this formidable group, those wonder years of yesterday came roaring back to life with a renewed vigor. Along with John McFee on guitar/steel pedal guitar/fiddle/vocals; Skylark on bass/vocals; Guy Allison on keyboards/vocals; Marc Russo on sax; and Mike Hossack and Ed Toth on drums, the Doobies put on a show for the packed, sold-out crowd – above and beyond the call of doobie duty.

The Doobies his the stage running with the raucous, upbeat pickin’ of “Dangerous” (the only worthwhile thing to come from the Brian Bosworth Stone Cold movie was this catchy soundtrack single) kicked the masses into a higher gear, and frothed them up for the likes of “Another Park Another Sunday”, “Takin’ It To The Streets” (Damn, Pat can nail that sucker on vocals just as good as that other dude), “Little Bitty Pretty One”, “Blackwater” (with the now obligatory verse change of Patrick’s “Carolina moon gonna keep on shinin’ on me” inserted to keep the faithful paying attention), and “Long Train Running”.

There are seven or eight songs that I consider to be the greatest songs every written – and I still contend that the Doobies’ “South City Midnight Lady” resides within that laurel, as Patrick Simmons’ vocals, John McFee’s steel pedal guitar and the entire band produced a studio-quality rendition for the fortunate folks in attendance.

And for true UberDoobies, there was a sense of remembrance for Keith Knudsen (drummer from 1974-82), who passed away from pneumonia in February of 2005.

The happily-drained crowd beckoned for the encore, as all-time sing-a-longs “China Grove”, “I Can’t Live Without You”, and the ultimate prerequisite for any guitarist/vocalist just starting out, “Listen to the Music”.

Let this be a lesson to those who waited too long and missed out: Next time the Doobs hit the HOB up in North Myrtle Beach, get those tickets early and often. Because shows like this one won’t last forever.

Except in our collective, musical memories.
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The article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine March 15, 20007.

HOB Review – Ace Frehley Gives The Faithful A Show To Remember

Ace Frehley wails on that gorgeous Les Paul, as he cranks out “Rip It Out.” (Photo by Tami Ashley)

By Brian M. Howle

There was a special vibe at House of Blues on Friday, May 15, as the crowded venue revved up, appropriately enough to kick off 2008 Bike Week, in anticipation of the Ace of Rock, original lead guitarist of KISS, the one and only Ace Frehely. And per Ace’s request, both opening bands played original songs during their sets, as Lucky 13 and Psychward did great jobs of prepping the crowd with high-energy, well-honed selections, and did fine jobs vocally as well. Lucky 13 bolted on stage with verbose rock ‘n’ roll, a power-quad band with stellar guitar leads and a tight rhythm section, whereas Psychward was a more laid back, progressive style, reminiscent at times of Jeff Beck, and steeped in traditional colorations.

But when the lasers broke the darkness and the countdown began, the masses cheered the loudest when Ace stepped out in all-black, wailing on that gorgeous 3-pickup Cherry Sunburst Les Paul, taking it hard right out the gate with “Rip It Out”, “Parasite” and “Snow Blind.” He playfully interacted with the crowd, interspersing intro’s with banter, then charged into “Rock Soldiers,” “Breakout,” “Shot full of Rock,” “Into the Void,” and “Strange Ways.”

Sensing his fans needed a changeup, Ace delved into a medley of “Stranger,” “NY Groove” (gotta love that sequence-flashing-neon guitar), “Shock Me,” and “Rocket Ride.” It should be noted that his 3-piece band blended well in a tight performance, with a symbiotic frenzy amongst themselves in their stage energy.

The roar from within the music hall let Ace know all was well, so he wrapped up the night with “Duce,” “Love Her,” “Love Gun” (from 12 to 72, everyone knows this one!), “Cold Gun,” and finishing out the set with “BD Tag.”

Thanks to Ace for a great show; to Carol Kaye of Kayos Productions for her gracious help, and to Jacki Giardina at HOB for her never-ending assistance in promoting these shows.
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This article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine May 22, 2008.

Interview – Point Blank: Tracii Guns Opens Up

LA Guns (L-R): Tracii Guns, Paul Black, Jeremy Guns and Chad Stewart.

