While the paperback won't contain any new content, per se, the minor errors that slipped through during the original editing process (and which got a certain New York Times reviewer profoundly bent out of shape) have now happily been corrected. So if you've been waiting for it to come out in affordable paperback form before plunking down yer hard-earned cash for a copy, now's your chance! You can actually pre-order it from Amazon and from Barnes & Noble, so it will be waiting at your doorstep on the day of release.
For those of you into the eBook scene, the digital version of Big Hair & Plastic Grass is already available for Kindle and for Nook; you can also find it in the iBooks store. The first printing of the hardcover edition is also pretty close to sold-out at this point; so if first editions are your thing, snap it up while you still can!
Summer's still a long way off, but I'll definitely be doing some reading/signing events (hopefully including some which would make Bill Veeck proud) to support the paperback, so check here — or the always-groovin' BH&PG Facebook page — for further updates...
I'd also like to take this opportunity to once again thank everyone who has bought, read, reviewed or otherwise supported this labor of love. I am continually humbled to learn of the enjoyment it has brought to people, and am continually stoked to see how many people out there who still hold a 'fro-tastic place in their heart for the glory (and ridiculousness) of '70s baseball.
Sticking with yesterday's theme — my current obsession with the intense creepiness of Gary Puckett's oeuvre — here's a clip from the December 3, 1969 episode of "The Jack Benny Show," which features Gary and the Union Gap running through "The Beggar" (which is now really starting to grow on me, thanks in part to the groovy guitar riff that sounds like a cross between Elvis's "Edge of Reality" and the Mamas and the Papas' "Straight Shooter"), followed by a duet with Nancy Sinatra on Blood, Sweat & Tears' "Spinning Wheel."
The latter number is especially interesting, because it backs up what I was saying earlier about how GP-UG could be considered an underappreciated "horn-rock" (or, in this case, "horn-dog rock") band. "Spinning Wheel," after all, is one of the acknowledged classics of the genre, and Gary handles his vocal parts with ease — and minus all the David Clayton Thomas/Jim Peterik "desperately in need of stool softener" grunting that went hand-in-hand with horn-rock.
It's also interesting to note that Gary seems to have no chemistry at all with the lovely Ms. Sinatra — though I guess that's not entirely surprising, given that she was 28 at the time, which would have put her out of Gary's, er, "target demographic" by at least 12 years...
Sometimes, when the shuffled selections of my iPod intersect with music-geek conversations I'm having with friends in certain corners of the internet, I find myself considering the strange case of Gary Puckett. Born in 1942 in the same town (Hibbing, Minnesota) where Bob Dylan grew up, Gary went on to become a labelmate of the Mighty Zimm's, though the records he made occupied an entirely different part of the musical spectrum, to say the least.
Though one could argue that Gary Puckett and the Union Gap were un-credited/underappreciated purveyors of what would come to be known as "horn rock," their music was never considered to be anywhere as hip as that of, say, Chicago, Blood Sweat & Tears, the Buckinghams, or even Chase. It was tuneful and commercial as hell, though, with Gary's big, burly, man-tastic voice soaring through one catchy, dinner theater-worthy chorus after another. I remember my aunt playing her 45 of "Lady Willpower" for me when I was 12, and I couldn't help getting swept up in the record's thrilling horn-powered surges. A week later, I heard "Over You" on the local oldies station, and I thought, "Hey, it's 'Lady Willpower'!" — but as I would soon come to realize, all of his hits kind of sounded the same.
What I didn't realize at the time was just how fucking creepy his hits actually were; that particular lightbulb wouldn't go off over my head until the late 90s, when I saw him perform them all in the space of 45 minutes during an oldies show at the Greek Theater. (He also did a medley of Jimi Hendrix songs, which really had to be heard/seen to be believed.) At that moment, I realized that all of his hits could basically be broken down accordingly:
HAVE SEX WITH ME: "Lady Willpower," "Let's Give Adam and Eve Another Chance."
I HAVE HAD SEX WITH YOU: "Over You," "This Girl Is A Woman Now" (the latter of which contains the completely foul line, "This girl has tasted love," which made me laugh so hard at the Greek that I spit beer through my nose.)
