La Vie En Robe

Shakey Jake

Upon reading my Bo Diddley post, my Dad dropped me a line:

'With regard to Bo Diddley, I hate to add to your grieving but I think I forgot to tell you that Shakey Jake died a couple of years ago.  Your description of your formative years reminded me that he must have had an influence on your early musical and sartorial sensibilities.  Don't remember how I heard but I'm sure he and Bo are jammin' together right this moment."

I did some clicking around, and sure enough — Shakey Jake died last September at the age of 82 (or 106, depending on which of his stories you believed). For those of you who didn't grow up (or otherwise do time) in Ann Arbor, Michigan, Shakin' Jake Woods aka "Shakey Jake", was A-squared's very own itinerant bluesman/goodwill ambassador, a position he occupied (and thoroughly relished) for over three decades. He was as integral and beloved a part of Ann Arbor as the Del Rio, the Round Table or Drake's Candy Store; they're all long gone, of course, and now so is he.

As a kid back in the 70s, I used to see Shakey Jake hanging around the Diag, or on State Street near Nichols Arcade, wearing wild clothes, a straw hat and shades, usually strumming his beat-up acoustic or shooting the breeze with passer-by. People would drop coins in his guitar case, but he also made extra cash selling Shakey Jake t-shirts, postcards and bumper stickers reading "I Brake For Jake". My Dad tells a great story about going to see Hunter S. Thompson speak at Hill Auditorium in the early 70s; the good Dr. Gonzo showed up completely lit, brandishing a whiskey bottle and wearing a gorilla suit. At some point during the lecture, he simply gave up and invited Shakey Jake up to do a few numbers. It is a testament to Jake's charisma (and, perhaps, to the quality of certain herbal remedies then popular on campus) that the sold-out crowd found him just as entertaining as Thompson.

Of course, being a little kid in a pretty whitebread college town, I had no idea what the blues was, and couldn't even begin to fathom what this obviously alien creature was doing in the heart of a Big Ten campus. But I was fascinated, for sure; and I'd have to agree with my Dad's assessment that I subconsciously picked up some style pointers from Jake at an early age. I never spoke to him, or anything — I would have been way too shy to even consider it — but by all accounts the man totally vibrated positivity and eccentric wisdom. I'd like to think I picked up on a little of that, as well.

Some great Jake quotes:

"I'm on the move!"

"I shake, therefore I am."

"I was born a midget — but when the doctor left the room, I grew six inches!"

"There's 88 notes on the guitar. I knows 'em all."

"I been with every woman in the world — and three men!"

RIP, Jake. I hope you and Bo are indeed tearing it up right about now...

(Oh, and here's Fat_Bacon.mp3, a little number of Jake's that I found -- along with the stellar photo above -- on WFMU's always excellent Beware of the Blog.)

Friday 'Fro 27: Kick Out The Jams, Mother Fro-ers!

Gave the late Rob Tyner a brief a shout-out in the Friday 'Fro a few months back; but just like no recording studio could totally capture the incendiary brilliance of Tyner's band The MC5, no photograph can truly do justice to Tyner's dynamic Jew-Fro. To really experience both at their eye-popping best, you needed to see 'em live — or, these days, through the magic of videotape. Like this amazing clip of "Kick Out The Jams" that my friend Sport recently reminded me of, shot back in 1970 at Wayne State University's Tartar Field in Detroit.

There are so many amazing things about this clip, it's hard to even put it all into words. Check out the way all the stoned hippies (who have presumably been grooving "Indian style" until now) suddenly rise to their feet when the band kicks into gear. Dig the band's primal energy and incredible stage presence, not to mention how much FUN they're obviously having; you can see Rob Tyner and Wayne Kramer cracking up throughout. THAT'S the way that rock bands should bring it; ditto for the guitar tandem of Wayne Kramer and Fred "Sonic" Smith, who not only figured out how to perfectly mesh their two very different guitar styles, but also knew (thanks to first-hand exposure to countless R&B bands) how to put on a motherfuckin' SHOW.

