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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781466997752 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Trafford Publishing |
| Publication date: | 07/01/2013 |
| Pages: | 138 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.32(d) |
Read an Excerpt
Joint Venture
A Backstage Rock and Roll Journey
By Ed Kleinman
Trafford Publishing
Copyright © 2013 Ed KleinmanAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4669-9775-2
CHAPTER 1
THE REAL BEGINNING ... more minutes, more hours, more days, more years
To go forward, I have to go back quite a way, back in time when I got interested in what was being played on the radio in the mid-1950s. I was an Elvis Presley fan at age 10. I loved his early Sun Sessions recordings and his performances on The Ed Sullivan Show. I even had a mop handle with a rope on it, making believe it was a guitar, and I'd wiggle and strum to Elvis' music along with that of other rock and rollers.
Having a brother six years older was a plus. He had a DA haircut, motorcycle boots, jeans, and souped-up cars. From the Marlon Brando Wild Ones to the James Dean Rebels without a Cause types, rock and rollers were the focal point of a lot of people who hated this early music and thought it was ruining kids everywhere. Were they in for the surprise coming at them by the 1960s.
I got to listen to a lot of the music my brother and his friends were listening and dancing to, from the doo-woppers to the real R&B/ blues artists along with the up-and-coming rock and roll bands.
Through him, I also found the legendary disc jockey, Alan Freed. His Cleveland radio show was broadcasted on a NYC station, which I listened to in my hometown of Jersey City, NJ, where I was born and raised.
My friends and I came from working-class families, living in a racially mixed neighborhood of six-family tenement houses and two-family homes. No lawns, just sidewalks and streets to play in. But we had music. Real music to grasp on to. Music that meant something to us, to sing in alleys, hallways, and bathrooms; to hum in class; and to inspire us to start collecting 45 rpms. I remember my first 45, "Why Do Fools Fall in Love" by Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers.
We had our own music, so to speak. No more of what our parents listened to. We were on the go. It was ours, and we were not going to let anyone take that away. We had Elvis for a while and Little Richard, Bill Haley and the Comets, Buddy Holly, Gene Vincent and Eddie Cochran. And blues singers such as Muddy Waters, Bo Diddley, B.B. King, and more. Radio was getting more adventurous. Sure some stations were so-called "Negro radio stations," but we didn't care. We wanted more, and we found it. Top 40 was not all we had. Thank you, Mr. Freed and others.
My mother began to push me to take piano lessons, even guitar lessons. She would say, "You like music so much, learn to play something."
For some reason, I had no interest or desire to learn. Maybe it was a protest against my mom for trying to push me. Who knows? It was too many years ago. But I liked the music. I learned to dance early on while in day camp and could lindy as well as anyone on American Bandstand. It did help with girlfriends at high school dances and various dances at community centers, etc. No problem.
CHAPTER 2
EXPLORATION ... more music and off to Greenwich Village
I was now in high school. Wearing a torn sweatshirt, I read all of Jack Kerouac's books and I acted like what I knew about the Beat Generation. I read beat poets, got into more jazz and now folk music, but not just the Kingston Trio. I listened to early Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, and varied others. And I joined a folk music club at the local Jewish Community Center (JCC) and heard blues, folk, more jazz, and even listened to the likes of Howlin' Wolf and Jimmy Reed on a wire recorder. The world was opening up for me.
One evening after the music club had ended, I was sitting at the snack bar when in walked a couple of guys around my age. I never saw them before, but one was carrying a jazz album by Ahmad Jamal, which I had also owned. (In fact, it was my only jazz album.) For some reason, they looked over at me, and I asked if they had listened to the album. They said no, but they were on the way to do so. I told them I had the album, too, and it was great. I really liked piano jazz. They asked if I wanted to join them. Who could pass up that invite?
So, off I went, into what became a very close friendship, a new experience with a cross section of new people. The first two were Nicky Walton and Howie Dimont. To this day, I still occasionally contact Howie. As for Nicky, more to come regarding him.
From these relationships came the exploration of Greenwich Village. Kerouac's books turned me on to the name Greenwich Village. Nicky and Howie turned me on to the real place. My own feet on the ground in the Village! They had been there often. Going to coffee houses to hear music, drink coffee, and hang out. I couldn't have asked for anything better. Off I went.
I had to be home by midnight, however, or my mom was going to yell and scream (Jewish mom). I was 14 going on 15. So, given we had in Jersey City a subway that went into NYC with, by chance, a stop at 9th Street and 6th Avenue in Greenwich Village, what more could a young kid want especially given what I thought I knew about this place. I had easy access and two new friends who had at least been there before. As long as I was home by midnight, all was cool.
