Vic Flick's World-Famous Lick

Another quirky story from NPR commentator Tim Brookes:

Reimagined American music returned to these shores in the early sixties via the "British Invasion," as everyone under 65 knows. Mr. Brookes contends that the opening salvo wasn't the Beatles iconic February 1964 appearance on Ed Sullivan's show (the most viewers for one show ever, at the time), but came from a group numbering under a half dozen in the U.K. in 1962, that is, session guitarists.
Vic Flick, one member of this fraternity by virtue of his ability to read music, worked in TV show studio orchestras and for a band named The John Barry Seven. Barry got a call from some obscure film producers to bring his group over to rewrite and record the music for a film, with a deadline of two weeks. The title-sequence theme by Monty Norman, it seems, was slow and uninspiring. While Barry rearranged the horn parts, Vic Flick suggested a Duane Eddy surf style treatment of his part, taking it down to the low E string to make it "more dynamic." With his Paragon jazz-style guitar, DeArmond pickup and a 15-watt Vox amp, he came in on the fifth measure spitting out F sharp, E and G like machine gun bullets. Duly recorded, they moved on to finish up the day's work and Mr. Flick was paid a standard $6 - $7 session rate. He forgot about it quickly and didn't go to see the film's premiere.
What he missed was the James Bond thriller Dr. No. His riff was heard worldwide for decades and a popular music tsunami was on its way.

The First Mashup?

Rus Wornom on his blog "Take Another Road To Another Time" has a link to "News From Me," a blog by Los Angeles writer and producer Mark Evanier, which I check regularly. Not that I need to be in the show biz loop, but Mark is a very intelligent commentator, has been around a while and knows everyone, especially those in the comic book and comedy world. What I find especially interesting is learning about all those people we civilians never heard of who have worked in these fields, have produced original, quality creative work and seemed to have in general had a great time doing it. He's also a huge fan of June Foray, the one and only voice of Rocky the Flying Squirrel, so he had me right there.

I ran across a Evanier-type story today from NPR commentator Tim Brookes and I've got to share it:

Singing cowboys in movies, it seems, were thought up first as a cost-saving measure -- Gene Autry or one of his contemporaries leaning up against a tree and singing three songs filled up a whole reel with little expenditure (no blank ammo, horses, costumed riders, dust in the camera's film gate, etc.). This device caught on and was endlessly repeated because it easily satisfied a Depression and war years fantasy -- "troubles and problems could be dispelled with songs, good cheer and innocent honesty." Altogether more wholesome, and cheaper at a 5- to 25-cent admission, than today's mystery and romance novels...

In 1935, Autry starred in a 12-part movie series, The Phantom Empire, which has to be one of the strangest mash-up of genres (western, sci-fi, movie musical) ever attempted. The story goes thus: Gene and his pals live at Radio Ranch, from which they merrily engage in a daily musical radio show broadcast (this back when less than 10% of rural areas had electricity). One day a sidekick, rodeoing Betsy Ross King, spies a figure out of the range in a space suit entering an elevator hidden behind rocks (sounds like something R. Crumb would have dreamed up 30 years later in a cloud of blue smoke). Our heroes of course must investigate, and find an underground "science city," Murana, ruled by feisty Queen Tika, who definitely believes that girls rule! Especially over her robot people, who are quickly dispatched if they fail to mind the rules -- powerful ray guns and all that. Each week after escaping back to the surface, Gene's gang then put on their show, happily singing about sage brush and livestock.

You can get this classic on DVD from Amazon.com. And you should.

Animal House

I'd like a yard like Cliff's, all secured with fence, trees and bamboo (what a fun word to say). Not just for us but for the critters who would move in, raise their young in relative safety, and lose their fear. That strange little bird in Zach's yard already seems to recognize us and knows we mean no harm, so if each year's offspring experience this sort of unthreatening environment they would join their world to yours. Peaceable kingdoms...

This year, this burgeoning summer, is different than the past 18 here. When we moved in, behind us was a scraped and scarred wasteland before the protective belt of old trees along the creek showed dark green, firmly intending to hold on despite the onslaught of fossil-fueled machines. The remnants of the old older, when this hill was wild, were just fading: we saw red and grey fox, turtles, snakes, hawks and several groundhogs (who obviously figured into the fox population's success). There was quite a deer herd, with their familiar trails from the hilltop down to water. Goldfinches were everywhere, fattening on the tall weeds' seeds with thousands of trees for cover.

All the wildlife disappeared as houses went up and streets were paved. House and street lights probably spelled doom for prey animals trying to survive another night. The goldfinches dwindled down to a couple per summer. No bluebirds, cardinals or martins.

Trees and shrubbery have grown from the scaly clay and shale surface, and a couple of good wet years have stitched together the patches of grass into a rug of oriental lushness. Many people have put out bird feeders, enabling the few goldfinches to multiply and prosper, filling the air with joyous yellow-uniformed troopers. Dogs are walked, but are not out in yards and there are not many outdoor cats. The doubled traffic since the hilltop has been covered with McMansions and the lower area crammed with apartments is probably a cruel Harvester of those little predators. I know it is an ever-present threat to us few pedestrians.