By Brian M. Howle

The mean streets of Los Angeles have been the birthplace of quite a few bands over the years, but none have enjoyed the rock life more than LA Guns. Born in the ‘80s when metal met theatrical and Glam Rock was born, appropriately, in the warm dreams of West Coast life and LA nights. They ruled those nights with wild abandon, and some tasty riffs thrown in for good measure.

You may have thought your chance to ever experience LA Guns was long gone, but guess again! Because, dear hearts, I am happy to inform you that Retro Active presents LA Guns, featuring founding members Tracii Guns & Paul Black, with supporting/opening acts: 80 Proof & Shark Legs, at The Sound Garden (formerly Tim Clark’s Rock n’ Roadhouse), located at 2701 S. King’s Highway in Myrtle Beach, SC, on December 1, 2007.

Tickets are available at Retro Active or online at shopretroactive.com; in-store cash price is $10.00 each. Charges have a $2.00 service charge per ticket; online $12.00 each plus shipping (includes the service fee).

With a signature sound that is always high velocity and wide open, LA Guns (Tracii Guns-Guitar; Jeremy Guns-Bass; Paul Black-Vocals; and Chad Stewart-Drums) have cultivated a loyal and devoted following of metal maniacs who have a little something extra when it comes to recognizing what rock is supposed to sound like, whatever the genre might be.

Oh, and by the way – for the purist of fans out there, take note: LA Guns will be in Retro Active (same day, Dec 1) from 4:30-6:00pm signing autographs, taking pictures & hanging out. WAVE 104.1 will be broadcasting live from the store 4-6pm with the incomparable Scott Mann hosting the remote.

Retro Active is located in Broadway at the Beach, off of 29th Aveune North in Myrtle Beach. For more informatio, call 843-916-1218 or 843-902-2877.

I had a chance to speak with LA Guns guitarist Tracii Guns last week via telephone, and we covered a wide range of topics in preparation for their upcoming performance at The Sound Garden in Myrtle Beach on December 1. Here’s what the very outgoing and gregarious guitarist had to say:

Alternatives: So, my friend, what have you and the boys been up to recently?
Guns: Oh, man, we’ve been all over the place, literally. We’ve been touring for quite a while now … we just did a wicked summer tour that included Rocklahoma, which was very cool. We’ve just been really busy, and having a great time.

Alternatives: Well, I’m glad you’ve been enjoying it. So let’s go back a little bit and cover some early ground. How long did you play under the name “Faster Pussycat” before changing the name to LA Guns?
Guns: Well, Mick Cripps asked Paul to play in Faster Pussycat. LA Guns was formed after they met me in 1987.

Alternatives: And what’s it like, playing with Paul Black again?
Guns: (Laughs) Man, that’s like a double-edged sword, you know? I mean, he’s the greatest frontman, no bones about it. He really connects with the crowd, regardless of where we are – it’s just amazing to witness. Me? Man, I struggle with stuff like that, you know? I just want to play guitar! That works well for me, and for him, and for all of us.

Alternatives: Hey, that makes sense to me. Now, we’re fairly certain you guys will be doing material from “LA Guns” debut album and the follow-up, “Cocked & Loaded”. But will we hear songs from “Vicious Circle” and “Man in the Moon”?
Guns: Oh, yes, absolutely. We play about an hour and a half, so we tend to do at least one from each album. I don’t think anyone will be disappointed.
Alternatives: Is there any chance of a Brides of Destruction reformation (Traci’s collaboration with Motley Crue’s Nikki Sixx), or has that project been put to rest?
Guns: Man, B.O.D. is something that is really dear to my heart. We started that whole thing out as a “let’s do this thing our way” deal, you know .. and then, well, labels got invovled with their usual crap and it just pulled us all apart. I would love to work with Nikki again, though.

Alternatives: Alright – well, what’s your relationship with other former Guns members? Would Phil Lewis (original lead singer) be in a new lineup, or is that completely out of the question now?
Guns: I’m sure glad you asked about that. (Laughs) You know, stories come from musicians themselves. And with Phil … I really like him; he’s The voice of LA Guns, I think we all recognize that – and I’d like to see him back with us. But he’s just insecure, you know, and he gets on the Internet and he just spews stuff. I’ve asked him to do it already, but I think he thinks I would just treat him like a hired gun. But I know the public would just love it if we could work something out.

