TICKET TO RIDE

 

It was (ulp) 60 years ago today, that I went to my very first rock 'n' roll concert — The Beatles, at Dodger Stadium, in LA. August 28, 1966. Two days after my 14th birthday, I piled into a car with my girlfriends, Jeannine and Nora, driven by one of our stalwart moms, and hit the freeway from Hermosa Beach. I wore a rib-knit sleeveless turtleneck and corduroy skirt in beige, the color Paul wore in the Salisbury Plain scene in Help. 

I also carried the Paul doll I'd made out of muslin and wire (his face so lovingly drawn with felt tip pens), which I waved in the window, to the delight of every other carload of babbling teenage girls we passed on the way.

 

The stage, such as it was, was set up on the pitcher's mound. (No Jumbotron, no light show, with speakers about the size of the ones on my portable stereo.) Our seats were behind home plate — about eighteen stories up, in the nosebleed section. I believe our tickets cost $6 each. As for merch, all we got was this Beatles (USA) Ltd tour program, which I suppose might be a valuable collectible now, if I hadn't cut out every wallet-sized picture of Paul to carry around in my purse.

 

When the Beatles came bounding onstage, they looked like ants. They might as well have been ants, for all we could tell at that distance, or hear, for the non-stop barrage of screaming. But we recognized their trademark moves, and even though their primitive equipment didn't allow them to play anything much more complicated than "Ticket To Ride," it didn't matter. We were in the same place, breathing the same air, as the actual Beatles. 

 

As singular an event as it was in my own life (i.e.: Best. Day. Ever.), it was almost as momentous for the Beatles. The next night, they ended their tour at Candlestick Park in San Francisco — which would be the last live concert they ever performed together. (Except for the rooftop event at the Apple Corps headquarters in London, at the end of the Let It Be shoot, in 1969.)

 

You can now (of course) find amateur footage of the Dodger Stadium show on You Tube, which I find interesting, in an archaeological sense. But nothing compares to the rapture of memory.

 

Best six bucks I ever spent!

 

 

 

Above: 14-year-old me trying to torture my curly hair into straight bangs, like the Beatles' girlfriends! 

 

 

THE KING JAMES VERSION

Okay, I admit it. For years, American Idol has been my go-to scapegoat for everything that's wrong with American culture. As real reality becomes more scary and out-of-control, as my rant usually goes, we the people start lapping up the alternative, faux-"reality" of TV competition shows. It's the bread and circuses of the electronic age, with which the corporate powers that increasing run the country mean to keep us too enthralled and distracted to notice as they run riot overseas waging war-for-profit, while eroding our civil liberties here at home, scamming us out of our life savings, and shipping our jobs offshore.

Well, come to think of it, it's all true. But that hasn't stopped me from getting as hooked as anyone on the meteoric rise of local boy James Durbin on this season of Idol. I was first alerted to the brewing Durbin story by Wallace Baine, who wrote this excellent Sentinel piece on James a few weeks ago. He and I and Bruce Bratton met for coffee one morning back in February, to plan a discussion we were co-hosting at the Nickelodeon, and all Wallace could talk about was this local kid with the big voice who was knocking 'em dead in the early rounds of Idol auditions.

A youthful loner, troubled by both Tourette's (a physical, not verbal variety), and Asperger's syndromes, James found an expressive outlet in music, via Kids on Broadway and All About Theatre, starring in local productions of Beauty and the Beast and Singin' In the Rain. A fortuitous meeting with Dale Ockerman of the White Album Ensemble introduced James to rock 'n' roll, and, mama, could that boy ever boogie-woogie. And yet, Wallace pointed out, as a frequent guest singer at WAE gigs, it was James' rendition of the aching ballad, "While My Guitar Gently Weeps," that brought the house spontaneously to its feet, cheering, every time.

(James performs with the White Album Ensemble, January, 2009.)

So Art Boy and I decided to check it out. We'd just watch one episode and see what all the fuss was about. It turned out to be the Las Vegas episode, where some 20 semi-finalists performed Beatle songs under the big top at Cirque de Soleil's "Love" production. So our first glimpse of James was him singing a duet with Stefano on "Get Back," perfectly fine but not earth-shaking. We thought we should at least hear him sing solo, so we tuned in next week, and have been watching ever since.

