Woodstock: The Last Civilization

“History is bunk.” - Henry Ford

Henry Ford would have liked Woodstock, insomuch as it was held on a farm and ’ole Henry was a country boy from way back, having been born and raised on one, and remained a country boy in his heart even after he single-handedly industrialized and modernized the United States during the first half of the 20th century. He loved the old barnyard music and would dance to it any chance he’d get. And like many, I suppose, in that wacky Woodstock crowd, he detested jazz. Also, Henry Ford was a family man, that illegitimate kid aside, and Woodstock began as a communal gathering that evolved into one big happy family.

Lastly, Henry Ford was a believer in progress and wasn’t that what Woodstock all about?

It had been a helluva few years since Jack Kennedy was elected with all that promise of continuing the meek and mild ‘50s. But then we were forced to deal with his murder, that of his brother and Martin Luther King, Jr., plus all that shit over Viet Nam and…and then, Woodstock; proof that the inner strife that can plagued our nation from time to time can be overcome, and we can gather together and co-exist peacefully and…

Oneness. Yeah, Henry Ford would have related to that, too. He felt that a sense of family could cure all of society’s ills, no matter how bad. But enough of Henry Ford; let’s focus on a couple of other larger-than-life characters who also had a somewhat significant impact on the direction of this county in the 1960s, namely, Lyndon Johnson and Richard Nixon, if for no other reason than that it seemed the people of Woodstock may have gathered to give the powers-that-be the collective finger … “we don’t need you; we can have our very own little town right here and live in uninterrupted harmony.”

Amazingly, it WAS a town. From what I now hear, some eight million people were there, at last count. With those kinds of numbers, it could have turned out to be the “Sea of Madness” that Neil Young sang of, but instead was a sea of Mud and Sex and Drugs and Booze. And races. Which makes it all the more incredible that there wasn’t the kind of chaos which would erupt at Altamont five months later. The music was diverse, too – folk, country, blues, rock, soul and funk, all thrown together in a gargantuan, sweltering melting pot. If I’d been there, maybe I could tell you who sounded good and who was less than stellar. But I wasn’t there, and not even listening to the movie soundtrack can help me much except to remind me that Sly and the Family Stone were, and are, probably the most energetic, spiritual and righteous band in rock history.

Five years ago, I was invited to a party to celebrate the 20th Anniversary of Woodstock. I was barely acquainted with the couple hosting the bash, but I knew them as a fairly sedate pair so, just to be ready, I stashed a 12-pack of Old Style and a frozen blue ice block into a nylon satchel. Any fears were put to rest when I arrived to the music of The Doors and five kegs waiting in a backyard full of oddly dressed people of all ages dancing and drinking. There was a lot of beer and wine being spilled, so it was hard to tell if it was sweat or booze or saliva that glistened off the bare skin of so many on this brutally hot and humid August night in Chicago.

A few hours into the evening, I saw a beautiful black woman of great stature and considerable build grab some skinny white kid – barely of drinking age compared to her 40-plus years. For a few minutes, they danced arm in arm to a feverish beat, laughing until she went for him and they began kissing violently as others continued to move furiously around them, unfazed. In a matter of moments, he managed to stoop down and force his head under her oversized, loose fitting tie-dye shirt, pressing his face against her generous, sweating braless breasts. It was good to see that some of the folks were celebrating the 20th Anniversary of the ultimate festival of love in proper fashion.

Meanwhile, I walked around with my cassette recorder dangling around my neck, asking some teenagers in the crowd what “Woodstock” meant to them. To most of them, the essence and the spirit of the thing meant nothing, though the girls were giggling over Jim Morrison and the guys were digging on the Hendrix that was being played, as if both were still alive. Looking back on the party, almost five years later, I guess that’s not so bad. These people will have their own Woodstock to deal with this summer at the very same location. I wish them luck. Just think of the pressure that’s going to be on them to recall something worthwhile about those events in another two decades.

* * * * *

I walked away from the party feeling drunk, tired and unsatisfied. Had the tribute been merely another excuse to drink beer, get stoned for the first time in ten years and listen to the Jefferson Airplane without being embarrassed? Maybe; and since that was most likely the case the first time around, that’s not such a bad thing.

But as I’ve sat here pondering the event known as “Woodstock,” and its vast and curious repercussions, I have tried to achieve the mood, as it were. I walked down the block and bought a case of Schlitz in cans. (Do you know how hard it is to find Schlitz beer these days?) I drank a 12-pack, and then went out to the backyard to roll around naked in the mud – we’ve had a bit of rain lately. I then came in and put on the record – “Woodstock: Original Soundtrack from the Movie,” which I still possess. I imagine I could have smoked some dope, too, but weed was never my thing, so I periodically downed shots of Cuervo instead.

Well, shit. I’m sad to report that I really don’t feel “transposed” back to the place and time, and I can’t even seem to latch on to any sort of peaceful ebb in my own setting. In fact, I feel lousy, what with this Schlitz beer running through my system and David Crosby whining for more (or was it less?) “bottom end,” and the only repercussion I can pinpoint is that the original concert – all three glorious days of it – gave us a reason to have another, 25 years later. Ah, memories…

Here in 1994, I guess I’m not buying all this hype and sentimentality. It was nice enough while it lasted and there was a scant bit of good music there, in between the political and hippie blithering. But Woodstock wasn’t, as many have attempted to deem it, a “new beginning.” It was a crazed and muddy ending to an era during which we thought anything was possible, even the gathering of “a half-million kids for three days of fun and music.”