You know, I’ve always said I wanted to be big, to really make it, at least once. After that, music is mood-altering. I love all music … I change and evolve. Not all do.

Alternatives: Wisely said. So, what are the biggest changes that have occurred during your life, with music? And any advice for the young musican out there just starting out?
Guns: Man, the music climate changes so much, it’s just dizzying. During the fourth LA Guns tour, in 1994 I think, we were playing theatres and small clubs that seated 1500, 2000 people. Man, we had just finished tours playing arenas for 70,000 … 70,000 sold-out seats! And we were asking ourselves, “Now what?” I mean, it was just something that really brought our morale down. But it gave us opportunities to explore metal and hard rock modes, and to continue to grow as musicians.

So to the young ones, I say: Experiences tell the tale. You will be forever learning. If you love what you’re doing, do it! There were so many bands who were just clones (of Metallica, Nirvana, etc.), and that just sucked. Be orginal. All of us in the original LA Guns, man, we were all over the place, musically. But that’s what molded our sound and gave us our sound. Be original!

Alternatives: Are there any major differences in your audiences, from West Coast to East Coast?
Guns: (Laughs) Yeah, well, the West Coast crowd exudes a party atmosphere, very laid-back. The East Coast tends to be a bit more cynical and inquisitive, but that’s upper East Coast. The further south you go, the heavier it gets; the timbre does. We recently played International Texas A&M, all college kids. We opened for Flock of Seagulls, and those kids knew all the lyrics and songs. We have a really strong Latino fan base that’s been there from the original LA Guns days, too. But the wildest was when we played this summer in Korea, for our biggest crowd of the year – 40,000 screaming Korean fans who loved us. (Laughs) Go figure, man!

Alternatives: Hey, do you remember the very first time you were ever in a recording studio, and how cool that first time was?
Guns: Oh man, my first recording was when I was 17. I had this Marshall amp, and through the headphones it sounded like frying bacon, you know? (Both laugh) Anyway, the guy who was producing it reached over and flipped on a noise gate, which I had never seen or heard before, and it was like a miracle! Silence – until you strum a chord or pick that lead. Cool! My first thought was, (Both of us say this at the same time) “Man, where can I get one of those things? I’ve got to have one of those!”

Alternatives: Needless to say, I know exactly what you mean, Tracii! Anyway, what’s in your future, and is there anything you still want to do?
Guns: Man, I just want to keep learning and growing, both as a person and a musician, you know? I want to work with the next Lennon & McCartney. There are a lot of great high school kids out there who are really players, and I want to see that great mix of the old with the new.

Alternatives: And with that, we’ll end this aimless ramble between musicians (Both laugh). I really appreciate your time and gracious sharing, Tracii. We look forward to meeting you guys at Retro Active, and seeing you at the show at the Sound Garden on December 1 in Myrtle Beach.
Guns: And Brian, I thank you – I really enjoyed this interview. And we’ll be ready to rock when we get there, so come on down and say hello to us during the day, and then come out and join the fun at the show. We’ll see you then!

Folks, I’ve been fortunate enough to interview many, many musicians over the years, and it’s always a treat. But this guy is the real deal – he’s down-to-earth and unpretentious, and truly appreciates his fans and friends. So, come on out December 1 and meet LA Guns at Retro Active, and catch the show at The Sound Garden later that night!
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The article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine November 22, 2007.

The Last Christmas Tree

By Brian M. Howle

The one thing that remains constant and universal about a person throughout their life is the memories of Christmas and the entire holiday season. Unless you weren’t born and raised in a country that celebrates Christmas, of course. Thing is, with each passing year, we are being drawn closer and closer to living in a country that doesn’t.

And if that does ever come to pass – and don’t be so surprised if and when it does – you will still have the means to buck the system and keep right on enjoying everything about Christmas. Despite what has been deemed socially or politically incorrect, all of those wonderful, palpable, cherished memories will live on within the most private recesses of your mind.

So before the Thought Police start cracking down on Christmas even harder, I would like to share a few of my Christmas memories with you.

