Woodstock Turns 50

Having watched the Live Aid footage, Mr. Ginley and I decided to give equal time to Woodstock, the granddaddy of music festivals.

We chose the Blue Ray edition of the movie Woodstock. Thankfully, we rented it from the library so we could give it back.

After viewing the first few minutes of the film, we fast-forwarded through the rest. Yes, we can see there are a lot of people (400,000+) flocking to the festival at Yasgur's Farm. Here are a bunch of people climbing over the fence because they don't want to pay. There are the Port-O-Potties, and look, someone left their cane in one of them. Mostly, the film shows lots and lots of 20-somethings milling around, stoned or inebriated. But, for the most part, behaving themselves, mostly happy and enjoying the event. (No guns, imagine that today.)

Some of the participants are bathing in a lake. Oh, look, many of them are naked. See how the camera zooms in on one naked young woman with a nice bod. "Just think," observed Mr. Ginley. "She is probably someone's grandma now."

Also in the lake is a blonde woman, whose body remains underwater, as she talks to the camera about peace, love, etc., while several young men follow her like sharks, hoping to get a look-see at whatever is below the water level.

Fast forwarding to the end of the film, we move on to the acts.

The performances are chopped up and feature lots of annoying special effects. I'm sure they were swell at the time, but now they are just distracting. Weird split screens, zoom zooming in and out and lots of orange lighting. It did help that the disc featured the individual acts under the "special features" section, so you didn't have to sit through Melanie, for example, if you just wanted to see Crosby, Stills & Nash.

We managed to see the performers we were most interested in. I got to watch Janis Joplin, Mr. Ginley got The Who. And we partook of Jimi Hendrix, including his famous rendering of the Star Spangled Banner.

The weirdest was Sha Na Na, doing their usual shtick of 1950s hits. I wondered who thought that was a good idea. Not that they weren't entertaining. It just struck me that it was like Jimi Hendrix opening for the Monkees. (That wasn't a winning idea, either, and it also really happened.)

All in all, I couldn't help but feel sad. So many of the performers would be gone in a few short years. Janis, Jimi, Keith Moon. And when they panned across the hundreds of thousands of fans, I wondered aloud how many of those young men had served and died in Viet Nam, which hadn't yet reached its deadly peak.

In retrospect, the whole thing was quite a feat. Here are some of the numbers:
3 days
32 acts
2 deaths (one insulin usage. the other a tractor ran over a guy who was sleeping in a field)
2 births (one of them in traffic)
4 miscarriages
400,000+ attendees
600-acre venue (dairy farm)
2 hours - duration of Hendrix's performance

And, of course, there were those who were invited but did not participate. Bob Dylan, who lived in Woodstock. Roy Rogers, who was asked to perform Happy Trails at the end of the festival. The Moody Blues because they were performing in Paris.

And Frank Zappa who declined, saying, "A lot of mud at Woodstock."

Fiddling Around in Yiddish

The opening strains of Traditsye are unmistakable. And while I don't understand the Yiddish words, I've seen Fiddler on the Roof enough times to comprehend what is being sung.

Thanks to my Facebook friend, Rachelle, I recently became aware of Fiddler on the Roof in Yiddish. She's already seen the play -- this recording was made with the 2018 Broadway cast.

Now, I grant you, I was raised Catholic, and while I suspect I may have been Jewish in a prior life, I have no ties to this culture in my current life. That is, aside from the few Yiddish phrases I've picked up from Harry over the years.

But knowing that "schvitz" means sweat, a "pischer" is a greenhorn and "meshugga" means crazy does not a fluent speaker of Yiddish make.

And yet, it doesn't matter. This recording touches all kinds of nerves. The humor and angst, love and sorrow, joy and frustration -- all resonate with this shiksa -- or is it "goy"? (There's a lot of blowback over the word "shiksa," as I discovered doing a quick search of the word.)

Maybe someday I will be fortunate enough to see the play. In the meantime, I can enjoy the music. I downloaded the soundtrack from the library, but soon, I'll go out and buy the CD.

Lekhayim!

A Visit from the Spirit of Concerts Past

"You realize," I told Mr. Ginley, "that we were our kid's age when this was going on."

We'd been skimming the four DVDs from the Live Aid Concert, which aired July 13, 1985.

"Can you believe that pink suit? Look at those shoulder pads!"