DON"T HAVE SEX WITH HIM: "Woman, Woman" (which could have easily been subtitled "Have You Got Cheating On Your Mind") and "Don't Give In to Him". Of the latter's line, "...because he will only ask for more," my friend Jason wonders, "What the hell does that mean? Anal?"
YOU'RE TOO YOUNG TO HAVE SEX WITH ME: "Young Girl," which contains the immortal line, "With all the charms of a woman/You've kept the secrets of your youth" — Example A of my long-held belief that "charms" used to be a pop code-word for "breasts". "This Girl Is A Woman Now" would probably qualify as well, if somebody'd bothered to check her ID.
Now, this inherent creepiness wasn't entirely Gary's fault — these songs were all penned by outside songwriters, including his producer Jerry Fuller, who wrote "Young Girl," "Lady Willpower" and "Over You". But Gary sure sold those songs, in several senses of the term. And in the course of today's Puckett conversation, I've discovered a few new additions to the Puckett canon, with some interesting variations on the aforementioned messages.
"His Other Woman":
Or rather, HE'S HAVING SEX WITH HER.
"The Pleasure of You":
The B-side of "This Girl Is A Woman Now" manages to combine the "Have Sex With Me" pleading of "Lady Willpower" and the pedophilic yuck factor of "Young Girl" (Though you were a child, nature had blessed you ahead of your time...") in a tender tale of a girl who has already slept with most of the guys in town before Gary got to her. In other words, THEY HAVE HAD SEX WITH YOU.
And finally, there's "The Beggar," the B-side of "Adam and Eve." It's an odd song that's almost Scott Walker-esque in its baroque lyrics and overwrought delivery, and which comes complete with this equally odd video of Gary moping around on a French Quarter rooftop in a pretty cool fringed-sleeve jacket. The message, perhaps, is SOMEONE, ANYONE, PLEASE HAVE SEX WITH ME.
Puckett reminded us several times that night at the Greek, he's since found God — which, given the underlying (and overlying) themes at work in his classic hits, was probably a good thing for everyone involved...
October is one of my favorite months of the year, as it's always pretty much a non-stop cavalcade of horror movies and post-season baseball 'round here. Catching Hell, the new documentary currently showing on ESPN2, is both things — a horror movie set in the baseball post-season.
Catching Hell discusses and dissects the phenomenon of the sports scapegoat, as exemplified by Boston Red Sox first baseman Bill Buckner (who was vilified for letting an easy grounder go through his legs during Game 6 of the '86 World Series), and Steve Bartman, whose life was changed forever (and possibly even ruined) by his impulsive grab for a foul ball during Game 6 of the 2003 National League Championship Series. It's a good film, but it's also a bummer on a number of levels — as a Cubs fan, I'm relieved that I won't have to see "the Bartman play" replayed ad nauseam as part of the perpetual "festival of failure" montage that accompanies any Cubs foray into the playoffs, even though I know it was actually Alex Gonzalez (and Mark Prior, and Dusty Baker, and Paul fucking Bako) who blew the Cubs' best chance in my lifetime to make the World Series, and not some hapless fan. Catching Hell definitely lays the blame for the Cubs' 2003 collapse at the feet of the team, and makes judicious use of several clips from Games 6 and 7 to do so; but seeing the filmic evidence laid out again brought the pain of October '03 back for me in an unexpectedly gut-churning way.
I was back in Chicago during the 2003 NLCS, not to attend the games (they were actually playing in Florida during the weekend I was back) but to attend the memorial service for Bernie Markwell, my dear friend, high school history teacher, and one of the most profound influences upon my life. Returning to the city of my youth to pay my respects to my dear mentor was a heavy experience, but it was mitigated somewhat by the sheer joy that was pulsing through Wrigleyville that weekend. I vividly remember listening to the Cubs' exciting extra-innings victory in Game 3 on the radio with my Mom; equally vivid is the memory of being at the post-memorial dinner gathering the next day, and the waiters coming in to tell us that the Cubs were kicking the shit out of the Marlins in Game 4. I led a bunch of my friends and fellow diners out on a drinking expedition that night, toasting Bernie's memory with one round of red wine after another, finally closing down our bar at 4 am. In the wee drunken hours of the morning, I remember talking with a fellow Cubs fan about the team's chances, now that they were up three games to one. "We've got Zambrano going in Game 5," he said, "and then there's Prior and Wood in Game 6 and 7 if we need 'em. There's no way we're gonna lose!" But even in my liquored-up state, I knew it was too early to start celebrating. I don't believe in sports curses, but still...