For some, I guess all those twinkling, flashing colored lights automatically become the cornerstone for earliest recollections of the holidays. For others, it could be the brightly festooned packages, with miles and miles of shiny ribbons and bows.

But for me, it always comes back to the silent sentinel of Christmas that stood watch over our home, our family, and (most importantly) our gifts and presents from Santa Claus within the warm, safe confines of our living room – the Christmas tree.

As I’ve stated many times before, my father owned the Piggly Wiggly in my little hometown of Andrews, S.C.. And though there were these ancillary hints and clues that Christmas was soon to be on the horizon – what, with Thanksgiving parades and the official start to the shopping season immediately thereafter. But for me, the seminal moment for signaling the advent of Christmas was when the big truck backed up to the front of the store. Not in the back, where every other item in the store was unloaded in a loud, frenzied, chaotically choreographed line of workers and steel-wheeled ramps that expedited cases of beans and the like.

No, the only truck that unloaded at the front of the store only came from the distant mountains of North Carolina, and it’s cargo was bushy, sticky and unmistakably aromatic.

The Christmas tree truck.

Once those sap-ladened, needle-dropping bad boys were leaning against the width of the store’s windowed facade, then – and only then – officially, Christmas was on!

Now, I have no idea what my family did before I came into the world, as far as picking out the tree was concerned. I’m sure they struggled in their sweet but incompetent way, bless their leetle hearts.

But once I was around, here’s how it went down: Daddy would come home during his lunch break and pick me up in his blue Ford pickup truck (the official Piggly Wiggly delivery truck could only be a Ford, just so you know) and delight in watching me try to look over the big steel dashboard, straining on tip toes to get that first rush of spotting the trees lined up out front. And he had his hands full, trying to bring the truck to a stop and keeping one hand tightly gripped on me to keep me from bolting out of a still-moving vehicle.

And then the banzai attack was on. I flung myself onto the waiting arms of thousands of sticky, pointy branches of wonderfully scent-laden needles, trying to avoid the big clumps of oozing sap that invariably lay hidden underneath. I rustled every limb, holding every one at arm’s length in order to access the merits or faults of each tree.

Oh, the inspection was grueling and unforgiving. My developing leetle artistic brain demanded perfection in symmetry, with a full-bodied balance in the front, back and sides. Gaping holes or snapped branches? On my tree? Perish the thought.

And more times than not, I had this knack of settling on the one tree out of hundreds with the deformed trunk, where the infant tree’s beginnings in life were altered and maimed by some unknown event that twisted and thickened the base into a quasi-Quasimodo appearance. It then became daddy’s job to hacksaw the blemish off so that it would fit down snugly into the solid steel tree stand with the little water reservoir bowl.

After obtaining my considered approval, the tree was hoisted up into the faithful delivery truck, and daddy let me in the back so I could ensure that rascal didn’t try one last attempt at escaping my determined leetle clutches. Cold December wind in my face, I wrestled to keep the beast from escaping during the entire 4 block sojourn to our house.

Once home, the tree was placed in the aforementioned stand out on the patio, where it was watered and allowed to “breathe” overnight, and the magical transformation was complete. What was once a drooping, disheveled heap of evergreen needles had metamorphized into a full, thick, massive tree. Standing strong and tall, it was then brought inside and placed in the obligatory corner of the living room.

Enter mama.

Yes, selecting the tree was my forte. But decorating it was hers.

And though I didn’t realize it at the time, it was one of the few things that induced bonding between us. Perhaps it was her way of grooming me for my task in adulthood, when I would have my own Christmas tree to adorn. But she took great pains to show me how to arrange decorations and lights in a symmetrical, balanced manner, standing back and studying her work before swooping back in for a critical adjustment or repositioning of a light.

It’s funny, they irony of it all, now that I reflect on it. My mother and I fought like cats and dogs for the majority of my childhood and adolescence, and wasn’t pretty. There were times when each of us wanted the annihilation of the other, no doubt about it. And to be honest, I think that most of the time it was probably due to my then-undiagnosed hyperactivity (back then, instead of a fancy name for behavioral disorders like HD/ADD, they would just call you “spayshul”), with me badgering my mother non-stop about whatever my question of the moment was.

Problem was, I had a zillion questions every minute of every day.