Little did we know. We thought the ‘60s had been nuts, having no idea how insane the ‘70s would, in retrospect, show us what a bunch of thugs we were. Far above the music and any symbolism, Woodstock was the final chapter in a book about open-mindedness, generosity and acceptance. It really should have happened in 1967, the same year as the Monterey Pop Festival, which any performer who attended and/or played both will tell you and was a far better gig.

But it didn’t.

I think it’s time to put J. Geils' “Blow Your Face Out” on the turntable and mix a margarita.

Our Man Funk Gets the Bluesfest Blues, Part 2: The "End Of Summer" Bummer

Okay, where did we leave off last? It’s only because an acquaintance recently stuffed the July issue of Showcase Chicago in front of my face did I know that I'd promised the publishers of this magazine in-depth coverage of a scintillating rhythmic movement occurring some 300 miles south of Chicago in a place they call the Gateway City. It's reassuring to hear such things, especially for me these days, what with a series of nasty confrontations in Chicago which have left me heavily distressed, discouraged and downhearted about the music biz in general. But first of all, why is it that, my report on the "burgeoning R&B scene in St. Louis" has yet to be filed?

When I last gave consideration to this newspaper and its readers, I was moving through St. Louis at dawn, past downtown and onto Gravois Road, heading southwest on a portion of what remains of old Route 66. For many years, my '63 Riviera has been a faithful son of a bitch of an automobile, but on the trip down from Chicago, the oil light continued to pop on, all the more visible in the darkness of the night. When frequent checks of the level revealed minimal oil usage, I ventured on until, along Gravois Road, the goddamn light stayed on, just about the time I came upon Phil's Barbecue. This is when I heard a simultaneous pop & thud, which damn near shook my balls off. Well, I know enough about cars to realize that the beast had blown a $20 engine part. I proceeded to lose all the oil in a matter of nanoseconds, causing the engine to seize. I cruised slowly until the Buick began arching up the hill that turns into the parking lot of Phil's, "the only barbecue joint in town serving breakfast." Unfortunately, by the time the Riv came to a stop, the tin ass of the thing was still hanging out on the main road.

Most vehicles as old as 1963 have no emergency lights, so I put on the parking brake and went around to sit on the trunk, waving around what few cars driving by may not see me sticking out in the lane in the early morning hours. A couple of hookers, apparently just in from a night's work, were across the street and, spotting me, waved. I balked, instead giving them a wave to come over my way. They galloped across the street, stumbling in their five-inch. The black one stepped out of a shoe and had to go back in the street to retrieve it, which didn't matter; the streets in St. Louis are empty at dawn - at least, in this neighborhood. The white one - a freckled redhead with about twelve extra pounds of Budweisers emitting from her tight cut-offs and rubbing beneath her crotch, asked if I needed a "morning pick-me-up. Only ten bucks for a tongue twister!"

"No thanks, honey, I can't deal with it right now; I've got a dead motor vehicle on my hands here in the middle of the street. Why don't you and your girlfriend here give me a hand? I'll buy you both breakfast. How 'bout it?"

The black one, with her skinny, weak legs, sat in the car and steered the thing, while Little Miss Stout and I pushed the Buick up and over the hump, into the parking lot. I had an extra pair of sneakers in the trunk which I gave her to wear so she could get a grip.

* * *

In fact, the place was not open 24 hours, but the cleaning crew was in and so was the chef, so I persuaded him to throw some chow together for the three of us. He brought out bowls of scrambled eggs, has browns and baked beans, a plat of pork ribs, a stack of white bread and two pictures of Busch Beer. ("You know, I can get in a lot of trouble for service liquor this early!") I explained to the ladies that I was in no position to rent a car and had no choice but to bring my personal mechanic down from Chicago, with a replacement car in tow, and have him haul the Riviera back the city for an engine transplant.

Meanwhile, I had to continue to work; to pursue the story. The whores, revealing their innocence, were impressed by my coolness of manner and resiliency in the face of this latest hurdle that had been rudely placed before me.

"We could use somebody like you, somebody who is really in business. We can't get any of the local.... dealers to.... represent us. They say we're too young. So what about giving us-"

"Whoa, shit - I'm no pimp. Besides, I've got a job to do for the gang back in Chicago. They've sent me down here to check on your music scene. I don't have time to get into the sex business right now."

Delilah, the black one, spoke up. "Hell, I can help you there. I know most of the club owners around town. I can get you in. But you have to help us."

While finishing breakfast, I told them that I'd have to think about that one. In the meantime, I was in bad need of a shower.

Marjorie, the white girl, just stared at me from across her empty plate and, as beads of sweat ran down her neck and into her cleavage, mixing with the barbecue sauce that had dripped into the same place, said, "Oh, we can help you with that, too."

