Hang On Sloopy

Yet another series gets underway on The Mighty Dawn Dart. Although until I post a second article lets not get too attached to this "series". My mind has turned to jelly in the stifling Nagasaki summer humidity and then congealed under the, at first refreshing but eventually liver failure inducing, air conditioning so the fast pace posting I was hoping for has not materialized. Welcome to the jungle baby! Welcome to the jungle, indeed!

I'd like to share with you some songs. These are not the greatest of all time. They actually are not part of any "Ten Best" nor do they represent any genre or era in Pop music. These are songs that I was exposed to as a child, perhaps I even loved them as a child, and they just stuck with me. Others grew into the level of appreciation I have for them now. These are songs that I have listened to on a pretty regular basis, at times more, at times less, for my entire life. Well, to be honest, I've drawn the line, for now, at ten years old. So, some of these songs I've had on semi-heavy rotation for the last 27 years, some for more. It would be interesting if you could somehow figure out how many times , in all forms form vinyl, cassette, cd, etc., you've heard certain songs over your lifetime. I wonder if the results would surprise some of us. Anyway, get to work on that itunes. Earn that "Genius" moniker.

I don't know when I first became aware of "Hang On Sloopy". I'm guessing I was under five and it was part of a bunch of songs that I loved as a kid such as Flying Purple People Eater, Shimmy Shimmy Koko Bop, and Pepperment Twist. Songs either squarely in the novelty category or flirting with it. Our summer family trips out to Moncton, NB, in the rolling fortress that was the 1976(?) Chrysler New Yorker were soundtracked by a single 8 track cartridge of great fifties/sixties songs like Devil in a Blue Dress, Runaway and Let's Dance. Sloopy may have been on that one too. It also, very likely, was on at least one cassette mix that my parents' friend, Fred, made and that I got hours of of pleasure from. I know Louie Louie was on there but it was the sax-heavy version by Paul Revere and the Raiders. It wasn't until years later that I heard the definitive Kingsmen version. Of the Louie Louie/Wild Thing songs (one of three major song groups from the time, the two others being the Little Latin Lupe Lu and Gloria groups) I for some reason identified most with Hang On Sloopy.

Uncharacteristically, I did a bit of research on the song and the performers of the version I think of when I think of the song, The McCoys. First off, I knew somehow, that the song was produced by a group of songwriter/producers who also played as The Strangeloves. The Strangeloves' big hit  was I Want Candy and they laid down the music for Hang On Sloopy hoping to release it as their next single. However, in a rush to beat The Dave Clark Five to the presses (they planned to release a version as well) they recruited a young band from Dayton, Ohio. The band was lead by a teenager by the name of Rick Derringer (!) The youngsters came in and laid down the vocal track as well as the guitar solo (still to this day I can't decide on which side of awful it falls). It's a cool story. The music definitely has The Strangeloves drum heavy arrangement style, also evident on another single by them Night Time. Rick Derringer obviously was blessed with some natural talent as he pulls off a fabulous vocal performance and he would go on to have a lengthy, if not C level, career.

What do I love about this song? The title is odd and it remains a mystery, at least to me, why the heroine of the story is named Sloopy. The role reversal on the lover from the wrong side of the tracks is quite unique as well. I've always loved the lyric " Sloopy let your hair down girl. Let it hang down on me." Again a little odd but so sweet and a bit sexy at the same time. The song kicks of at full blast with the rush of the chorus and quiets down for the whisper soft verse. The song reaches it's peak with some "shake it shake it"s and one of my all time favorite screams. The punches at the end tie it up in a nice little bow and if you're not smiling your not human.

A lot of people have talked about the mid sixties as a golden era and what I like about that time was a focus on hits. It seemed like it didn't matter how it got done. If you had to patch it together with studio musicians or some local garage band, you just wanted to get the next thing out there and outdo last week's sensation.If you created something to make the kids get up and move, great. If you created something beautiful and lasting, bonus. It's an urgency and energy that has long since left Rock/Pop music. In the age of earnest bands turning out 80 minute long albums every couple of years the rush of newness is more like an inescapable 10 000 mile wide lava flow. I think we can maybe still look to hip hop for that one up manship, and the search for the next beat, the next sound that knocks people back.

