Visions in Black & White, The Allman Brothers Band, and a Rainy Day of Musical Destiny

This past week I've been reading "One Way Out," the collective biography of the greatest rock band to hail from The South - The Allman Brothers Band of Macon, Georgia. And as I progress through this book, various images founded both on fact and myth enter and remain in the forefront of my conscious mind. So, my dear, beloved blogees, I hereby vow to do my best in loosening these mind movies from their moorings inside my skull and releasing them, to fly through wireless air space so someone can read them - possibly far, far away from where I sit/lay on this hotel bed in eastern Tennessee.
My introduction to this profoundly gifted musical band of six men was in October 1971. I - a seventeen year old college freshman, a hippyfied Holden Caufield* - ducked into a record shop on Ventura Boulevard somewhere in Encino to escape a sudden thunderstorm. When I stopped in my tracks just ten feet from the front door, I was wet enough to refrain from touching any merchandise. I chose to look hands-free at the most curious album in my experience as a four- or five-year veteran of buying rock and roll albums.
Setting at a sixty-degree angle and gazing up to me from its wire stand was the first album in the store I laid eyes on - the first LP cover I'd ever laid eyes with black and white photography. And drawing me in further were the six men facing the camera directly. They were not as much a group as a gaggle; a gaggle of long-haired, hard-looking, biker-type dudes with not long hair, but copious amounts of facial hair.  Goatees, Fu Manchu mustaches, mutton chops.. you name it and it set one one of these guys' mugs.
I then deduced that this musical group must be called "The Allman Brothers Band" judging by the large white painted letters stenciled across five or six massive black steamer trunks proclaiming the four-word name. With my mouth surely wide open, I continued musing about the cardboard cover and what kind of music might be contained therein. I concluded that the trunks the size of fully grown black bears held this Allman Brothers Band's musical instruments, microphones, electronic amplifiers, and whatever else rock bands needed onstage to put on their shows.
Since only eight words "The Allman Brothers Band - Live at Fillmore East" populated the front side, I flipped the cellophaned black, gray, and white square over and saw six more men - also long-haired, but tougher even than the crew on the other side. Their names were above each of them - all with nicknames - identifying them as road crew for the band. These even scruffier, rougher men epitomized the old saying about someone looking like they were "rode hard and put away wet." A group ridden any harder or put away any wetter I'd never seen. These dudes were clearly badasses, Southern boys that would fight and talk to you as a man would. All half dozen could've easily joined a motorcycle gang such as the infamous Hell's Angels (and perhaps already had).
"Wow," I whispered. "Wow."
I swallowed hard and flipped back to the front cover. I don't recollect how long I stayed in that warm, cozy record store but I do recall the only purchase I made that day was this black & white DOUBLE! album priced as a single album. AND, an album recorded live at the legendary Fillmore East!
Somehow, regardless or because it was unheard of - a live DOUBLE album by a band that hadn't yet become known to most rock-and-rollers - I decided to part with several of my hard-earned dollars. (By hard earned, I mean I earned merely one dollar and thirty-five cents an hour to wash dishes, bus tables, and sometimes even cook at a Mexican restaurant close to my college.)
So, even though - as I learned yesterday while reading "One Way Out" - "Allman Brothers Live at Fillmore East" was a double album priced as a single-record album, it was - for me - a substantial investment nonetheless. The record still cost me six or seven hours' wages, with the discount, but it felt like the best investment I'd ever made - and I hadn't even listened to it yet.
The tough, independent, yet carefree demeanor of these musicians and their roadies' similar, yet harsher looks told me - loud and clear - that whatever sounds were contained inside this plastic-wrapped cardboard square featuring nothing but a brick wall, leather-attired hippies and toughs, and stenciled steamer trunks must be worth more than just a single listen.
As soon as I returned from LA to the Mojave Desert town where I lived, I pulled out the first of two records and played the first cut on side A - "Statesboro Blues."
Preceded only by the announcement of "Okay... The Allman Brothers Band," a wall of sound colored like the blues proceeded to march out of my family's roll-top desk, turned turntable in our living room decorated in all its Seventies glory of green, gold, and orange and located on a street named after a desert bush.
The TWO lead guitars, TWO drummers, a bassist who played his instrument more like a regular guitar, and the smokey, bluesy vocals of the B-3 organ player all made their presence known to me from note number-one. And by the time I'd played the entire album - just seven lengthy songs in all - I was in musical Kismet. But! I couldn't figure out what their music was - all I knew was it was unique, yet oddly familiar. It was as though a country band, a blues band, and a jazz band had a baby and made it play rock. I can't think of any other way to describe this musical phenomenon known as The Allman Brothers Band. And sadly, their musical and spiritual leader - Duane Allman - perished that very month, in October '71 from a motorcyle - truck accident in his hometown of Macon, Georgia. And so, even though this talented, unique band carried on for the next forty-two years and produced more classic tunes in their inimitable blues, cum jazz, cum rock fashion, they just weren't quite the same band without their beloved Brother in Duane Allman. And despite Duane's extremely brief three-year tenure with the band he founded, he did greatly inspire, teach, and support not only his five bandmates, but the entire road crew of the band's. In short, all 12 men were Brothers; brothers of all colors, shapes, sizes, and mothers, but brothers just the same.
And that, my friends, is how I became introduced to the greatest and most loved album in my music collection for the past forty-eight years. Musical Kismet, indeed.