* * *

TELEGRAM - June 8, 1994

TO: Nort Johnson, Publisher & Editor, Showcase Chicago
FR: Mad Bomber

RE: "St. Louis Rhythm & Blues" Assignment

BUICK GROUNDED. STOP. STORY IN STATE OF FLUX - PROCEED WITH AUGUST ISSUE. STOP. STRANGE ENCOUNTERS WITH LOCAL "BUSINESS" - GREAT PROFIT OPPORTUNITIES. STOP. NEED INVESTMENT - SEND $2,000 CASH ASAP. STOP. NO - $3,000. STOP. FURTHER INFO/CORRESPONDENCE BY JUNE 15. STOP. JF.

* * *

The sharp edge of a razor is difficult to pass over;
Thus the wise say the path to Salvation is hard.
- Katha-Upanishad (From The Razor's Edge by Somerset Maugham)

Living a life of righteousness and nobility in search of truth and salvation brings with it many burdens. There are sometimes decisions to be made which don't exactly adhere to the old adage, "if it feels good, do it," but in the final outcome, such decisions are often Right. The arrival of my mechanic in St. Louis the day after my encounter with the two hookers shot a dose of reality into my veins that, I suppose, was necessary. The ladies had been kind to me with regards to my need to freshen up. So when my mechanic showed up at the Best Western in his 1958 Buick Centurion, declared that he had no spare cars and that I would have to accompany him back to Chicago, I was forced to consent, much to the dismay of the ladies. But it was too late; I was gone, thus bypassing a once-in-a-lifetime chance to be part of a world of which even I had little knowledge, outside of what we've all read in police reports and obituary columns.

For the battle with the St. Louis rush hour (not to mention the five hour drive back to Chicago) we grabbed a case of Michelob, a fifth of Cuervo and a half-dozen limes. Then we returned to Phi's Barbecue to hook the Riviera onto the back of a Buick even five years older which bore a strong resemblance to a US Army issue tank. Battling traffic, we ate rib-tips-to-go, drank beer and listened to Neil Young's Harvest. As we crossed the Mississippi, into Illinois, I asked what I'd missed in the last week.

"To tell you the truth," my mechanic reported, "lots. My sources tell me that the new Stone that's set to hit the newsstands portraits a Chicago band called Veruca Salt as the Next Big Thing. And sure enough, they seem to be all the rage around town and in the local rags. Just as well; I've stomached all the news on Urge Overkill and Liz Phair that I can take."

"I know what you mean," I said, cracking open another Michelob. "I happened to catch Urge's act some weeks ago and it was enough to me want to go home and hurl my old JVC receiver through the window and out into the yard for anyone who'd be able to lift it and take it away. They represent everything that's wrong with music today. I left the show early; first time I'd ever done that."

Which was true. I'd never left a musical performance of any type before its conclusion, no matter how appalling the content. But in the case of Urge Overkill, it was much more than Bad Music. The entire shtick was sickening, from the boring, uncreative songs to the lackluster, mediocre musicianship to the matching shirts worn by the four band members that cleverly spelled out URGE. And the audience loved it. At least the ones on the floor. Most of the people in the balcony began conversations with each other from the middle of the second song, on. But on the floor, in the Mosh Pit, they were going bonkers. And that's because they were supposed to do so. The music press had shoved Urge Overkill down their collective throats as The Happening Group, so they must like them; it was their duty to accept this overrated pack of posing impersonators as musicians. Marketing had won again. It was a hideous spectacle and as I sat there watching a few attendees begin to actually leave twenty minutes into the set - purses were gathered up, good-byes were exchanged - I speculated that I could have had these thoughts about some of the Bands Of The Day even twenty years ago. But this was today and one would think that the music industry, or even the buying public, had learned from the past. But they had not.

With those "uniforms," they reminded me of Devo, except that Devo had recorded a few catchy tunes in their day. Those new URGE shirts fit tightly on their skinny bodies and, though it appeared they weren't quite used to them yet, it was obvious that the boys were happy and proud to be wearing them. And shouldn't they be? This was their bread and butter. Sadly, they seemed so preoccupied with their veritable trappings, that they lacked the ingredients that can overcome bad songs and no talent - emotion, passion, drama and energy. I remember thinking "No wonder Kurt Cobain spread his brains all over the kitchen floor." In this was the initial indication of the legacy to be left and cared for by the disciples of Nirvana, Cobain probably sensed it and decided he wanted no part of it.

Thirty minutes into the set, I walked out myself to look for dinner.

* * *

"Are you guys still cooking?"

"No, the cook left about an hour ago. You wanna beer?"

"Sure, a Leinie, with two shots of Jim Beam."

Why not? I was having no luck fining a bar with a grill still open and, considering that I was in the area fondly known as Wrigleyville at 9:30 on a Sunday night, I really shouldn't have been surprised. The crowd in this neighborhood - most of them, young and old alike - go strictly by the book. Dinner at six, followed by the weekly laundry chores. They've been out for the weekend and they're not about to screw up their Monday by going on a third consecutive binge, especially when most of them can barely handle the first one. During the week, it's bottled water, or maybe Coca-Cola for breakfast, but come Friday, by God, it's straight from the office in all their sartorial finery, to some downtown bar for Coronas (with limes) and a Happy Hour Buffet. Come Saturday morning, it's a headache, though one not so harsh that a good workout over at Century Mall can't cure. Now they're all revved up again for a Saturday night out at El Jardin Restaurant for that lousy food and a couple of those infamous margaritas. (This is not to be confused with the El Jardin Cafe that has some of the finest Mexican food in Chicago.) Anyhow, that's all it takes to have them vomiting on each other the next morning, missing mass for the third Sunday in a row. So, yes - Sunday evening, they're ready to lay low. Which is why it's damn difficult to locate a tavern with an active grill in that location on a Sunday night, other than take-out pizza and hot dogs.