But when it came to decorating the Christmas tree, mama somehow transformed into a patient, doting parent, and answered each question with untypical patience.

And together, we would step back when all the boxes of lights and ornaments and candy canes were empty; after the last few handfuls of aluminum “icecicles” were tossed over the finished project like shimmering strands of silver snow and ice, just so – and bask in the self-satisfying admiration of our mutual handiwork.

And as with families all over the nation and the world, just like yours, we not only celebrated our faith, but our family as well. The deepest, strongest, most emotional and total sensory recall-producing memories are furrowed even stronger within our gray matter when we link family to Christmas.

The years passed by, and each successive holiday saw the commotion over the tree diminish, especially as each of the three children found their wings and flew the ol’ nest on South Farr Avenue.

And, being the youngest, I saw the tree diminish in size – but not always for lack of enthusiasm. Once the advent of the artificial tree took root, so to speak, in the Howle household, my job as official finder became obsolete.

This turned out to be very prophetic and practical for me, as I have chosen a career where software upgrades, planned obsoletion of hardware and a throw-away mentality towards the experienced adult worker have combined to draw our extinction ever nearer than it seems. Which, to me, is ominously imminent.

But before my title was dust, my parents began to struggle with the physical task of climbing up the 78 degree incline of the attic steps, digging out the boxes from the massive asbestos sanctuaries that resided up there, hauling it back down the grade without breaking anything. Then they would set it up in a corner of the room, after moving furniture to make a place for a tree that would now only host perhaps a dozen presents – primarily for my parents, since we were all now gone, except for me.

As they complained one year, while I trudged the harrowing steps to retrieve the lifeless tree from its hibernation, it occurred to me that because of the arrangement of the limbs to the center “trunk,” you could remove one half of the 360-degree circumference of the tree. Because it was already rather short, would fit on top of a row of low dresser cabinets flush against the wall, affording them even more usable space without having to move half the room around and repeat when Christmas was over.

Hey, I had my moments.

The years rolled on, and Christmas at home in Andrews became less annual for all of us to be together, what with our own families and the like.

So when my parents faced retirement and sold the family home, the tree made the move to their new abode. But it only saw a few more Christmases.
And when my father passed away in August of 2004, we weathered our grief and awaited Christmas without him for the first time in my and my siblings’ lives, and for the first time in 64 years.

We always thought that, if mother passed away first, that daddy would not last a week, because his love for her was stronger than life itself.

How much more irony could be infused by the fact that, after his death, she simply gave up and suffered a heart attack on Thanksgiving day.

On her deathbed in a Sumter nursing home, I visited her in December, the day before she died. On my previous stop, I couldn’t take the barren, sterile hospital walls in her room any longer. I bought her a tiny little Christmas tree, and festooned it with leetle tiny ornaments. It even had lights, just so
.

She regained lucidity for a moment, gazed upon the little tree and smiled, squeezing my hand, and then faded back off into semi-consciousness.

Our bond with the treewas our first act of contrition all those years ago, and became the final act when she passed away the next night.

So to all of you on this wonderful holiday season – whether you be Christian, Jew, Muslim, Hindu and all the others – I wish you all the best of good tidings, love, and peace on earth. And whatever you do, please – put away those petty fights and differences with those you really love.

Because you never know when you’ll share the last Christmas tree.
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This article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, December 20, 2007.

Invest Heavily In Vaseline, Y’all

By Brian M. Howle

Well, here we are again, kids. Time for another adventure into that dearly American exercise in Democracy – or stupidity – that we have come to know and love as election time.

Now, a whole lot has happened since my last column, so let’s get right to it:

I was looking through some of my old columns last week, in preparation for cranking out this one, when I ran across a July 2002 offering entitled “Al Qaeda vs. Al Greeda.” Not yet a year since the tragic 9-11 attacks, the nation was engaged in hand-wringing over the specter of possible attacks on our nation’s adopted birthday.

And when I read this little jewel, it is stunning in its continuing, unchanged relevance and in its saddening accuracy of how truly screwed we are as a nation.

When originally written, it was on the heels of the Enron debacle as it unfolded, with the depth and far-reaching repercussions yet unknown.