Madonna was the original cutie pie, bedazzling in costume jewelry, big hair and punky wardrobe.

Freddie Mercury then David Bowie, each in turn owned the audience. They didn't need strobe lights or special effects. I'm not too proud to say I cried. They don't make 'em like that anymore.

We watched The Who, and Roger Daltry in all his hunkinesss.

Elton John, banging away on the piano. I still have a hard time deciphering his lyrics. And so odd when he sang the duet with Kiki Dee, he on the keys, she on the opposite side of the stage.

Dire Straits doing Money for Nothing. And Sultans of Swing -- a real crowd pleaser.

Eric Clapton performing Layla (he was separated from Pattie Boyd by that time).

Duran Duran...I wonder if my brother, Paul, still listens to them every now and again.

Tom Petty. (Sigh.)

Mr. Ginley asked me, "Do you ever look back and feel like you were a different person?"

No, I don't think so. But sometimes I do ache for my younger self. For the echoes of music past. For a time when I rocked and rolled with the punches.

I think I'll put on my bolo necklace, fluff up my hair and carpe diem like a rock star.

I love rock 'n roll.  Sing it with me, JJ.

The Past Becomes a Present

Gazing out the window this morning at the lightening sky, I knew I just wanted to get out and enjoy the day.

But first, I had to do the breakfast thing. And write a little something. So here goes, then I go.

This week I came across some quips I typed up that belong to my son when he was 4-5 years old. They have aged quite well. So today, I'm giving you all a break from my ramblings and sharing some of his. 

Bon appetit!

Age 4:

"Suddenly, I realized it was bedtime."

"That's not an option, Mom."

  

Joe was riding with his Dad in the car, trying to work out the mysteries of the universe.  An Elvis Presley song was on the radio in memory of Elvis' birthday.

"Dad, why do they celebrate Elvis' birthday if he's dead?"

"I don't know, Joe. I guess they just want to remember him."

"Dad, is Elvis in heaven."

"Yes, Joe."

"Are Elvis and Grandpa Ginley together?"

"Well, I guess so."

"Dad, who plays the guitar?"

  

"Mom, Daddy ate all the cheese crackers. Now you have to go to the cheese cracker store tomorrow morning and bring me some cheese crackers before you go to work!"

Waving skyward, "Hi, God!"

Joe brings home his Thanksgiving project from school, on which his teacher has written, “Joe is thankful for trees.” I thought that was really nice, having a son who is so concerned about the environment. On Thanksigiving Day, I ask Joe again what he is thankful for. He says, “I’m thankful for TREATS!”

Age 5

While playing with his Thomas the Tank Engine wooden train set, we overhear: “James said, ‘Thomas, would you help me pull my train today?’ And Thomas said, ‘Why, I’d be delighted.’”

  

Being chastised for holding up Marge (our cat) and going “vroom, vroom!”  Joe says, “But Mom, she was just pretending to be an airplane!”

“I love you to the moon and the stars and the planets and back again.”

Opening each Christmas present:  “Whoa, just what I always wanted!”

When asked to put his Superman away (it was positioned near the nativity scene), “No, Mom, can’t you see, Superman is watching out for Baby Jesus!”

  

We attended Palm Sunday mass. After listening to the (long) gospel reading about Jesus riding through the town, Joe turns to Bill and asks, “Dad, did He live happily ever after?”

Apologies to my kid if this embarrassed him. Well, no, I'm not really sorry. He can exact his revenge someday when he writes his memoirs.

An Ocean of Calamine Lotion

How many times did I assure Mr. Ginley, "No, there's no poison ivy in the back yard."

Ah, Mrs. Ginley, thy Delta Tau Chi name is "Hubris."

And thus it was this past week I discovered that, as a result of trying to remove lots of green stuff from the backyard, I became a victim of poison ivy.

What threw me, I suppose, was that it took more than a week to show itself. Never having experienced the incessant itching, blisters and welts that result from exposure to the vile plant, I wasn't even sure that's what it was.

My friend, Chris, confirmed it for me after coffee a few days ago.

"Yep, that's poison ivy," she said. Also, she suggested a possible remedy, which helped immensely.

While I will grant you the Google can be very informative, in the case of poison ivy, our favorite search engine served up contrary and confusing results.