When the girl behind the bar brought me my beer, a glass and two shots of bourbon, she gave me a look with a strange edge and tilt of the head.

"What's wrong? You look depressed."

"I guess I am. I feel like I've just witnessed the end of rock and roll as we know it."

"Don't tell me - you just come from the Metro!"

"Good God, I did! How'd you know?"

"There were some guys in here earlier swinging deals for Urge Overkill tickets. Said they were playing there. Tried to get me excited, but I wouldn't be interested even if I wasn't working. I just don't get the joke, I guess."

It was obvious that she wasn’t caught up in the typical hype that seems to accompany so many of these fly-by-night bands.

* * *

My mechanic wasn't one to get caught up in the hype, either, and was sympathetic to my complaints.

"But I tell you, these Veruca Salt girls are it. You'd be wise to give them a listen. I'm going to pull over in Williamsville for a piss. Hand me that tequila, will you?"

Right, I thought....and this is the man I'm relying on to restore the Riviera to its original glory. But first, I needed to find alternate transportation for a return trip to St. Louis. When we pulled into Chicago, I called the Fat Man.

"Hey Jocko, you still have that LeSabre sitting in the garage?"

"Yea, what about it?"

"Why don't you sell me that beast? I blew the engine in the Riv and I'm desperate. I'm ready to meet your price."

"Excellent," Jocko replied slowly. "Come and get it."

Unfortunately, the price was a steep one, but I was in need and the time was right. The Fat Man had a 1968 Buick LeSabre Convertible that had been sitting on blocks since 1977. I put a new battery in on the spot, filled the tires with a compressor I'd brought, hand-turned the crank via the fan a few times, poured a little gas down the throat of the carb, and got the thing over to my mechanic for a tune-up and a brake job. The next day, I'd be back on the road to St. Louis to dive knee-deep into this R&B story. Or so I thought.

"Let's go hear some music before you leave town again," my mechanic asked me. "Those guys you know - Valhalla - are playing all over the place. I'd like to go check out that double-neck guitar player."

Which was true. I did know the guys in Valhalla, to a degree. I'd interviewed their guitar wizard some months back but had never seen them perform. So a week later, we went to check it out. Unfortunately, we arrived during the last song of their set, but it was enough to make me understand what all the hoopla is about. This was no ordinary guitarist. The two-handed, "piano-style" technique, which Valhalla's Scott Stenbroten has virtually perfected, is a sight to behold. Mind-boggling as this was, it was another, related occurrence which left me dumbstruck and prepared to contemplate the entire idea of what rock and roll is about and from when it came, lo those many years ago.

Perched at the bar as Valhalla dismembered their stage set-up, I asked some guy sitting to my left if the entire set had been impressive.

"Oh, I don't know....it was a little 'in your face' for my taste." (Huh?) I'm in the other band; we booked them to play with us, but we didn't think they'd be so.... different."

Too in your face? Too IN YOUR FACE?!?! What exactly is "in your face?" What the fuck does that mean? Was it the music or the message? My Lord, isn't that what Rock & Roll is? IN YOUR FACE? This is why the most popular bands in the world are so.... popular. Because they are.... IN YOUR FACE! ABRASIVE! EXPLOSIVE! The most renowned art in history is IN YOUR FACE! Look at the rappers. Look at Johnny Cash and revel in his resurrection. His material is, and always has been, as bleak and honest and in your face as it gets. Consider Hector Berlioz, the nineteenth century French composer who wrote his masterpiece while in the throes of an opium binge he hoped would kill him. And the masterpiece itself? The Symphonie Fantastique, which is based on the love and desire Berlioz felt for a Shakespearean actress of the day. Realizing he could not have his way with her, Berlioz attempted to poison himself via an opium overdose, then dreams that, in a fit of jealousy, hills her and is sentenced to the guillotine. How in your face is that? Music that survives is music that is in your face. Yet there are those, like my new found friend at the bar, who are content with mediocrity; with blandness; with safety. God help them.

* * *

The Taste of Chicago is not for the weak, but I attended, nonetheless. I set out to catch the Cathy Richardson Band. I'd never seen them, much less heard them, but my 'ole buddy North Johnson, who publishes this magazine, raves about Cathy and the band, so I figured, what the hell, there's really no rush to get back to St. Louis to cover this ever-evasive R&B Thing. I had plenty of time before the August deadline, right? Yeah - go down to the Taste, drink a beer, catch the CRB and get the hell out.

But that's difficult to do at the Taste of Chicago. There is enough chow to keep one happy for many, many hours. Not to mention the strange and various musical happenings that I would discover. For example, I didn't expect to see Santana twice, but that is what it seemed like, what with the dead-on Santana cover band that played the small stage in the middle of the afternoon. I also did not expect to see an Irish folk bank singing Spanish. I remember thinking how difficult it must have been getting these guys together. "Okay, we need a bongo player, a percussionist, a guy to play a 12-string ukulele, a 6-string guitarist and a flute player right out of Camelot." But they pulled off whatever shit they were trying to communicate.