Let’s relive those thrilling days of yesteryear and take note of the similarities to today’s headlines. The old adage, “The more things change, the more they stay the same” was never more apropos:

“I guess a lot of folks are shaking their heads over the recent barrage of stock market scandals – and while I have no holdings in the market to fret over, I don’t understand why people are so surprised by it all.

Yet, everyone needs to stay on their toes in case of another Al Qaeda attack.

But is Al Qaeda really our biggest threat? As horrible and tragic as those Sept. 11 attacks were, we may well be in the midst of something even more tragic – an attack from within.

Oh, it’s not as impressive or immediate as flying a plane into a building, that’s for sure. But for all of my adult life, I’ve seen it coming.

We’ve taken the American Dream and milked it for all it’s worth, maybe to the point of running the well dry. What was once a simple desire and goal to make better lives for our children and us has mutated into an ugly, self-fulfilled prophecy of greed at all cost.

Need an instant example? All-you-can-eat restaurants – really, can it get any more arrogant than a desire to gorge one’s self to the point of nausea? Just so you can “get your money’s worth?”

Apparently, capitalism is a thorny little concept with many built-in landmines. Profit-driven incentives have turned honest, simple goals into chasms of unrelenting deceit that now threaten to destroy our entire economic system. For decades, normal folks have watched the rich get richer through shrewd, bold investments on Wall Street, and along the way daydreamed of one day being included in that exclusive club of high rollers.

Then the ‘80s came along with the new “Me” generation of get-outta-my-way, I-got-mine players. The slow erosion of character, values and ethics gave way to a landslide of money-grubbing hands, as everybody wanted to get in on the “sure thing” that would create the next block of millionaires.

The catch was, the men who ran that exclusive little club – Wall Street – had the game fixed from the get-go. After all, who was going to stop them from running the table on us all?

Federal regulators? Congress? The Justice Department? Seriously … the lack of enforcement of shenanigans in the trading world is shameful at best.

And now the vaunted glass ceiling of exclusivity has truly begun the metamorphosis of change, as that darling of handy gals everywhere – Martha Stewart – now faces the same scrutiny and plunging fortune as the boys. Personally, I hope Martha comes out unscathed, because, well, she’s the first woman and all, and I think she deserves some gimmes during the initial years. Later on, if she tries it again, then I’m alright with letting Martha go to prison . [Which was fortunate for me, because she did.]

Now, Congress (what a bunch of posturing weasels these guys have turned out to be lately) has jumped up on the ol’ “God & Country” bandwagon and called for the heads of all stock markets and major companies to appear before them, because “you got some ‘splainin’ to do, mister.” They want the presidents and CEOs and CFOs to take an “Oath of Disclosure,” stating that – to the best of their knowledge – the books are not cooked (By the way, I understand Martha has some great recipe ideas for that).

Oh yeah, I find this interesting: You know all those loudmouth morons who are constantly using “them damn foreigners” as the standard answer to all of these problems? Well, I wonder if they have noticed that in the mix of folks accused in these stock/financial swindles, that there are virtually no Blacks, no Hispanics, no Asians, and no high-profile Arabs. There are no thick, indiscernible accents or Pigeon English to contend with. Just a bunch of middle-aged to senior white guys – oh, and Martha.

Along with the stock mess, the courts and the church are at it again. The infamous California (why, oh why did I know right away that this was a California court decision when I heard the headline intro on the news?) judges have stirred up a good ol’ fashioned hornets’ nest with the decision that – within the Pledge of Allegiance – the words “under God” were unconstitutional.

Well, when you live in a country where the founders were all Anglo-Saxon Protestant or Catholic Christians, chances are their descendents are going to be a bit perturbed with such a silly move. (I like to call them founders; but really, they sorta started all this deceit and manipulation with that pesky Native American problem – wherein they sorta added insult to injury when they added on slavery, too)

Of course, the fact that the single founding purpose was for a country where people could choose their own religion and live free of government intervention, completely negates any argument about the decision that these two judges reached. Technically, they are correct: the phrase implies ONE religion over another. Especially when you add in the fact that “under God” was a little nicety that President Eisenhower’s administration sought to be bestowed on the Pledge of Allegiance in 1954. Oh yeah, that and the fact that the Pledge of Allegiance wasn’t around when the constitution was written. The framers of the constitution didn’t create either version, for whatever reason – I tend to think they would have immediately realized the possible conflicts. Then again, they muddied up that “all men are created equal” part with the provision that one be “at least three-fifths white,” too, so maybe we should cut them some slack at not being omnipotent all the time.