We explored Washington Square Park and listened to the folkies. This was 1960 to 1962. The Playhouse Café on McDougal Street, named after the Playhouse Theater next door, became our hangout. I met so many wonderful new friends there. I also found out that we were not the only teenagers trying to discover a new world, a new freedom, all which seemed to revolve around music, art, and theater.
Musicians would come in to play a few songs, then pass the hat for change, dollars, and phone numbers, whatever. They would make the rounds of other coffee houses in the area as well. Poets came and read their latest, too.
I remember Peter, Paul, and Mary playing there a few times prior to becoming well known. Also, I remember hearing folkie Dave Van Ronk, readings by poet Allen Ginsberg, and seeing drawings by an artist named Margaret Keane, whose paintings of people all had these wonderful, big eyes.
I wish I could remember more and remember the names of some of the people I hung out with. They helped me grow up even more. Most were New Yorkers; a few were from South America, but now lived in New York. We were all around the same age, give or take a year or two. We had a place to meet, talk, and grow. Thank you, dear past friends. You helped me on a journey to experience new things and new people and to understand that we all shared a similar world vision. Looking back, growing up in Jersey City, so close to NYC, was incredible. I wish I had kept a journal.
With my Jersey City friends and New York friends, I began to experience a lot of new music, new places to see, new people to know, and new insight that the world was changing and people had something to say about it. There were real discussions and dialogues regarding what we thought about things. We were learning about who we were and maybe learning some things that helped who we would become in later years. This was all new to me and I soaked it up, grateful that I, too, at 15 was accepted for my thoughts and opinions. This went on for a few years and, by the time high school was ending, I had to decide what was next.
I was a senior when a friend, Lanny, asked if I wanted to go to Carnegie Hall on New Year's Eve to hear some live jazz. How could I pass that up? Times Square, New Year's Eve, and live jazz from the likes of Nina Simone, John Coltrane, Thelonious Monk, Charlie Parker, and Sonny Rollins—WHEW, what a way to end the year. What a way to get turned on to even more jazz, and LIVE! We sat in the very last row in the nosebleed section. It was a memorable time and my first time to celebrate New Year's Eve in Times Square.
NICKY. We became close friends; he had an older brother named Mike. We were both high school sophomores when we met, in different high schools. We liked the same music, a lot of the same people, and we hung out at the JCC in Jersey City. I had to take a bus from my neighborhood to get to the JCC, and Nicky lived right down the street from there. Given he lived down the block, we also hung out at his house, or at least on his front porch. His mom was great and was able to keep most of us under control.
I met a lot of people through Nicky, "the good, the bad, and the ugly" as I came to name them. Some older, some high school dropouts, some Jews, some not. For the most part, we all went to the same parties, or crashed a lot of them. At one point, I would be invited and told not to bring anyone except Nicky. So the two of us would go off to the parties, and, at other times, we were off to the Village. Maybe we were late beatniks, or early hippies before that era arrived.
I write about Nicky because of his influence on me growing up, on the music we shared. Nicky got into trouble in our senior year. He was accused of the statutory rape of a minor. Not sure it was true. We all knew the girl. She was the sister of one of the guys who hung out with us. She had a crush on Nicky, but he didn't return the feelings. From there, only she knows.
Nicky was sent away to finish high school in Maine. We always stayed in touch when he came home to visit. Upon graduation, he enlisted in the army. It was 1964 or 1965, and the Vietnam War was beginning to get more active. He came home from boot camp and had received his orders to ship out to Vietnam.
Nicky was far from a war supporter. The army was a way out for him, I guess.
The way I got the story, he and a cousin of his were drinking heavily. His cousin went off to the store to get more alcohol, and when he returned, Nicky was on the floor, bleeding from a gunshot. Did he try to commit suicide? Was he trying to wound himself to get out of going to Vietnam?
There was even a rumor that his cousin had shot him. I never believed that, and a few years later, I became friendly with his cousin. He hadn't gotten over the incident, and was still upset and sad with what had happened.
A POEM FOR NICKY WALTON, A FRIEND
Yesterday, you were gone; today, I remember
Our first meeting over some jazz records.
We were young then, 14, 15, does it matter?
It was our adolescence, our youth.
It was spent well; we experienced life so
That as men we would feel our duty would be fulfilled.
The beer and the wine we drank then.
We thought we knew it all; of course, we were wrong.
You can't tell us; we're 15, and we knew it all.
The dance we went to, we would show off
And hope we would end up with a groovy chick.
Remember the chess games; you were much better than I.
I wish I could play you now.
Rich we weren't; money we had little,
But we showed them, didn't we?
Who needs money? We were cool.