Oh well enjoy the song and don't be shy to let me know what you think of it.

Guitar!!

I was listening to Kings of Leon the other day and in one song, just before the guitar solo (remember those?) the singer yells "Guitar! Go get her!". He manages to make "guitar" and "get her" rhyme. Beautiful. It got me to thinking of great pre-solo shouts. I thought I'd just open this up. So what are the best pre-solo phrases? Tell us the song and the shout. Let the debate begin.

Battle Hymn of the Apartment

As I move into my 21st home, I take a brief moment to look back at the places I've lived.

I am very uncomfortable with nostalgia. Somewhere in my early twenties, maybe after the hundred thousandth hour spent drinking and listening to myself and others rehash stories about our teen years, I made a decision to reject the instant nostalgia and story-i-fication of every event. Listening to 22 year olds swoon as they showered each other with cherished memories from four years ago quickly became one of my most white-hot hatreds. Also I grew uncomfortable with the way I pulled out a set of anecdotes about my past every time I met someone new as if these stories of drunken hi jinx somehow explained who I was, as well as the feeling that everything was a potential story to be retold at a later time to either impress, disgust, thrill or, offend someone.

It took some time to shake the filthy habit but I realise now that I very rarely, if ever, tell stories from my past. I don't package the past into little anecdote bundles. I've paid a bit of a price in that I remember almost no specifics from high school (a good thing?), my twenties are all bunched together in one messy pile, and I may be less fun at parties. In the end I think it has had a positive effect on my memories because instead of remembering stories I remember events ( as unformed as these memories may be). This the same reason why I'm disinclined to take photographs.

That being said, I will now dip my toe in the nostalgia swamp and regale you with some stories from my past. For each place I've lived over the last 20 years I will jot down the first memory that pops up. I will try to keep it snappy ,basted in my trademark wit and stuffed with my much vaunted humour.

St. Hubert - Before I actually lived here I spent a lot of time hanging out here. This may have happened during that time. One of the best things about this place were the four record collections of the four residents. Not that they were of record collectors proportions or all that exceptional, but as a 16 year old who couldn't get enough music and who drank it up skinny-guy-with-long-beard-crawling-in-the-dessert style, it was heavenly. The four, perhaps five, record collections came together one day to form a mighty Voltron-esque mega beast. We decided to play them all chronologically. Of course some albums stank (yeah, you, Rick Wakeman) so ground rules were laid down. One track from each side minimum and at least two members of the household had to be home at the time of the playing. First up was Louis Armstrong (?) and I'm pretty sure he got the minimum. I can't remember if we stuck it out to the end but it gave me a reason to rush home and probably introduced me to a few things I hadn't heard. 

Laurier - This was a busy place and I spent a pretty eventful year there. Not one thing comes to mind. Just a flood. I remember that I had started studying Fine Arts at CEGEP and my father bought me a bunch of wood (plywood and masonite) for me to paint on. I leaned it on the wall of my bedroom and cut it up as needed using a circular saw and painted quite a few paintings using it. All in my bedroom! I love living in a nice place like an adult but I miss having a place where using power tools and painting in my bedroom seemed completely reasonable. Less complicated times.

 I also had an old turntable you could stack records on and it would play the side, let the next record drop and reset the needle for the next go around. You could stack about eight albums. I would pull a speaker into the bathroom and take a bath for as long as there was hot water for refills and nobody needed to pee. This was great seeing as we almost never turned the heat on and even if we did it had little effect.

Verdun - My cat, Jack (greatest cat who ever lived), was not very outdoorsy, although he did occasionally go outside. When he did he usually didn't go too far. Jack was all about keeping his options open, though. His food dish always had to be full, whether he felt like eating or not. All doors and viable windows had to be open just in case he was suddenly struck with the urge to visit a closet, roommate's bedroom, or the balcony.