On the Merit Score, however, it’s ridiculous to even have the case brought to ANY court, at ANY level. If you don’t believe in religion and you don’t want your kid to recite the Pledge, have them step out of the room and smoke ‘em if they got ‘em for all I care. But don’t screw up the ritual for the rest of us, okay?

Now, I’ve never claimed to be a perfect person; nor will I start now. But during my childhood and adolescence, there were many, many instances of hypocrisy that shook my trust in the adult world – and the advancing forays into the world of big money investments did nothing to restore that trust.

As children, we were subjected to an infusion of rules, laws and regulations, which were more or less pounded down our collective throats. And they all seemed to be of the highest good intentions, and they all followed the common sense approach to life. Be a good little pig – do the right thing, be good to your neighbor, serve your country, and give thanks to your God for everything that happens in your life, good or bad.

Oh, except for the fact that there were some little pigs more equal than others.

There is no way on earth that I’m the only person to notice the shadowy demise of honesty, character, and even the most minute molecule of ethical standards in all aspects of our society over the course of my life. So how did we get to this point?

The same way I’ve come to poorly attempted compromises in my take on life, I guess.

I’m guilty as charged, for turning my head the other way when I heard a person of standing use racist language in private.

I’m guilty as charged for keeping quiet when I overheard police officers using “good ol’ boy” language when referring to a suspect.

I’m guilty as charged for – in my youth – wanting to keep my job, and going along with a corporate decision that I knew to be illegal or unjust.

I’m guilty as charged for just not getting involved in the hundreds of thousands of little opportunities I’ve had to try and change the things that I know are wrong.

But I take solace in knowing that while I am guilty, I am not alone.

That means it’s up to all of us to right these wrongs, and to forgive those of us who have bowed to the ostracized-threat induced capitulation of not standing strong against the forces of wrong and evil.

President Bush, in promoting his administration’s plan to back school vouchers, recently stated to the administrators of the school districts wanting federal funding: “Show us results, if you want government help. We can’t allow our children to be trapped in schools that can’t teach and won’t change.”

I second that, Mr. President. Now … can we also ask our government and financial leaders to do the same? Show us results, if you want our help and our vote. Give us back our trust and dignity and maybe even a little say so in our country. We can’t allow our citizens to be trapped in a country that can’t govern and won’t change.

***(Sigh)***….

So, there they are, words that have just as much – if not more – acute relevance to the totally screwed-up state of our nation today as they did in 2002.

And now, while we stand on the precipice of what may very well be the most important election for the future of our nation, what are our so-called glorious leaders doing?

Are they hammering out a bi-partisan solution to our mortally wounded economy?

Are they addressing the massive deficit that the nation has now accumulated, so massive that your grandchildren’s grandchildren will still be paying it off when they die?

Are they taking care of those brave, courageous and dedicated service men and women (with expedient, efficient medical care and educational benefits that were used as bait to lure in the poorest of our young people) who have honorably served their nation and put their lives on the line, with over 4,000 paying the ultimate price?

No. Not a snowball’s chance in hell of that. So what are they actually doing?

Let’s see … it’s now 4:20pm on Wednesday, Oct. 22 … right-wing extremist media moron Rupert Murdoch was printing outright, fabricated lies about Michelle Obama ordering champagne and lobster room service in her New York City’s Waldorf Astoria suite while her Arab, Muslim, Terrorist-For-Pals, Commie Pinko hubby addressed the U.N. … and the usual parrots repeated the lies on their national radio shows.

One small problem, boys: The sista’ did not stay at the Waldorf on that day. Ooops … well, boys, be sure not to bother retracting or apologizing for the lie (although Rupert did)… but hey, once the bell has been rung, stupid people can’t hear anything else.

Over on the left wacko fringe, liberal overkill from all media is just so friggin’ bourgeois that it is equaling sickening.