I also didn't expect to get the life kicked out of me by the members of a local band I had lambasted in the local music press some months back. Of course, they had their thugs with them now that they had made the Big Time, and they did some damage. Luckily, I didn't last long; I was too many beers down the path to respond with any sort of defense. The first punch, which went to my gut, cause me to spew vomit all over my attackers, not so much because of the force, but due to the liquor and the disgusting "crab sticks" I had just consumed. The second punch went to the mouth and I guess it scared them when I blacked out, because they ran like rats. If not for the blood on my photographers' vest, I could have been taken for just another bum in the park. But about twenty minutes after I had been lying in the grass, a cop woke me asked if I was all right. I told him I was fine and thanked him for waking me; by Jesus, I had to get over and catch the CRB. Later, the same cop would spot me sipping Jim Beam from a sterling silver flask in order to deaden the pain stemming from the nasty gash on my lip. Recognizing me, he was generous and looked the other way.

After my adventure, I did make it back in time to catch Cathy Richardson Band. Fighting the crowd, I was able to get within thirty feet of the stage and a prime position to witness one of the oddest, yet most entertaining of dancing couples out in the audience: A one-legged man dancing on crutches – maybe 50 years old – and a fireplug of a girl in a bikini top and gym shorts. It was obvious that they didn't know each other, and he was dancing by himself for some time. Soon she joined him, embracing him and twirling him in circles on his one leg. In one motion, he lunged at her, hugged her and, pulling away, made a sweeping grasp, ripping off her bikini top and watching closely as her top half swayed in the air. But she just kept dancing, eventually pulling her dancing partner into her. It only took seconds for the cops to appear and have her cover herself again, but they were glorious seconds for which her dance partner had probably waited all his life.

As this was transpiring, the Cathy Richardson Band ripped up the stage with a sound that . . . well . . . I am not going to try and describe it; that would go against what I have been preaching lately. This tendency to categorize every kind of must that's played in order to simply force someone to listen. I understand that the record stores and MTV have to categorize music for the sake of business, but I refused to do so, when I mention to a friend "You should go see this band over at..."

"Well, what kind of music do they play?"

You want to know what kind of music they play? Now before you go spend your measly four dollar to hear them? Forget it! Go see ‘em, Hank Williams, Miles Davis, Robert Johnson, Jimmy Page, Sly Stone, Bob Marley, The Beatles, LL Cool J, Elton John, U2, Ice T, Black Mali - it's all MUSIC, and for those who attempt to pigeonhole...you’re missing out.

So, no, I won't tell you what kind of music Cathy Richardson and the boys played except to say that, for me, it was revelation of the highest order. An exercise in passion and energy and emotion that was a long time coming and much needed after this dismal summer of music. I would be witness to similar enlightenment a few days later when I would come upon a band called Love playing an outdoor festival. Because they covered Black Sabbath's "Sweet Leaf", some may consider them Heavy Metal. But that didn't matter to the cowboys and blacks and punks and yuppies with families gathered around. People were DIGGING IT because these guys it was evident that these guys were truly pouring out what was bottled inside them: sharing what was in their soul for all to absorb. And with great enthusiasm, absorb they did.

* * *

MEMO

AUGUST 15, 1994 - Strike Day

TO: Nort Johnson, Publisher & Editor, Showcase Chicago
FR: Mad Bomber

RE: "St. Louis R&B Piece" (Again) / Whereabouts

Greetings from atop of this beautiful mountain, looking down on Lake Ouachita, a glowing 30-mile-long pond that sits about 12 miles west of Hot Springs, Arkansas. I was forced to place myself in this serene environment some three weeks ago due to Unusual Tension which had pushed me to the brink of insanity, coupled with Bad Music Vibe Syndrome. But I haven't forgotten you, Nort, and promises made will be promises kept.

What has happened is this: As I entered the Gateway City - St. Louis - with the intention, once again, of exploring the ultra-hot Rhythm & Blues scene which lights up varying portions of this city each night of the week, I realized that I was in serious need of a vacation. There was admittedly, a bit of redemption in the Cathy Richardson Band performance I had viewed a few weeks prior, but not enough to give me the strength for what I might face in St. Louis. So I passed on Saint Lou, continuing on Interstate 55 toward Memphis, then headed west on 40 in the direction of Little Rock.

Checking in with the home office, I did, indeed, get a message from you. But the local pay phones up on the main road - some 200 yards from this cabin - have been vandalized beyond use and the main cabin is very odd about phone calls going out of there. (It was all I could do to use the fax machine.) But with the promise that I'd be heading out of town soon, refreshed and ready, I figured I'd touch base with you once I got back to St. Louis. Fear not; I'll be on the case by the end of August and we'll get this bugger knocked out yet.

* * *

Indeed.... the baseball strike has begun (again) and tomorrow I'll be off, up another Blue Highway (U.S. Route 67) feeling sad, for in the coming weeks, Stevie Ray Vaughan will have been dead four years and a new Liz Phair album will emerge; both depressing thoughts. But there's no baseball and that's good news – anything to give music a chance.