Through a series of unfortunate events, I found myself living (if barely) in a half basement apartment in Verdun. To keep Jack happy the window in the living room was usually open so he could jump up and get a little fresh air. One night Jack didn't come home before I went to sleep so I left the window open. I was a bit worried because he usually came running home when I called him. I was woken by sounds of him at his food bowl (which was on the corner of my bed due to a situation involving my lack of cleanliness and billions of ants). I looked up from my pillow and when my brain and eyes finally synced up I realised he had a small white mouse in his mouth. I've never liked mice. Unlike any kind of bug that you can squish without a second thought, mice provide a moral dilemma and thus are far more problematic as house guests. My first reaction was to spring out of bed and direct Jack and his mouse back outside. This was working and Jack ran toward the open window, jumped up and through, but hit his enormous head on the frame. This made him drop the mouse back into the apartment but didn't slow him down a bit as he ran off into the alley.

The mouse ran behind something and I started planning how to catch and release. These were paranoid times for me. Living alone didn't suit me and my drinking increased as my eating decreased. Sleep was uneven and my tendency to be self pitying and overly dramatic were in full bloom. I started to think, " The mouse is white. That's not a wild mouse. Where did he find it? Maybe it came from the nearby psychiatric hospital. A lab mouse. What kind of slow,degenerative,excruciating disease is it infected with? I better put on some gloves!"

I cornered the mouse behind a chair or box or something and through some clever tactics that I don't quite remember I scared him out from his hiding place so he ran towards me. The plan was to grab him and quickly release him back to the outdoors,whether or not he found his way back to the lab to continue the Ebola or extra-virulent-AIDS testing was up to him. But, about halfway to my awaiting hands , he took a sharp left turn and disappeared into a hole in the radiator. Where a panel should have been was an opening that led into the wall and down under the floor.

I stood slightly stunned, my heart racing from having almost touched a plague-ridden lab mouse, thinking about my next move. I quickly concluded that my chances of coaxing it back out of the wall were slim and picturing, if successful, the mouse leaping out of the hole and biting my face then escaping, never to be found, so that tests which could determine what had infected me and was causing blood to gush from every orifice could never be performed. I instead found a piece of cardboard and taped it over the hole.

I immediately felt terrible. This would surely lead to the slow painful starvation and eventual death for the poor mouse. This sympathy was quickly replaced with a horrible image (pretty sure from a Stephen King story) of the the mouse, which was surely pregnant, giving birth and eventually ruling a colony of mice under the floor, in the dirt floor basement. The queen mouse would grow to an enormous size evolving into a limbless, eyeless, eating machine. I slept worse than usual for the next couple of days.

Desk

I've never, until now, had a job with a desk. My desk is one of about fifty others all in one large room but it is my desk and I don't have to share it with anyone.It's a standard wood desk, well worn (I'd guess 20 to 25 years old), a bit on the small side, much like everything else in Japan. It has three drawers and a cupboard like arrangement at the bottom. I haven't accumulated enough things to fill it yet but I'm sure it won't be long. But the most remarkable aspect of the desk is how much time I spend at it.

I spend two thirds of my time sitting at my desk and far less than half of that time is filled with legitimate work. That leaves a few hours each day to fill. It sounds like a great thing but as I'm new at the job, I'm still trying to gage how busy I need to look. They know, and I know, I have nothing to do, but should we both pretend that's not the case? Should I always be pouring over papers or be aimlessly tapping away at a word document? Or is it OK to spend a few hours on boxing websites? I honestly don't know. I perform my main duties well and with care and enthusiasm. When I'm asked to do something, I spring into action and do the best I can. But there is nothing I hate more than playing the "look busy" game. It's exhausting! Far more so than actually doing something. I've been told I'm doing a great job, so far, so maybe I should relax a bit. They know how much work I have and there is no way they can think that it equates to eight hours  of non-stop work a day. 

The pace is hard to get used to and it feels strange to not feel the least bit physically tired at the end of the day. How people work at a desk in an office for thirty years is really beyond me. The lack of hard work coupled with the large increase in salary has me worried. I feel that they will realize that they made a mistake, or that I need to start doing a lot more, or that I'm not really needed and I'll be out on the street.

Maybe, I finally have a job that's like everyone else's. I should go home at five feeling may day is just beginning. I shouldn't fall asleep half an hour after eating supper. Maybe my job can be a part of my day and not all of my day. I like having my own desk, and I hope it becomes a comfortable place to be.