I also love the cars whizzing by in the background on I-94. Not only do they add some cool motion and texture to the clip, but they underscore the whole car culture that these dudes came from; if it hadn't been for music, most of 'em would have probably ended up working at Ford's River Rouge complex in Dearborn, or one of the other Detroit-area auto manufacturing plants. The fact that this song was shot with at least three or four cameras is pretty impressive, and would seem to indicate that the entire show was filmed. I know that other clips from the same gig are floating around on YouTube; maybe someday, after all the depressing legal bullshit that's held up the release of the True Testimonial documentary gets sorted, we'll get to see a full DVD of the whole set. In the meantime, here's "Looking At You" from the same show — the quality of the footage isn't quite as good, but you simply can't argue with the mind-bending performance.

And finally, the 'Fro-Tastic aspects of these two clips are high, indeed. Not only do numerous audience members sport some tasty naturals, but Tyner's Jew-Fro puts on quite a performance by itself; it truly "abounds and resounds and rebounds off the ceiling" — or at least it would have if this were an indoor gig.

R.I.P., Rob and Sonic; consider the jams duly kicked out.    

2008 - A Turnover Kinda Year?

Like my Roman ancestors, I tend to put a fair amount of stock in omens. It's not like I open pigeons and examine their entrails to see what they augur; but after a year of predominantly crap-tastic events, I figure I can either give in to the darkness, or look for signs of light anywhere I can find 'em. And despite a fairly debilitating hangover from a marvelous New Year's Eve, my first day of 2008 was far better than I would have expected it to be.

Not only did Carole and I make some some serious packing progress for our impending move — packing up all our tiki mugs without dropping a single one — but we also managed to spend two hours at Ikea without losing our sanity and/or punching out fellow shoppers, despite having my ankles bloodied repeatedly by stroller wheels. We even found a kitchen island that will fit perfectly in our new pad...

We celebrated our survival with a late lunch/early dinner at Dumpling Master (423 N. Atlantic Blvd. in Monterey Park). My blog pic in the right-hand column was taken at this very establishment, and trust me when I tell you that the smile on my face is genuine — Dumpling Master makes me a happy man, indeed. Our meal started with cold cucumber salad and scallion pancakes (the latter of which turned out to be the only mediocre things we ordered), followed by pork and shrimp pan-fried dumplings, vegetable turnovers (pictured above) and pork and vegetable soup with homemade noodles. "You really know how to order!" our server praised on two different occasions — though actually we just got lucky on the soup, which we'd never ordered before. The homemade noodles were insanely good; as long and thick as bacon strips, they had a great "chew" to them, yet (as with homemade Italian pasta) you never really got filled up from eating them. The whole meal was immensely satisfying and restorative — and cost a grand total of $27.

(And speaking of bacon, one of the restaurant's listed specials was Chinese Bacon Shabu-Shabu, the very idea of which sent shudders down my spine. Cooking raw bacon in hot water sounds like some SERIOUS intestinal roulette.)

After driving home under a glorious pink and purple sunset, we got back to find that Michigan finally won a bowl game for the first time in years, upsetting Florida 41-35 in the (yecch) Capitol One Bowl. Now the original Rollerball — one of the great slices of 70s-style cinematic futurism, right up there with 2001: A Space Odyssey, A Clockwork Orange and Sleeper — is on the tube, I've got a glass of Chimay in my hand, and a fluffy black cat is sleeping nearby. Life, for the moment, is good; and if today is any kind of omen for what the next 365 days have in store, I'll gladly take it. Happy New Year, everyone...

Friday 'Fro, Vol. 17

The Detroit Tigers of my youth (i.e., most of the 1970s) were a big disappointment. Not just on the field —where the individual heroics of Ron LeFlore, Sweet Lou Whitaker, Rusty Staub, Jason Thompson and (of course) Mark Fidrych did little to stem the overall bleeding — but in the hair department, as well. How was it that a team from the Motor City (home of Rob Tyner's voluminous MC5 Jewfro) couldn't muster a half-decent afro? Fidrych's Harpo-like locks were far and away the most impressive follicular display in those years; but unless you had a thing for Staub's "grande orange", there weren't many 'dos of distinction in the Tiger Stadium dugout.