Amazing Grace & the Queen of Soul

April 25, 2019. Today I saw the newly released film of two 1972 consecutive night performances featuring the Queen of Soul - the one & only Aretha Franklin. The two sets were intended for an album and television special that became - 47 years later - this film.
Thanks and credit are apparently due for famous film director Spike Lee for producing or post-producing, curating (as peeps say today), and retrieving this filmed, recorded Holy Grail of Gospel & Soul Music, spiffing it up, and showcasing these two rare performances. One of my favorite features was the collage of everyday Christian folk of Los Angeles back about... FORTY-SEVEN YEARS AGO. (I, at the time, was a skinny, long-haired, eighteen year old college sophomore.)
Kudos and thanks must go to the tireless efforts of so many people to resurrect the various pieces and splices of film from that long-ago two-night event and rendering a soul-stirring, uplifting portrait of an artist at her commercial zenith offering sacred songs to the Creator. Seeing a very young Aretha, Reverend James Franklin, and director of the never-released TV special Sydney Pollack gave me jolts of joy.
I returned to Sacramento's historic Tower Theater last Thursday to view this remarkable film for the second time in five days. And, I hope to see it tomorrow with a buddy for the third time. (With matinee and Senior discount tickets set at 7 bucks for this unique film and in an Art Deco theater setting is, for me, mind-blowing at its head-exploding best.
The lovely, iconic Miss Aretha Franklin, dressed the first night in an all-white, floor-length Caftan (Kaftan?) and the second evening in a coral and white paisley. She strode down the middle aisle of a rather small Los Angeles church for her combination recording session / live worship performance featuring all Gospel or Christian music. Joining and supporting the Queen were the Reverend James Cleveland - a lifelong friend and renowned choirmaster - and the Southern California Community Choir, comprised of forty gifted, well-trained singers. Reverend Cleveland played most of the piano pieces and sang along with Ms. Franklin on at least tune.
On the second night, there were two or more celebrity sightings (Mick Jagger and Charlie Watts of the Rolling Stones, perhaps musician Billy Preston, music producer Jerry Wexler, and I believe the Reverend Jesse Jackson.
The setting is such a delight because 1972 was a formative time for me. And within three years my life would not only be formed but TRANSFORMED into a new life, new identity, and a new eternity. But that, my friends, is a possible topic for a future blog. But, in the meantime - "back at the church" - Ms. Aretha shone, soared, belted, and caressed the lyrics on every song or hymn.
Seated next to Aretha's daddy, the Reverend Franklin, was gospel music legend Clara Ward. Both the good reverend and the lady of sacred music were visibly affected (blessed and/or blissed?) by thej 32-year-old Aretha's performance.
I look forward to viewing the film a third time tomorrow and plan on buying or downloading it when it goes to video (or whatever the post-90's terminology is).
I wholeheartedly (an adverb I used perhaps too often when recommending students for college, but here applies even more); I wholeheartedly recommend, suggest, support, and give my loftiest rating of an A+ for this once-in-a-lifetime film that captures Aretha at her zenith in terms of skill and popularity, recording what I believe became a double-record album that they may have become her biggest-selling album. Which says a WHOLE LOT about Aretha's focus (Christ), willingness to record traditionally poor-selling music, put her special, unique touch and flair to it, and kick totally booty. Please, DO YOURSELF A FAVOR, and run & see it before it's pulled from distribution. Peace and blessings in Him, PR

Rowlee's 3Rs : Bob Dylan According to Peter Max

Rowlee's 3Rs : Bob Dylan According to Peter Max: When I was about fifteen years old, my older sister gave me the poster from her Bob Dylan's Greatest Hits Album, Pt. I. As soon as I ...