"Poison ivy can spread when blisters pop" versus "Poison ivy can only spread with additional contact with either the plant itself or something that's come in contact with the plant." For me, it seemed the rash was popping up in other places on my body that hadn't come in contact with P.I. So, does it get in your bloodstream and ride around? I'm still confused.

Some say you should wrap up your infected self, others say the open air heals the wounds quicker.

And there's no need to go to the doctor, unless one of the sores gets infected, it shows up all over your body or you get a fever. Oh, and yes, it's wise to go to the emergency room if you find that you're unable to breathe or swallow.

I'm happy to report that my particular case of P.I. seems to be abating. Soon, I will once again be able to wear short sleeves without others averting their eyes in disgust.

Best of all, perhaps, is that while Mr. Ginley has been sympathetically itchy all week, it does not appear to be affecting him otherwise.

Soon, very soon, I hope The Coasters will cease to play in my head.

You'll be scratching like a hound, the minute you start to mess around...*

*Poison Ivy lyrics by Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller.  Publisher: Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC

Watch it, Buster

Last night, I watched a documentary about Buster Keaton. And it occurred to me, if his folks hadn't thrown him around on the stage, he might never have become a great filmmaker.

His parents were reported for whatever was termed child endangerment at the time. But because of a loophole in the way the law was written, they were able to continue with their act for years, until Buster went out on his own.

He used what he learned from his childhood and adolescence to comedic advantage all through his films. Which are still amazing to watch today. His acrobatics and timing are breathtaking.

Not that I'm saying parents should throw their offspring around like hot potatoes, but it is interesting how our perspective on child rearing has changed.

Before the turn of the last century, the concept of children as bundles of joy, as opposed to extra farm hands or wage earners, was something of a novelty.

Fast-forward to the post-World War II generation. My parents set out to have four kids and wound up with six. They stoically accepted whatever the Good Lord sent their way, tightening their belts, and we made do with the same school uniform for another year. (Good thing the hems were generous.)

We all had minor chores around the house, but we certainly didn't earn our keep. It's not like we had to get up at 4 am to milk the cows or sell newspapers on the street corner. And we never went hungry (unless we refused to eat cube "steak" or city "chicken").

As parents, Mr. Ginley and I wanted our kid to have it better than we did. But we were careful not to go overboard. I think Joe turned out pretty well. I imagine he will identify experiences from his childhood and use them to shape his adulthood. Hopefully, he will take with him the laughter, the joy of learning and the love.

And enough stories to write a memoir. Or a novel.

I just hope he's gotten over his Dad demoting him to house plant.

A Milestone Birthday

Yes, David B., it was a "milestone" birthday that I celebrated this past week.

Rather than wallow in the fact that I'm growing older, I thought it would be fun to see who and what else was born the same year as I (in addition to my beloved Mr. Ginley).

So, without further ado...

The Barbie Doll
Yes, "Barbie" was born the same year as "Barbie." How cool is that? America's favorite dress-up doll, anatomically deformed but much beloved.

Emma Thompson
Allegedly, she's a terror to work for, but a great actress.

The Twilight Zone
Imagine if you will...a show that was fabulous and creepy. It reflected our fears and paranoia in the space age. And, hey, guess what? It's just as timely today as it was then.

Alaska and Hawaii
Both became states that year, completing the set of 50.

Weird Al Yankovic
You gotta love a guy who plays with his words. I've got a DVD of his greatest parodies around here somewhere, I think it's time to pop it in the player and enjoy one more time.

Xerox
Time to make the copies. The first Xerox machine entered the hallowed halls of the business world, effectively killing mimiograph machines and eliminating the need for carbon paper. Halleluia!

Hugh Laurie
I loved him as Bertie Wooster. He was a pompous jerk as Gregory House, but I enjoyed his character just the same.

The Day the Music Died
Okay, this is a reverse "born." Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and J.P. Richardson (aka "The Big Bopper") were killed in a plane crash, along with their pilot, Roger Peterson. Years later, Don MacLean would make a killing of his own with the song American Pie, which had so many verses, the single had to be recorded on both sides of the record.

Marie Osmond
Treacly-sweet, Marie teamed up with her equally goody two-shoes brother, Donny, to sing lots of songs that could have formed a songbook called "Lawrence Welk Redux."

I'm also sharing my year with Allison Janey, Flavor Flav and Fabio.

So, there you have it.

It was a very good year...unless you were Buddy Holly.