The holly tree out front in the narrow and protected walkway hosts a bird nest each year. What a joy it is to see the juvenile cardinal, wobbly and innocent, appear on the sidewalk. He looks at you and asks, Can you help me? I don't know what to do. Well, they figure it out and next year he's the proud dad of another brownish-red teenager. The crows used to perch on the garage gutter and destroy the robins' nestlings before that. A disease (I forget what) decimated the crows and jays for a few years, and we haven't seen either around much, so the holly tree sends out its graduates regularly. The robins must have found a safer place and the cardinals don't take any guff.

A tiny rabbit was on the far end of the walk eyeing the lettuce the other day. It dashed back under the generous cover of the Japanese maple when it spied me, but I hope he stays around and understands there's plenty of lettuce for both of us. And we do see a few bluebirds each summer. On a dirt lane (not many of those left) years ago between here and Mechanicsburg, I saw a Baltimore oriole. Only one, and never again. What a sight. They must know how beautiful they are, but the common, little red-headed sparrows are beautiful in their own right too.

What's different about this year other than the gradual recovery Nature has made in plastic suburbia is the ongoing tale of Drew the Shrew.

Every year we see a dark, swift little shrew scuttling about the in leaf litter under the holly and across the sidewalk (he has an enviable commute). Just this week Gilligan the Vigilant noticed two baby shrews noodling around under the holly leaves, and today we saw two adults zip across the sidewalk! After almost two decades of seeing only one tiny rodent going about his business each summer, we get to see the whole Brady Bunch.

If they think they're in Cliff's back yard and they're so safe they can cavort openly, that's a treat for us and our mighty, indoor, clawless feline hunter.

What About Bob?

Six years ago, Gilligan, our cat, showed up out back looking for a home. Drew the shrew has been living out front (or rather, generations following the original Drew) for even longer. Downstairs in his basement burrow, the last of six rabbits, the almost immortal BB Bunny, has grown from a little fuzzball into a jolly Burl Ives type of fellow. I guess the word got out about our open-door policy, because last summer a tulip poplar seedling moved in, choosing the narrow strip out front between the sidewalk and the garage. Leaving it undisturbed to see if it survived the winter, I found it this year full of vigor and seemingly determined to become a full-sized tree in record time. About a year old now, its tropical-looking leaves are 13" by 10"! You've got to admire this much enthusiasm.
Now I'm stuck with a moral dilemma. This is about the worst location possible for tree roots -- the sidewalk and garage floor will be no match for their voracious reach in just a few years if this first year's growth is any indication. But how can I consider removing it? First, that would be heartless. Second, it already has a name, like a pet, and once here they should enjoy living out their natural lives.
So...what about Bob the tree?

Can You Have Any Common Sense if You're Named After Ayn Rand?

I came across three things in the past week that made me stop still. At the primary election polling place, I arrived within ten minutes of closing hoping to avoid the party hecklers who usually jam the stairs in front of the doors. There were, however, two: a pair of Tea Partiers, with the headgear from which dangled tea bags. If you're in your senior years, you should not do things like this in public. You may not be pretty or fast anymore, but you could at least have a little dignity. I didn't know what to say, and didn't want to hurt their feelings anyhow. All was not lost despite my disorientation; I actually voted for a winner, which hardly ever happens.

Another day at Wegman's (along with Trader Joe's and Whole Foods, the best grocery chain ever), I stopped dead when I saw they offered a "pick your own" six-pack, wherein you fill an empty carton with any of dozens of single bottles, and not a loser among them. What a concept. Why had no one thought of this before? Imagine if you could pick your own channels from your cable provider. We won't live long enough to see that...

Wegman's just keeps bursting through the proverbial thought-box -- I look forward every week to see what they're up to. Most business just inspires fear and loathing (if you're paying attention) -- how do these folks combine the ingredients of imagination, devotion to quality, and an obvious love of what they do, so well?

Rand Paul (it's said he's actually not named after that loon Ayn, but isn't it too much of a coincidence?) ran off the tracks just like another son of a seemingly immortal conservative, Franklin Graham, recently. The statements of these two are just an embarrassment of riches if you find complete lack of sense amusing. Two of the tenets of Libertarianism are personal freedom and anti-corporatism, yet Rand critized the President for not treating BP Oil with kid gloves and also had a problem with the Civil Rights Act applying to businesses. We all thought we had settled the issue of businesses getting away with barring some members of the public patronizing them or shunting them aside to segregated areas. Libertarianism and its parent Objectivism (wound-too-tight Ayn Rand's fever dream) just can't work, in practice or theory. Those nutrition labels on foods, for example: I and millions of others rely on them greatly to avoid dangerous levels of added sodium and bad fats. Government interference not to be allowed under a "business is king" Libertarian regime. What about emissions and mileage goals, safety glass and seat belts? Evil government plotting, for sure.