The last sounds and images on my television news were tirades against Gov. Palin for “exorbitant” costs incurred in clothing and transporting her daughters around the country while trying to save Grandpa’s bacon. Hmmmm… $150,00 is “exorbitant?” After a $860 Billion Wall Street bailout? And a multi-TRILLION dollar war paid for with borrowed money? AND with Social Security about to implode? Oy vey …

We’re free-falling into a global economic abyss at light-speed, and no matter which party wins, you will be paying more taxes, as will your grandchildren, for decades to come.

Change? Hardly.

Country First? Pardon the golden parachutes for laughing.

Hey, bozos: Show us results if you want our help. And please try to remember this:

Payback is a bitch.
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This article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, October 23, 2008.

HOB Interview: Deepfield’s Baxter Teal Goes Deep

By Brian M. Howle

Everyone knows the old business advice about “getting in on the ground floor.” Well, here’s your chance for the musical equivalent, because Deepfield, based in Charleston, S.C., will be opening up for Puddle of Mudd and Saliva at House Of Blues in North Myrtle Beach, S.C. at 8:00pm on Tuesday, October 16, 2007.

I spoke with Baxter Teal, III (lead singer, guitar) via telephone recently and sought to find out what makes the band tick, and where they’re heading in “The Big Show” now that they’re opening for major headliners.

Alternatives: So, Baxter, how’s it going? Where are you now?
Teal: Well, we just finished the Drowning Pool tour across Texas, and we were just in Colorado Springs, and I’m actually in Chicago right now, looking at real estate because I’m going to move here after the tour is over, so my wife and I are looking are looking at properties now.

Alternatives: Oh, way cool .. (with facetious tone) So, are you looking for a place beside Oprah’s house?
Teal: (Laughs) Well, actually, we’re in the same neighborhood, so, yeah!

Alternatives: You da man, dude. Now, how did you guys all get together and form ‘Deepfield’?
Teal: Well, Russell Lee (drummer) and I were in a band before this, and we had some radio retention. A label in New York got sorta interested and we did a couple of showcases. Now, it didn’t pan out with that band, but I started writing music and the label took interest in that, and Russell sorta jumped ship with me. Jerry King (lead guitarist) and I were bartending in Charleston; he’s a great guitarist, so that made sense. And Dawson Huff has been in the band for about a year now, and he just answered an online request for a bass player.

Alternatives: Are you from Charleston?
Teal: No, I was born in Chapin, SC, right outside of Columbia; the band itself is from Charleston; and Dawson is from Columbia as well.

Alternatives: What were your major influences, and what styles do you blend?
Teal: Oh, that’s a good question … our influences are very diverse, as musicians; speaking for Jerry and Russell and myself. To me, they’re all combined in the process and come out as our original material in our rock sound. And we’ve made a big effort to not be “categorized” by one genre of rock. We have a record that’s full of hard rock stuff as well as easier listening … that’s one thing we never want to do, is get pigeonholed as one genre of music, because that genre can die at any time. So those influences can be anywhere from Porcupine Tree to Dream Theater to Rush and maybe some Southern Rock; and vocally, you’ve got Journey and things like that.

Alternatives: Hey, first thing I noticed when I listened to your CD was the spectrum of style and composition. There are killer rockers (Like “44 Teeth” and “Dead Horse”) that just nail you back, and then the ballads are just so melodicaly powerful. So when you write, do you just go with at-the-moment creation, or structured stuff where you write around whole notes and do guitar chords in diminished and sevenths and stuff to fill the sound spectrum?
Teal: Another good question! Actually, on the CD, most of those songs were written on computer. Jerry did a melody, and I would add on to it … the song “44 Teeth” was written, the drums were played the way he wanted all the way through, and we just added music to it. Mostly, it’s just melodies out of my head, and we throw music to it. It’s what makes it so organic; we start at the bottom and everyone sorta throws in their take on it. So it’s not like every song is written by me on an acoustic guitar – although some are – but that’s why the record has that feel of organic rock, and we pride ourselves on that.

Alternatives: Well, we wish you all the best and look forward to seeing you, Baxter.
Teal: Thank you for your time to help, Brian. We look forward to seeing you, too.

So come on out and discover a great, home-grown band on Tuesday, Oct. 16 at the House of Blues in N. Myrtle Beach. See ya there!
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This article originally appeared in Alternatives NewsMagazine, October 11, 2007.