A few years ago, Dmitri Young (see above) attempted to single-headedly make up for decades of missed natural opportunites. Young was one of the few bright spots on some seriously dire Tigers squads — he whacked 29 homers in 2003, the year Detroit lost 119 games — and I was saddened when "personal problems" led to him being booted from the team during their AL Championship run in 2006. Happily, he regained his stroke with the Nationals last season, hitting a career-high .320 and winning the NL Comeback Player of the Year award. His 'fro is no longer the insane mane of yore, but I'm glad he's at least back on track (and gotten his life back in order).

All of which brings me around to the '08 Tigers, who probably won't win any "Big 'Fro" contests, but who look set to make a serious run for the World Series, thanks to the incredible trade that Tigers president Dave Dombrowski pulled off this past week — getting Miguel Cabrera and Dontrelle Willis in exchange for six scrubs, a bag of baseballs and a cracked jock cup. Cabrera's value is obviously well-known, but I've always been a big Dontrelle fan as well; I'm hoping that, even if he never returns to his 22-10, 2.63 form of 2005, he'll be a solid part of the Tigers' rotation for years to come.

I'm still worried about the bullpen, though. Todd Jones, though obviously a fan fave and a good "clubhouse chemistry" guy (at least, as long as there aren't any gay players on the team), is anything but a "lights out" closer, Joel Zumaya is gonna be out for most or all of next year, and the rest of the middle relief core was considerably less formidable in '07 than they were in '06. But damn, that starting eight is gonna be killer!

Friday Fro, Vol. 15: Happy Birthday, Harpo!

One day when I was five years old, my Mom announced that she was taking me to see a Marx Brothers movie playing somewhere on the University of Michigan campus. At the time, the only famous brothers I knew about were the Jacksons, so I imagined these Marx Brothers might be a similar sort of thing. And since I was already completely fascinated by the sizeable afros that the Jackson Five sported, I hoped that these Marx Brothers might be in a similar tonsorial bag. "Do they have big hair?" I asked. "Well," answered my Mom, somewhat taken aback by the question, "One of them does..."

Harpo Marx was born on this date back in 1888, and — as far as I have been able to ascertain — he was the first popular American entertainer to rock a proto-fro as part of his act. Though it was, in fact, a wig, Harpo's mop of unruly curls was a good forty years ahead of the fashion curve, as was — just ask Marc Bolan or Noddy Holder — his penchant for top hats. And, of course, he was a comedic genius, a talented dancer and one hell of a harp player; decades before Black Sabbath guitarist Tony Iommi began to down-tune his guitar, Harpo was playing a down-tuned harp — a tuning of his own devising that completely fascinated and mystified professional harpists of the day.

Before I even started elementary school, my parents were already feeding my mind with a steady dose of Woody  Allen, WC Fields, Monty Python, Mel Brooks, and of course the Marx Brothers — thus ensuring that I would have a healthy sense of humor, a taste for the surreal, and (probably unintentional on their part) a deeply ingrained suspicion of authority, all of which I've happily carried with me through my life. On this Thanksgiving Weekend, that's definitely something I can give thanks for.

Of all the above gentlemen, the Marx Brothers were my favorite when I was a kid, and Groucho was unquestionably my favorite Marx Brother; he got the most laughs, got the girls (well, sort of), and always seemed to be the sharpest guy in the room. (I still have the dog-eared copy of Richard J. Anobile's Why A Duck that I read religiously in my grade school years, memorizing as many of Groucho's lines as I could. Harpo's lines, of course, mostly consisted of "Honk!") But as I've gotten older, there's something about Harpo's mixture of cherubic sweetness and utter insanity that I've found increasingly appealing. Apparently, he applied a similar if slightly — but only slightly — toned-down approach to his life, as well as his work; check the following passage from the intro of his autobiography Harpo Speaks!, one of the most life-affirming books I've ever read:

I've played piano in a whorehouse. I've smuggled secret papers out of Russia... I've taught a gangster mob how to play Pinchie Winchie, sat on the floor with Greta Garbo, horsed around with the Prince of Wales, played ping-pong with George Gershwin. George Bernard Shaw has asked me for advice. I've basked on the Riviera with Somerset Maugham and Elsa Maxwell. I've been thrown out of the casino at Monte Carlo.