Anyway, we all know what happened next — though if you don't, Catching Hell will certainly fill you in. The one frustrating aspect of the doc is that the man at the center of the storm, Steve Bartman, declined to take part in it, so we never really get to understand his take on the whole thing beyond the public statement he made shortly after the incident. It is, however, pretty fascinating (and in some cases infuriating) to hear the reflections of several of the fans who were sitting near Bartman at the time; they range from one who tried to reassure him that he'd done nothing wrong, to another who tried to pick a fight with him, to another who (in retrospect) missed becoming the game's scapegoat by a matter of inches. There's also a fairly harrowing account from the security guard who snuck Bartman out of Wrigley Field, and had to sequester him in her apartment until the Wrigleyville foot traffic abated.
Catching Hell also makes several interesting points about the concept of scapegoats, and why sports fans (and, by extension, society in general) still seem to require them. But there's one thing that kept occuring to me as I watched the doc, a point that no one in Catching Hell ever really explores: How Bartman's reaction — or rather, the lack thereof — seems to have been part of what inflamed the fans around him (and, of course, the millions who watched the whole sorry scenario on TV). I firmly believe that if Steve Bartman had been a big, fat, Belushi-esque slob who made a big show of slapping his forehead and making other "What the fuck did I just do?" gesticulations, Cubs fans would have been quick to forgive and forget. Unfortunately for Bartman, he looked like the know-it-all nebbish from everyone's high school math class; coupled with the fact that he didn't appear to acknowledge his faux pas (or even react outwardly at all), his "please give me a swirly" mien brought out the collective bully/lynch mob attitude in Cubs fans at Wrigley and elsewhere.
If there is an upside to this ugly tale, it's that Steve Bartman — despite having to live more or less incognito to this day — seems to have handled the incident and its outcome with an impressive amount of personal grace and dignity. He's never cashed in on his infamy, despite being offered hundreds of thousands of dollars to do card shows, endorsements and the like. Nor did he give in to the deluge of anger and hatred baselessly directed at him by countless Cubs fans; under the circumstances, a less balanced person might well have given in to thoughts of suicide. Maybe "Well, at least he didn't kill himself" isn't the most cheerful message you could take away from a documentary, but Catching Hell isn't a feel-good film. It is, however, an absolute must-watch for any baseball fan.
Forty-five years ago today, Bobby Fuller — one of my all-time musical heroes — was found dead in his car in Hollywood, under extremely questionable circumstances. It was a tragic and unjust end to a really promising career, and to the life of an enormously talented young gent who truly lived for his music.
I wish I had time right now to write more about who he was and what his music has meant to me, but I'm on a crazy deadline. Still, even though I'd rather pay tribute to my heroes on their birthdays, the anniversary of Bobby's death deserves some reflection. Watch the Shivaree clip above, if you have a chance — sure, they're lip-synching, but it gives you a great idea of Bobby's charisma, as well as the way he fused the '50s rock of Buddy Holly with a contemporary '60s groove and sound. And he was really just getting started.
And if you want to delve a bit into the mystery of his death, this E! Mysteries & Scandals episode from the late 90s is a good introduction — and it features some talking-head interjections from a younger, thinner version of yours truly. (If you have the scratch, you can also pony up for an out-of-print copy of Never to Be Forgotten: The Mustang Years, which I wrote the liner notes for.) The great Miriam Linna of Kicks fame has a book coming out soon that will reportedly shed new light on what happened; I can't wait to read it.
Dan Epstein is an award-winning journalist who lives in Southern California. His first book, 20th Century Pop Culture, was published by Carlton Books in 1999. His latest book, Big Hair and Plastic Grass: A Funky Ride Through Baseball and America in the Swinging '70s, will be published by Thomas Dunne/St. Martin's Press in May 2010. He does his best writing in his bathrobe.