The End of Dan Rostenkowski: The Last Battle of our own Great Beast

“That night, in the mid-watch, when the old man -- as his wont at intervals -- stepped forth from the scuttle in which he leaned, and went to his pivot-hole, he suddenly thrust out his face fiercely, snuffing up the sea air as a sagacious ship's dog will, in drawing nigh to some barbarous isle. He declared that a whale must be near. Soon that peculiar odor, sometimes to a great distance given forth by the living sperm whale, was palpable to all the watch; nor was any mariner surprised when, after inspecting the compass, and then the dog-vane, and then ascertaining the precise bearing of the odor as nearly as possible, Ahab rapidly ordered the ship's course to be slightly altered, and the sail to be shortened.”
- Herman Melville, Moby Dick

I can smell a floundering politician a mile away. There’s an aura they emit – and a fowl one, at that – that’s noticeable but to those few who’ve experienced it up close; much like the scent a female mammal gives off when in heat, signaling to the male of the species that The Time is At Hand. Like an animal, when a politician is really stinking, they’re venerable. And right now, no politician in America stinks more or is more venerable than the U.S. Congressman from the great state of Illinois, Dan Rostenkowski.

Like the great white whale, Rostenkowski is about to get harpooned in a grand and nasty way. Not only has Rosty always considered himself above the people who put him into power, he’s even considered himself bigger than his peers in Congress. But suddenly, he’s being shrunk down to size thanks to a 17-count indictment which has left his perpetual frown even more pathetic and many of his constituents wondering where it all went wrong. And I guess that’s the mystery I’m trying to unravel here: Over the past twenty or so months, it has seemed inevitable that Rosty would succumb to some form of heavy legal wrangling and yet, miraculously, he was nominated again this past spring by his district in the ultimate, albeit, subsequently, foolish act of blind faith. Why?

Steve Daley, political columnist for the Chicago Tribune, opined that Rostenkowski could have escaped this mess before any of it came up; that he “could have taken the money and run. Or, rather, not run.”

Well I don’t know about Daley, but considering it would be taxpayers’ money that Rostenkowski would be running with, I’d like for the Feds – acting on my behalf and yours – to have a shot at getting it back. Here’s what else Daley had to say as he ended his wretchedly forgiving article:

“Had he not sought re-election in 1992, he’d have gone home with more than one million street-legal campaign dollars and would be teeing up the golf ball in some balmy clime. And the Justice Department investigation of his financial affairs would be a memory, you may be sure. The smart guys said that Rosty would walk away, and no one outside the tight circle of loyalists understands to this day why he didn’t. It’s altogether possible that he like his job, and was serious about his work.”

Liked his job? You’re goddam right he liked his job. That’s because “his job” for all these years has been invading the public coffers, pure and simple. Hey, he’s done a few good things while in Washington; he knew he’d have to do something in order to secure those return trips to D.C. every two years. And therein lies the reason he didn’t go “home.” Money and power are addictions like any drug, and ’ole Dan just can’t seem to kick them. Who can? It’s like telling a smack freak that “a little bit of heroin will be plenty.” The human mind and body just don’t work that way; one becomes so immersed in the addiction, that the subconscious mind keeps telling the conscious mind that what is transpiring is…okay. As former Watergate prosecutor Richard Ben-Veniste said during that ugly situation back in 1974, “Certainly on the basis of his public statements (Nixon) doesn’t believe he did anything wrong…”

* * * * *

It may seem as though I have a personal beef with the Tribune’s boy Daley. I don’t. But I have been amazed at how the normally hostile press has treated Rostenkowski with kid gloves. Admittedly, their long-time association with him, often on a personal level, certainly is 180 degrees from any dealings I’ve had with him, which are zilch. But when I heard Walter Jacobson (Fox TV in Chicago) and Irv Kupcinet (Chicago Sun-Times) fawning over their old friend in a phone conversation aired on the radio last week, I thought I might puke. And then, in the June 6th Tribune, that idiot Margolis appeared to find it a shame that “even Rep. Dan Rostenkowski” must pay for his transgressions.

No wonder Richard J. Daley lasted 21 years in this town.

“The many men, so beautiful! And they all dead did lie:
And a thousand thousand slimy things lived on; and so did I.”
- Samuel Coleridge, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

In reality, these local media blowhards may have a point, and they obviously know things that I do not. Because despite every accusation against him, Dan Rostenkowski may go scot-free. That’s a concept that hasn’t really been mentioned much these past few days, what with the possibility of a plea bargain hanging like a guillotine blade, representing what could only be construed as an admission of guilt. But Danny Boy flushed that scenario down the toilet, along with his commitment to put the well-being of his people ahead of his own, and now he’s going to fight it out. Yes, the picture that portrays Dan Rostenkowski as a free man may easily be painted; in these insane times, why not?

Consider the cases of two other “politicians” who’ve been in the news recently: Oliver North and Marion Barry. These guys are CROOKS – REAL CROOKS. They went before a judge, and juries pronounced them “guilty.” Yet, now they’re each talking of big time comebacks as elected servants of the public, and guardians of the inherent trust and, good God, they might just make it. If they do, it’ll be for far different reasons than those that may allow Dan Rostenkowski to wash his hands of the sordid mess he’s gotten himself into. North and Barry are simply taking advantage of the public’s fascination with misfits and underdogs and self-anointed comeback kids. Not so with our friend, Dan; there’s nothing underdogish about him. Like Moby Dick, Rostenkowski is a bloated whale who has freely roamed the seas of Congress for more than four decades, swallowing up every dollar or favor of any sort which floated his way, while blowing out that pond scum which represented waste to him – and that hasn’t been much.