James is establishing himself as the show's top rockster. When other contestants croon ballads, he sings Judas Priest. On Motown night, he opted for Stevie Wonder's gritty, relentlessly driving "Living in the City." When he chose an uptempo, late-model Bon Jovi number on the night they had to pick a song released the year they were born (in James' case, 1989), judge Steven Tyler playfully cautioned him "don't get too poppy!"

So it was a big shock to everyone on the night that each contestant had to sing a song by his or her personal musical hero, and James chose ... Paul McCartney? James, the rocker, the man who had the nerve to audition with the Aerosmith epic, "Dream On," in front of Steven Tyler, and his hero is Paul McCartney?

Oh, yeah. Because he delivered a performance of the slowly building, cumulatively powerful "Maybe I'm Amazed" that was truly cause for amazement. He sang it like he got it, caressed every note, found the source of the song's pulsing power, yet finessed that sweet finish like a pro. In a word, yowza. He did Sir Paul proud, all right, but at the same time made the song radically, indisputably James. Before, I was just curious. Now I'm a fan. Here it is, if you missed it.

Last week was Elton John night. With such an incredible catalogue to choose from, I was hoping for something massive from James, maybe "Burn Down the Mission," or maybe the propulsive "Empty Sky" (go find it on iTunes right this minute!) from John's first British album (bootlegged in this country after his self-titled US debut album). In a way, James opted for something much simpler, the straight-ahead rocker, "Saturday Night's All Right For Fighting." But what a performance! He started out up in the bleachers behind the stage, marched down the stairs, prowled all the way around the apron behind the judges' table greeting the fans, circled back up onstage, leaped on top of the bright red piano, and off again just before it burst into flames, and wound up on his knees, limbo-ed all the way backwards. Singing all the way.

Okay, any idiot can light a piano on fire and prance around onstage like Aldous Snow. It would all be so much empty posturing if that boy didn't have the pipes to back it up, but, boy, does he ever. James can carry off all the schtick without ever missing a note, a beat, or a wail of pure adrenalin. He's the real deal.

They're down to the final nine contestants on Idol now. It broke my heart last week to see may second favorite get booted off, Naimi Adedapo. (Shut up! I loved her reggae version of "I'm Still Standing," which is practically a reggae song already if you listen to the beat.) She has a great look, and if her song choices weren't always great, she delivered them with a lot of punch and savvy. I'll miss her. Her song last week was way better than Paul McDonald's undernourished, attempted "Rocket Man." Paul seems like a nice, affable guy, and America loves his goofy little dance steps, but he is so NOT a rocket man. If James had sung "Rocket Man," the whole studio would have gone into orbit.

It's starting to look like James' most serious competition will come from Pia Toscano. I like her, but basically what she does every week is stand in the middle of the stage in an evening gown and unleash that gigantic diva voice of hers. Seems like she'll have to do more to compete with James' versatility and showmanship. But I don't even really care about the competition. I'll be tuning back in every week just to see what James does next. (Hey, I'm still holding out for "While My Guitar Gently Weeps.")

THE FUNNIEST MOVIE EVER

The hits just keep coming at the Aptos Weekend Classics movie series. Run, do not walk this weekend to see the inimitable Marx Brothers in Duck Soup. It's ranked #5 on the AFI's list of all-time comedies, but #1 on the far more exclusive and reliable Jensen-ometer of funniest movies ever made! (Narrowly edging out The Producers—the original version, with Zero Mostel—Annie Hall, and Monty Python and the Holy Grail.) Freedonia's going to war, and who better to lead the country straight to Hell than Groucho Marx as shyster politico Rufus T, Firefly, batting his eyelashes at Margaret Dumont whilst pondering how best to plunder the treasury. "If you think the country's bad off now, just wait 'til I get through with it!" he sings jauntily at his inauguration to the office of High Chancellor.

Although the film was made in 1933, with Hitler on the rise in Germany, allusions to American politicians of more recent vintage are, sadly, as timely as ever. But expect laughs, not polemics, in this hilarious satire of war, politics, jingoistic patriotism, and military machismo. 68 minutes of pure comedy bliss, and I better not find out you missed it! (Plays Saturday and Sunday, 11 a.m., at Aptos Cinema, on a comedy double-feature with Mae West in She Done Him Wrong.)