Remember the car 10 of us chipped in and bought
And only one was old enough to drive?
It ran well for one day.
A whole summer we spent trying to get it to run a second time.
Yes, those were the days, school, football games, and parties at night.
Listening to jazz or old rock and roll, doo-wop, and blues,
We had our laughs and our tears,
But in the process of growing, we need both.
Remember your room with all the signs you stole.
No Parking, One Way, a traffic light,
And a Jersey City 300-year-old sign.
Yes, those were the days, the days of our youth.
Remember the fights; we thought we could kick everyone's ass.
That of course was, as long as our friends were around.
Where are those people now?
Joe, Mario, Rick, Walter, Howie, and your brother Mike,
I remember them all, but most of all,
I remember your mom.
She guided you, yet she led us all.
It was your house we spent most of our time at,
And to me, she was a mother away from my home.
Yes, those were the days of our youth.
But as the minutes turn into hours, hours into days,
We all got a little older and perhaps a little wiser.
You left for Maine to finish high school,
And I remained here.
Seeing you on vacation was great.
You were my friend and I yours,
And again I remained here.
We still crossed paths during vacations,
But now it was new.
Our heads were together, so we thought.
We grooved on life; people were beautiful.
Remember how you passed for Indian
When we all knew you were black?
If only you could know what I felt.
Color didn't matter.
But then it was our youth,
Long before life was beautiful.
Then it happened; high school was over.
The army called you.
You hated it; peace was the word, not war.
Where was that at? You couldn't kill,
But they wouldn't understand; they never do.
They only know how to take, never give.
It's a simple matter to say, "We don't want you, son."
Life was more important than to die for some belief you never had.
So you left, we got high for the last time, then Good-bye.
How were we to know it would be our last?
For on a cold day, you were home on leave.
The shots rang out, and in the paper I read,
YOU WERE DEAD BY YOUR OWN HAND.
I never knew you were home; maybe I could have helped.
You loved life, remember; it's too beautiful to lose,
But you made your choice. I knew you as only a friend could.
I believe that you always knew what you were doing.
Much knowledge gained as a youth I owe to you.
Without you as a friend, I may never have become a full person.
No matter how long I live or whatever I do or become,
There will always be a place in my heart and soul for you.
You will always remain a friend.
I wish you were still here, Nicky. I know we would have remained friends. I learned a lot from you, from music to the right people to be with, to be free, and to be an individual. Thanks so much for your friendship and for turning me on to so much including the music I may never have experienced.
CHAPTER 3
NEXT ... graduation, work, more music, school, and "the times they are a-changin'"
I graduated high school in June 1963 and got a job right away on Wall Street. It was easier to get a job back then, and I was not ready for college, nor was I even thinking about it. I went to work and made $65 per week—hog heaven. Worked with a guy named Johnny, and he had a close friend named Larry. Both were body builders and did contests as such, but, more importantly, they asked me and my girlfriend to join them and their wives to go to various New York jazz clubs. This was their once-per-month outing.
So more people turned me on to more live jazz. Ella Fitzgerald, Eartha Kitt, Louis Prima and Keely Smith, Miles Davis, and Gerry Mulligan, to name a few. We went to clubs like Basin Street East, the Blue Note, and the Village Gate. Another new world opened for me, and I enjoyed it to no end.
By 1964 to 1965, coffee houses were beginning to open in Jersey City, people were coming in to play music, play chess, etc. Sort of what was going on in NYC. I could play chess, enjoy the folk singers, have conversation, and share ideas along with meeting more new people.
I was still working, but had decided to take a few college courses at night. I had met a couple of people at one of the coffee houses who were also in college. They were spending a lot of time in Greenwich Village, and we became friends. Through them, I got to realize that college may be the way for me to go. We all hung out a lot, smoked our share of pot together, and listened to a lot of music. We laughed a lot and had a great time. I remember going with them to see the
Lovin' Spoonful at the Night Owl Café on West 3rd Street in the Village, prior to them ever having a record deal or radio play.
Music was getting a bigger push due to the British Invasion. The Beatles played at Shea Stadium. The Rolling Stones, The Who, and The Kinks were beginning to tour America. Also, the West Coast bands were getting airplay on AM radio. Then it happened ... underground radio had arrived.
A NYC public radio station, WBAI, which had played classical music, was now playing all the music we wanted to hear, commercial-free. We got to hear all the folkies, rockers, East Coast, West Coast, UK, you name it. And it didn't matter if the songs were 20 minutes long or longer. It got played.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Joint Venture by Ed Kleinman. Copyright © 2013 Ed Kleinman. Excerpted by permission of Trafford Publishing.
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