If you supported them for some of their principal ideas like no more foreign adventures or just exiting the endless war on drugs, their taking power would unfortunately usher in a crazy clown crew who would just sell out what little autonomy we have left to business, large and small. Yes, the same guys who poisoned Alaska, the Gulf, the Mississippi River basin, West Virginia and Love Canal. And we'd still have foreign wars and a drug-chasing justice system because those make a lot of people rich and powerful or at least very securely employed. This bunch, like the NeoCons, are like the jihadists, who "don't have any real thing to offer the Arabs of the 21st century (CNN article today)." Nothing but passionate, cornpone contradiction.

There was one other arresting moment, just a few hours ago. A recently hatched bird has been scooting around Zach's yard; it's amazingly unafraid and innocently curious. It landed on the lawn mower handle a few feet from both of us and just visited. While I was weeding the garden, it sat on the corner posts and observed. I neither weed nor mow, he seemed to be thinking, and give not a fig for theories; I'm not trapped in the past and don't fret about tomorrow. I just make my music and breathe the free air.

There's a Girl in My Soup!

It's been a busy six months of remodeling. After 18 years here, the "builder's grade" (that is, one step above junk) fixtures in the kitchen and first floor bathroom are gone. No more paper-thin vinyl flooring, plastic towel bars, particleboard cabinets, rusty light fixtures or ghostly flourescent tubes. All but one of the old kitchen cabinets were recycled here to make a pantry area in the garage and a new laundry room in the basement (which had been, inconveniently, in the space now occupied by the Big Black Tub).

The bifold doors marking off the old laundry area were quickly gone via Craigslist. The old cast-iron laundry sink previously recycled from a hotel is on the front lawn now awaiting pickup and re-use by someone else.

The ironing board can now remain set up in the basement and there's a new countertop for folding (I used the sofa back for 18 years). All this is right below where it used to be, so the new plumbing and electrical arrangements were as simple as possible. BB Bunny has places to hide behind the appliances, and seems to enjoy having something new to investigate. Gilligan, on the other hand, did not like all these changes one bit and hid under the bed whenever the various contractors were here.

I must give a shout-out to the township, for their no hassle issuance of a permit and on-time and professional inspections. At the codes office, they even found a catalog to show me exactly what metal reinforcement devices I needed in order to relocate the main vent pipe without comprimising structural integrity. I had only applied for a permit for the new window (what a difference that makes -- there was no natural light in the bathroom before), but they didn't have a problem with all the other work; just wanted to see if it was done right. I guess that would make the no-government libertarians real mad -- interfering with their right to make a mess of things and all.

The new throne is a super water-saver: 1 1/4 gallons per flush, and seems to work very well; the instructions were even clear and accurate. Wonders never cease.

I ordered the wood tub side panel in unfinished oak and then sanded down the existing vanity to bare wood in order to finish both the same, and that turned out well too. Every single thing worked right the first time, with the tiny exception of buying too much tile, but that was easily returnable to Lowe's. Still can't believe you can get real Italian porcelain tile so cheap.

I think we have one happy customer floating in her roomy tub now. And when Mama's happy...

The Short, Unhappy Life of Los San Patricios

The Chieftans, who have been around since 1963, have just released San Patricio, with Ry Cooder's usual quality assistance, which tells the story in song of the Batallon de San Patricio which fought with the Mexican Army from 1846 to 1848.

Not many Americans supported the Mexican War or had any desire to explore the Chihuahua desert, so when tens of thousands of Irish fleeing the devastation of the Potato Famine stepped off the boat, recruiters were waiting (as they were later during the Civil War to nab arriving Germans). Being broke and landless, the appeal of pay and promised land probably looked like a rare opportunity to them. These promises were of course not honored later, the same treatment as was given black recruits during the Revolutionary War, and native Indians for centuries. There was a strong anti-immigrant nativist sentiment abroad in the land at the time, and the newly minted soldiers were probably given a rough time. As they headed south, they also started to feel more sympathy for the Catholic Mexicans than their new masters who seemed like their former British overlords, not comrades. They weren't the only ones with second thoughts, as 9000 deserted the U.S. Army during the war -- a pretty big number for a relatively small force.

Between 175 and 700 immigrant soldiers deserted to the Mexican side, mostly Irish but also a few escaped slaves and several other European nationalities, expatriate veterans looking for excitement and cash (Mexico offered land grants also, and a few survivors actually received them). Organized into an artillery unit in 1846, their ambition, fighting spirit and, especially, their previous military experience made them a formidable obstacle for Zachary Taylor's invasion force, especially his dangerous Horse Artillery. In their first action as the Batallon, in defense of Monterrey, the unit was very effective but the city surrendered. In the last, at the Churubusco Convent, they stood solidly and repelled several determined attacks, but ran out of ammunition. Disbanded at the end of the war in 1848, a few members stayed in Mexico, and they were the lucky ones: the captured San Patricios were treated as traitors and hanged, although this was illegal (only spies and those charged with atrocities are to be hanged; firing squad was specified for desertion). Of all the deserters recaptured, only the Patricios were hanged, and the Army denied this had happened until 1915.

This extraordinary story doesn't show up in histories, but a movie was released in 1999 (One Man's Hero), and on the anniversary of the executions a Mexican flag is flown in Clifden, Ireland, home of the Batallon's Major John Riley.

The Mexicans had the last laugh, since we ended up with Texas. Hope they enjoy the irony.