Speaking of four-star movies, the cool thing about the very excellent new John Lennon drama, Nowhere Boy, is that it's not about The Beatles. That hallowed name is never even mentioned. At the end of the film, John (played with sass, heart, and deadpan bravado by Aaron Johnson, above) is about to go off to Hamburg with his band, and his Aunt Mimi dismissively remarks that she's forgotten their new name. (Up to this point, they've called themselves The Quarrymen.) John replies only with a teasing, "Do you really care?"

No, she does not; it's all the same to her what his band is called and who the current members are. But it wouldn't have been the same to us, or to history. Nowhere Boy got me to thinking that despite the conventional wisdom of the day (or this day), it wasn't just a blithe, random conjunction of timing and luck that made The Beatles what they were. In the film, we see John recruit his first band through a haze of ciggie smoke in the boys' loo: anyone who owns an instrument is in, no proficiency required. As the band acquires its sea legs at neighborhood fairs and school dances, personnel come and go, like the rotating icons on a slot machine. It's hardly ever the same lineup twice as the band self-prunes and re-invents itself.

But when John meets Paul McCartney in the film, something clicks, like a pair of oranges (or should I say Apples) synching up. After the initial sarcasm from John, the would-be Teddy-boy with the smart mouth, he drops his pose to soak up everything he can learn from the younger boy about guitar chords and musicianship. When Paul's mate, George Harrison, makes a late-inning appearance toward the end of the movie, another apple clicks into place; a few more peripheral band members will rotate in and out, but the three of them remain the core of the band, all the way to Hamburg and the destiny that awaits them there.

So, no, The Beatles were not just any garage/skiffle/rock band. There was alchemy at work when these boys first clicked and sparked. John had the drive, the dream, and the showmanship, Paul the innate musicality, the looks, and the voice, George the technical chops. They honed their style, substance, and subversive wit in the tough, steamy clubs of Hamburg, grew up together as musicians and men, and emerged two years later as The Beatles. And it couldn't have happened any other way, or with any other guys.


Btw, at the press screening for Nowhere Boy last week, I was shocked, shocked, to learn that two of my esteemed fellow scribes were completely unfamiliar with the backstory of John Lennon and The Beatles. For those of us who grew up in the '60s, Beatle bios were Chapter and Verse; we devoured them in 16 Magazine and other fan mags, and in the plethora of biographical books, authorized and otherwise, that flooded the market to cash in on their fame. That's why I was so impressed with Nowhere Boy; it gets the tone of that postwar, working-class setting and era just right.

(Above: George, John and Paul, ca 1958, as seen on www.beatlesebooks.com/)


Just a reminder, Santa Cruz's favorite free film event, the Pacific Rim Film Festival, kicks off tomorrow night at the Del Mar with a gala premiere of The Chef of South Polar. (Scroll down for my mini-review, a couple of posts back.) Music, food, dance, traditional folkways and eco-politics are spotlighted at this year's fest. Now in its 22nd year, this popular event once again offers viewers a cinematic voyage of discovery around the Pacific Rim of Asia and the Americas. In a program of 18 drama and documentary films, transporting viewers to such diverse locations as Nepal, Bolivia, Korea, New Orleans, and the Marianas Islands, this cinematic sushi bar invites us to sample the exotica of other cultures, while reminding us how much we have in common, despite our cultural differences.

This year's six-day event unspools Friday, October 15, through Wednesday, October 20, at three countywide venues: the Del Mar, the Rio, and the Cabrillo College Watsonville Center. All films are presented free to the public, except for the closing-night benefit, and many screenings will be followed by a Q&A session with the filmmaker.

Insider tip: Don't miss Old Partners, an incredibly moving Korean docu-drama about an 80-year-old farmer, his 76-year-old wife, a treasured ox, and vanishing traditional folkways. You will weep like a baby. Also, check out A Village Called Versailles, an inspiring short doc about a Vietnamese settlement in New Orleans that celebrates how a community can band together for positive political action.

Read my GT PRFF preview for a complete schedule of films and showtimes.