The front page of the June 1st Chicago Tribune was blabbering about “old politics vs. new politics,” but what’s actually emerging is more accurately described as “wrong politics vs. right politics.” I realize the phrase “right politics” may strike one as on obscene oxymoron, but everything is relative, and “old politics” are no excuse for what has taken place under Rostenkowski’s rule all these years.

Where I’m from, when a hog reaches its peak of consumption, it’s slaughtered. But at this stage of the game, I’m even willing to give a politician a fair chance. Far be it from me to pre-judge anyone, even Dan Rostenkowski, though Big Dan has made a career of pre-judging others. Who? Those who have supported him, for starters. He had the gall to run in the Democratic Primary this past March, figuring the voters in his district would forget the many months of accusations and innuendo which had transpired. And you know what? His instincts were right. They nominated him for yet another term as a U.S. Representative, proving that his district is loaded with those whose standards are as equally corrupt and as equally vile as his own. In the end, they got not only what they deserved, but what they wanted.

And Dan Rostenkowski continues on – until now.

“‘Aye, breach your last to the sun, Moby Dick!’ cried Ahab,
‘they hour and they harpoon are at hand!’”
- Herman Melville, Moby Dick

Our Man Funk Gets the Bluesfest Blues

On the old highway maps of America, the main routes were red and the back roads blue. Now even the colors are changing. But in those brevities just before dawn and a little after dusk - times neither day nor night - the old roads return to the sky some of its color. Then, in truth, they carry a mysterious cast of blue, and it’s that time when the pull of the blue highway is strongest, when the open road is a beckoning, a strangeness, a place where a man can lose himself. - William Least Heat Moon, Blue Highways


MEMO - June 6, 1994, 5:00 AM.

TO: Nort Johnson, Publisher & Editor, Showcase Chicago
FR: Mad Bomber

RE: Remembrances Along The Blue Highways

Well, Nort, my friend, I promised you a 1994 Chicago Blues Festival review and you shall have it, even at this delicate point in time - just before dawn - as I head south on Illinois State Highway 3, just past Alton, Illinois.

Whenever possible, I avoid major interstates and travel the blue highways. To celebrate the genius of Miles Davis, a native of this old river town, I stopped in Alton to pick up a case of Busch beer and three fried egg sandwiches at one of the local all night establishments. I’m not sure what it was that triggered my memory; maybe the Charlie Daniels playing in the jambox that sits in place of a navigator. But yes, Nort, I’ve just remembered that I had promised you a few words on the Fest. In fact, as I speak into this very heavy 20-year-old, Sony dictating machine hanging around my neck, I’m hoping that part-time secretary back in Chicago will be able to hear my verbal notes over the noise of the Riviera’s muffler for the purpose of typing this up and getting it to you in a timely fashion. Let’s try.

As you may or may not recall, Nort, I’m aiming for St. Louis to investigate what I hear is an exceptional Rhythm & Blues scene. Not blues, per se, but traditional R&B, with its brass accents and wild, swinging grooves. Though this is an adventure I’ve been planning, its timeliness is eerie, as our own Chicago Blues Festival has left me down. After a steady deterioration of the quality of the Festival over the last few years, the damn thing has finally hit rock bottom – for me, at least, and for reasons I’ll touch on later. For now, let me say that I don’t necessarily mean the music itself, but some of the logistics of the bash. Let me also say that, while I attended the Main Stage Closers last evening, I prefer to spout off with regards to the acts on the other two, smaller stages, which don’t receive near the press as the performances held on the three nights at the Petrillo Band Shell.

Now Nort, you know me.... I'm as much a traditionalist as anyone. It’s not important that I went out and bought Robert Johnson’s recordings when they emerged on compact disc; it’s that I knew to do so without recommendation. And I honestly enjoy listening to Johnson and his contemporaries as much as I enjoy listening to Muddy Waters or Buddy Guy or BB King or Clapton or Stevie Ray. But there comes a time when the folks who run the Blues Fest should “just say no” and that time is Now. Their habit of marching the older players up the steps of the Front Porch Stage with a roadie or some such assistant at each arm to prevent a stumbling or even a collapse, followed by an hour of requisite mumbling through a few standards.... well, it has ceased to entertain the audience or do the performer any justice. Nort, I know I’m going to catch a lot of shit for saying all of this, but I’ll wager there are an equal number of blues lovers who just may agree with me.

That said, if the powers that be are going to insist on this practice, how about turning up the PA? I was only three-quarters of the way back on the lawn, but couldn’t hear a lick of Jimmy Rogers’ afternoon set. Frustrated by this, I got up to get a beer. Unlike past years, the beer and food lines were next to nothing since an additional row of booths had been set up along Columbus Drive, stretching south from Jackson Boulevard. However, it didn’t take long for me to see where the lines of past years had gone; the city officials, it appeared, had neglected to add any ticket booths. (Tickets must be bought which are subsequently traded in for beer, pop and food.) A short wait in line was 25 minutes, and completely diminished the intention of the newly added concession outlets.