On this day after Thanksgiving, when everyone's supposed to run out and buy up as much shit as possible in order to keep our sinking economy afloat, I can't think of anything better than celebrating Harpo's birthday with a purchase of Harpo Speaks! for yourself or a similarly warped love one. It's far more rewarding than an Xbox, and substantially cheaper...

Happy Birthday, Harpo!

Turkey Day with the Lions

I have to admit that I've never been the biggest NFL fan. Growing up in Ann Arbor during the 1970s, the focus was understandably on U of M/Big Ten gridiron action; our closest NFL team was the Detroit Lions, and the Detroit Lions of the 1970s were pretty damn mediocre, so it was hard to get real fired up about their Sunday games.

There was one Lions game that we always gave a shit about — their annual Thanksgiving Day contest, a tradition that dates back to 1934. The glory days of this tradition were the period from 1951 to 1963, when the Lions battled the Green Bay Packers every year in the icy mud of Tiger Stadium. By the time I became truly conscious of the tradition, the Lions had already moved to the relative sterility of the Pontiac Silverdome, with a different Turkey Day opponent each year. But it was still a big deal; the TV broadcast was as much a part of Thanksgiving dinner as yams and giblet gravy. And if it wasn't on in the dining room, there was no shame in sneaking away to catch a glimpse of the contest on the compact kitchen black-and-white.

Today, the Lions and Packers will go at it again, this time at Ford Field. Green Bay's already well out in front of the NFC with a 9-1 record; the Lions, after six consecutive shitty seasons, are a surprising 6-4. And frankly, I still don't give a shit about the NFL — but I'd love to see the Lions take the game. I just wish they were playing in the mud and snow again, for old time's sake.

And speaking of Thanksgiving: While I haven't wanted to use La Vie En Robe as a forum to bitch about the crappier aspects of my life, many of you are aware that this has been a pretty rough year for yours truly. So I just wanted to say thanks to all of my dear friends and family who have lightened my load this year with love and laughter, not least with the witty comments you've posted on this blog; I am incredibly blessed and grateful for your presence in my life, more than you can possibly know. May you all have a warm and wonderful T-Day...

(Oh yeah — the entries for my Write Your Own Caption contest all made me laugh hysterically, but there can only be one winner. The custom hard rock/heavy metal CD mix goes to Sarah Parker; Ms. Parker should be advised that there won't be any Guns N' Roses, Hanoi Rocks or Saigon Kick cuts on there, however, since I believe Mr. Parker is already fairly well fixed in those departments.)

Go Blue!!!

In just a few minutes, Michigan and Ohio State will play each other to determine who goes to the Rose Bowl. This happened just about every year when I was a kid, in those glorious pre-BCS days where the Big Ten champ automatically went to Pasadena to face the the Pac Ten champ. There were no computerized formulas involved, no bowl games named after shitty chain restaurants; simpler times, indeed.

Having spent a large chunk of my childhood in Ann Arbor — my dad was a prof at the U of M — I still feel a natural affinity for the Wolverines. That said, they're probably going to get their asses handed to them by the Buckeyes today; their starting quarterback and best running back are playing hurt, and the Big Blue defense looked absolutely terrible against Wisconsin last week. So I'm just gonna set the way-back machine to November 19, 1977, when I was still a 6th grader at Burns Park School, Rick Leach was still the Michigan QB, and they still sold Woody Hayes toilet paper outside of the stadium in A2 — each square had a caricature of the psychotic OSU coach printed upon it, which I thought was the funniest thing I'd ever seen... Be sure to dig crazy ol' Woodrow punching an ABC cameraman around the 5:00 mark...

Go Blue!!!