Life - Its Ups & Downs

Dualism is not just a word, but a concept (actually, a handful of concepts with a common root meaning.) I remember reading the word in some of the philosophical and religious books during my college years. I often heard the word spoken by my stepbrother - an avid student of all religions and schools of thought, but - even by his own admission - a believer of none.
So, from hearing my brother's use of the word in question, I had a modicum of an idea what dualism could be, but since I was too lazy to research the word any further these past fifty years, I had little clue what dualism is all about.
After extensive researching the topic for the past five or six minutes, I've learned that dualism can mean the opposition of two forces in the universe - sometimes both physical, other times both spiritual, and quite often the physical versus the spiritual. One meaning I gleaned from my exhausting Google trek is that dualism can be defined as the conflict of two opposing supreme forces responsible for the creation of the universe.
My dear Blogees: I am in no way a theologian, but I do know that this world, galaxy, and cosmos were created by The Good Force; and I am well aware of the existence of The Bad Force as well, but that is where I jump off the bus. In other words, I cannot accept that an evil force created this world, which is a conundrum on two fronts. Number-one: God is NOT capable of creating evil. He can do anything, anything at all, except evil. See, since God is perfect, he must be (and, of course, is) perfectly good. And perfect good cannot and will not create bad of any size, shape, or color. And my second conundrum: There is only one Creator.
But then it occurs to me that the brightest angel - reportedly named "The Morning Star" - long ago left Heaven and took one-third of all celestial beings with him. And the Word has it that the two forces - The Lord and Satan - will have a final battle someday, after which the latter will be banished by the Former to a place of unending torment and suffering (referred to in the Book as "the lake of fire").
So, friends, dualism must start with the spiritual because it is the Spiritual that created the Physical. And in religious realms, the physical is always in conflict with the spiritual. The duality with a capital D that is at work here in this physical realm called the World is age-old and will continue until that final battle between the Devil and the Messiah. Until that day occurs (and it surely will), the physical world will continue to be at odds with the spiritual. It might be interesting to note that the latter can understand the former but the former will never understand the realm of the spirit. The physical can't because it's incapable - as a finite, temporary, and temporal entity - to understand or even imagine that which is infinite, permanent, beyond the dimensions of space & time.
So, yes, I'll admit other schools of thought or religions have similar concepts about dualism to that of The Word's, but none even approaches being close. Why? Because He known as 'I AM' will always create something greater than man can, which is why all but one of the religions on Earth fall short of the story of Christ's. They all fall short, simply because they're not infinite, timeless, and perfect.
I realize I've jumped into the most profound aspect of dualism so it seems silly to backtrack and speak of the more mundane dualisms in the world, but I have no choice. Unless I want to leave my lazy, comfortable, less-than-stellar way of doing things, which - at the moment - I'm choosing not to do. So, without any further ado, it's time for that medium that expresses great truths and profound philosophy - cartoons.
That's right - cartoons. Everyone pretty much understands them, so we will visit the animated, prehistoric little town of Bedrock in order to pursue this concept known as dualism - two opposing forces fighting for predominance in any realm - including inside the heart and mind of Bedrock's most famous resident - Fred Flintstone.
Although "The Flintstones" only existed in original form for the 1960-1961 prime-time season, its lessons of dualism exist 59 years later. When I taught high school literature just a few years ago to conclude my career as an educator, I used an episode of the show to illustrate the dualism of man. Remember the episode when Fred is confronted by miniature versions of himself atop his shoulders, one dressed in white, wearing wings, and a halo and the other clad in red, having horns on his head, and brandishing a pitchfork? The angel, naturally, represented the good in man while the devil the evil nature of humanity. The two try their darnedest to persuade Fred to do their bidding, and I'm not sure but I believe Hanna and Barbera had good triumph over evil. Some folks, after reflection, may say this cartoon example is neither too broad nor too unrealistic when relating to the lot of humanity. All of us are bombarded constantly by good and bad, the World and Heaven, pride and humility, time and timelessness, greed and altruism, nature and nurture, and the nearly infinite number of finite dualisms that face off, with each of us humans as their battlegrounds.
Yes, we embody a most curious metaphor that doesn't sound poetic when spoken, but each one of us can be thought of as "an individual Armageddon." Each of us experiences first-hand the battle between good and bad being waged on and in us. And who or what can we blame this constant conflagration of contention? Blame it all on dualism. Yep, dualism. But, someday that will end, for the good. I hope and pray we make the right choice... for eternity. Class dismissed.      