Fabulous. The already-crowded section of Jackson between Columbus and Lake Shore Drive was even more of a mess with the lines extending from the ticket booths. Which brings me to another bitch: When are the Blues Fest officials going to wise up and set up the Crossroads Stage so that the audience is spread out horizontally across the band instead of stretched vertically in front of it? Again, think of the audience.

One more thought, Nort, and this is merely a sentimental one. In past years, the Front Porch Stage has had a homespun charm to it as it was actually designed to resemble an old country cabin of the south; a place where the blues as we know it may have begun. For Bluesfest ’94, this stage was revamped to have a more generic look, thereby losing much of its flavor. A damn pity.

All right, amigo, there’s my review and, I’ll admit, it’s a depressing one, but theses are my memories of the event, cold and true.

And I see I’ve wrapped up just in time, as I’m just hitting the bridge that crosses the Mississippi River, the Gateway Arch that welcomes southbound travelers to St. Louis is a glorious sight. With the sun’s reflection, it’s damn near blinding and I look away to see that, in my mesmerized state, I’ve spilled a newly opened can of Busch beer onto the floorboard beneath me. Ah, the hell with it. The June heat and humidity here will dry it up fast enough. Meanwhile, stand by for next month’s lowdown on the greasy, funky, down and dirty R&B that’s all the rage here in St. Louis.

P.J. O’Rourke: The Final Judgment of Pat Buchanan

TO: Rolling Stone Magazine
FR: Mad Bomber

Your issue #732 presented a fun feature: The Ultimate Conservative Yuppie candidate analyzed by the Ultimate Conservative Yuppie Journalist.

I was glad to hear P. J. O'Rourke nail Pat Buchanan with both barrels for lots of reason; the primary one being the obvious fact I've been yelling about for months now: Despite his pronouncements to the contrary, Pat Buchanan is a Liberal. At least, according to his political positions. His idea that the government should control personal decisions regarding religion and the mechanisms of one's own body have a very unappealing Orwellian flavor.

Speaking of religion, why has the media establishment refused to note the contradiction inherent in the idea of a religion-influenced government? Wasn't one of the ideas of America, back in 1775, to promote the separation of church and state? Now, some 220 years later, we've come full circle, as it were. Yes, the Apocalypse may, indeed, coincide with the Millennium, which would be appropriate. In 1998 - the halfway point of a Buchanan Administration - this country will be 222 years old. This number, multiplied by 3 (the number of centuries this failed experiment called Democracy occupied) equals 666. Perfect. The Mark of the Beast. And the symbol of the final ruler to preside over a "kingdom" which was destined to fail. And it'll be at this point in time when we confront the brutal fact that we've really not prepared to rule ourselves (as in "government by the people") and that the Apocalypse is Now. The Mark of the Beast, indeed.

* * * * *

There have been but a handful of true democrats - not Democrats - but democrats. Men who've believed and trusted in the common man's right to call their own shots - and with the holistic and righteous goal of speaking for what may be right for the people. Demosthenes was one of these individuals. So was Sir Thomas More, the virtuous nobleman of 16th-century England who had his head separated from his body by order of Henry VIII for having the balls to stand up to the old man for the sake of Principle. Principle? That's a foreign word to America's 20th century politicians.

* * * * *

But back to O'Rourke's judgment on Candidate Buchanan. I'm relieved to see that P.J. exposed Buchanan for what he really is: A Tried and True Liberal. Yes, I was relieved to see that, despite their common heritage, the 'ole Irish blood does not always flow less rapidly than the life-sustaining river of cash that rolls into P. J.'s pocket every time he sits down at the computer. For once, blood was not thicker than green water.

The End of the Road for Dan Rostenkowski?

It's difficult to view fallen U.S. Congressman Dan Rostenkowski and his ilk as "regular people," as a Chicago Tribune editorial recently called him, when Rosty and the rest of his buddies hardly consider themselves as such. I've never met a politician in office with more than three months of time under his belt who didn't consider him or herself above you and me, and therefore, above the laws of the land which we pay them generously to create and uphold. Of course, in the end, even a politician has to pay the piper. Just like regular people. Just like you and me.

Even the cockiest officeholders realize when it's time to give it up, walk out the door with hat in hand and admit to wrongdoing. After a lifetime of blatantly feeding off the public trough, one would think that even a prick like Rostenkowski would recognize the treachery of his dealings through his ego-induced brain fog. But not this guy; he has turned out to be even more defiant than most. And, therefore, will never be considered "one of us" as Mike Rokyo suggested in his April 10th column.

Whether one is a politician or the common, everyday citizen, we all commit our share of naughtiness over the course of our lives. Such white lies, however, pale in comparison to the conscious evil which has filled Dan Rostenkowski's daily agenda for 36 years; a modus operandi which has been a direct product of the insatiable greed which resides in his corrupt soul. Anyone seeing tragedy rather than justice in this final twist of the Rostenkowski story, anyone willing to excuse these "technical rules violations" as common offenses in the House, anyone who can't find a way to derive pleasure by what has turned out to be The Last Act Of Dan Rostenkowski, deserves to go to the pen with him.

The only tragedy is that the son of a bitch was able to get away with swindling the public for as long as he did.