Rowlee's Ramblings and... more!

Living in a hotel for the past 163 days has been both challenging and fun. We were displaced because of a 50-cent plastic fixture in a toilet that chose to bust while we were two thousand or more miles away selecting a home for, hopefully, the rest of our years together as a couple. So, "the best laid plans of mice and men," according to the wag / poet Robert Burns, is a fitting motif for our last five months.
I don't know if it was supposed to happen, but it did, so therefore - yes - it was supposed to happen. Unless we'd had the wisdom to replace it with a better fixture, which our plumber had recommended. (However, to Linda's and my credit, our plumber ALWAYS recommended we part with more of our money every time they'd paid us biannual visits to "check" our heating and plumbing systems and what not. (By the way, for the sake of full disclosure, I - Patrick Rowlee - being of semi-sound mind do hereby claim [not swear] that in my 65-and-counting years of breathing and writing, I have NEVER utilized the oft-forgotten countryism known as "what-not." So, rest assured, it won't become a regular or even irregular habit, so help me Universe (because I won't swear to Him; I did enough of that before I got hip to Him being omniscient and omnipresent and everlasting since always).
So, this is my first-ever blog in which I haven't selected a topic, but took the easy road in calling it my "ramblings."
What are ramblings anyway? "Ramblings" is a word regularly applying to someone's speech or writing that appears to be willy-nilly in manner with no beginning, middle, or end. In other, plainer words, it goes nowhere and does nothing but meander. Rambling is what we school kids used to call what our teachers did when lecturing us spirited children at the end of a long week in public school, with the theme being how we could and should and ultimately would behave like responsible, courteous, and thoughtful or mindful human beings who would mature into solid, God-loving citizens of the US of A. These educators rolled their proverbial educational dice and hoped at least some of their passes of the ivories would reveal aggregates of sevens or elevens.
In short, these hard-working, dedicated, but slightly daunted public educators hoped against hope that we would finally begin to "get it," e.g. understand how the world of life really operated or spun incessantly while tilted at a very specific angle (26 degrees? I have no real clue, but that sounds possible, so let's go with that figure). But remember to please not forgive me for my ramblings because I neither expect nor want you to - forgive me, that is. Rambling, remember, is what I do best.
(And no, not like Steve Martin's hilarious bit being a "ramblin' kind of guy." Or, similar to Marshall Tucker's infectious, adorable, but venal ditty "Ramblin' on my Mind.")
And speaking of rambling, I only had disdain for a small handful of automobiles as a kid, but at the very top of the list of yecchy car makes was the Rambler, formerly Nash Rambler, future American Motors and eventually extinct. My other least favorite car brands were probably the undistinguished Nash; the Art-Deco, but still ugly-as-heck Edsel (named after Henry Ford's daughter or son, I forget whom); the Studebaker; and lastly the earliest Toyotas on American soil. But! I must admit / confess the Rambler sat perched atop of the whole heap of - well, heaps - of autos.
And lastly or thereabouts, was the infamous Midnight Rambler. No, not the fictitious Rolling Stones' killer / fiend on the loose, but the shows that the Band used to be part of when they played sleazy dives and sad taverns across Canada and America in the early Sixties.
So, the Midnight Rambler - according to the Band's drummer, vocalist, and baddest-ass member, Levon Helm - was (by way of my liberal paraphrase) something that happened at the ends of many a show on the drunkest night of the week:
We'd play these down-and-out joints that on weeknights might have four patrons and a fight would break out. But on Saturday nights, right around midnight, the jokes started getting a little sleazier, the songs start gettin' a bit racier, and the women began to REALLY dance. Yeah,  Midnight Ramblers were what we lived for..." )
Okay, my Blogees, in the spirit of full disclosure, that last sentence I concocted out of whole cloth. (Albeit cheesy, tacky, garish cloth...
And what not.)
Sincerely and otherwise,
Patrick R. Rowlee - (my middle initial stands for........................... you guessed it: Rambler