Farewell to Roger Tillison, an enormously talented singer/songwriter and a lifelong buddy of my dear Uncle John Padgett, who took these wonderful photos of him sometime in the 1980s. Roger died Monday at the age of 72.
Born in Oklahoma, Roger made his way to L.A. in the mid-60s and Woodstock in the early 70s before heading back to his home state. He played and recorded with the esteemed likes of Leon Russell, J.J. Cale and Jesse Ed Davis; he co-wrote "(You Don't Have to) Paint Me a Picture" for Gary Lewis and the Playboys; his songs were covered by Cale ("Let's Go to Tahiti," "One Step Ahead of the Blues"), Davis ("Rock & Roll Gypsies," also recorded by Hearts and Flowers, Vinegar Joe and the Scruggs Brothers), the Kingsmen ("Just Before the Break of Day"), the Soul Survivors ("Hung Up On Losing") and even Billy Vaughn and His Orchestra ("Spanish Lights"); and his 1971 solo LP "Roger Tillison's Album" — which featured then-obscure songs by Bob Dylan ("Down in the Flood") and The Band ("Get Up Jake") — is rightly considered a classic of early 70s Americana.
But my favorite song of Roger's will always be "Ain't It Hard," which he recorded in 1965 as one-half of the folk duo Gypsy Trips, and which was tough enough to warrant covers by the Electric Prunes and the Chesterfield Kings.
Rest in Peace, Roger; you will be missed, but your music lives on.
Our NC/SC vacation is over, but the good memories linger on — not the least of which was the totally rockin' engagement party for Miss Howerton and me, which was hosted by Mark Connor last week at The Cave, his extremely funky Chapel Hill basement dive.
Not only was it wonderful to catch up with old friends, but two of them — DJ Midnight Cowbwoy (aka Brian E. Harris) and DJ Suggadelic (aka Erik Sugg) — also raised the roof (as much as it was possible in a place called "The Cave") with a delicious array of righteous sounds. I also brought a stack of wax of my own to the party; and when I wasn't too busy enjoying the conversations and libations, my DJ alter-ego Silky D enjoyed some time on the wheels of steel. And since I somehow managed to keep my 45s in order after I spun them, here's the playlist from my "set":
UFO — Doctor Doctor
The Move — Do Ya
Queen — You’re My Best Friend
Eddie Money — Think I’m In Love
Flamin’ Groovies — I Can’t Hide
The Floaters — Float On
Van Halen — Dance The Night Away
Raspberries — Go All The Way
Bee Gees — Jive Talkin’
Benny Mardones — Into the Night
Beach Boys — I Can Hear Music
Hollies — On a Carousel
Left Banke — She May Call You Up Tonight
The Kinks — Till the End of the Day
Pawnee Drive — Ride
Creedence Clearwater Revival — Long As I Can See the Light
Once again, I'd like to thank everyone who came out to celebrate with us — and of course Mark for letting us have the party there, and Brian and Erik for schlepping their records and gear to Chapel Hill. It was a truly unforgettable evening, and Miss Howerton and I were deeply honored to share the good times and good vibes with y'all.
As great Jew of rock Paul Stanley might say, "Now Ah know — Ah KNOW-whoa — that a lotta you PEE-puhl like to ROCK HARD on ROSH HASHANAH! Aw YEAH-ah!" So in my latest humor piece for the Jewish Daily Forward, I hereby offer up nine sugestions to make 5774 rock like 2112.
By the way, this was supposed to be a Top Ten list, but I think my blurb for KISS's "Lick It Up" got chopped at the last minute for being a tad too racy. But since "The Robe" clearly has no editorial standards to speak of, I thought I'd include the missing blurb here:
KISS — Lick It Up Though often mistakenly assumed to be lascivious in its intent, this 1983 hit actually also has its roots in the Rosh Hashanah meal. Born Stanley Eisen, KISS’s Jewish frontman Paul Stanley has ample experience with dipping his Challah loaf in honey, as well as slathering the sweet stuff on his apples; and as one who abhors waste, Paul is simply encouraging the listener to give thanks to G-d by consuming whatever is left over after the bread and fruit are eaten. “It’s only right, now,” Paul assures us.
I awoke this morning to the heartbreaking news that my pal Ante W. has unexpectedly passed away. I am absolutely gutted by this, as I'm sure is everyone else who had the pleasure of knowing him. Ante was such a sweet man, and the closest thing I've ever experienced to sunshine in human form; I knew the guy for a decade, and I don't think I ever saw him when he didn't have a twinkle in his eye, a goofy grin on his face, and a hearty chuckle welling up in his chest. These are the kind of people we need more of in this world, not less...
I first met Ante and his wife Gerry in the fall of 2003, around the time that weekends in Palm Springs became a regular part of my life. Gerry and Ante were totally kindered musical spirits, both of them into the same groovy Sixties and Seventies sounds as I was, while Ante — hailing as he did from Sweden — knew even more about Swedish pop and garage bands of the Sixties than I did. The odds of buying a place in the desert just down the street from another Tages fan must have been infinitesimal, but such is the magic of existence sometimes...
We shared countless cocktails, barbecues, laughs and good times together, as well as countless conversations about whatever musical obscurities we were digging at the moment. Ante and Gerry had a late-Sixties Rock-Ola jukebox at their PS pad, and I'll never forget the sheer delight he radiated upon discovering that their particular jukebox had once been advertised in the trade magazines as "The Psychedelic Money Grabber". That was the sort of detail that deeply appealed to his taste for history and his taste for absurdity — and in Ante's case, both of those senses were always working overtime.
Ante also had great taste in threads, as evidenced by his leopard-print boots above, the Leon Russell t-shirt he's wearing up at the top, and this pic below, which was taken of us on New Year's Eve 2006/07. We were both big fans of the Richard Roundtree "leather car coat and turtleneck" look, to say the least.
We shared a similar fondness for exotic booze, though I had to draw the line at the bottle of Bäska Droppar he once gave me as a housewarming gift. A spiced Swedish digestif flavored with wormwood, Bäska Droppar is pretty much the liquid embodiment of "an acquired taste". I sampled a shot of it in his presence, and I'll never forget Ante's uproarious laughter when I told him it tasted like cedar chips soaked in urine and kerosene, or his knowing grin two days later when I told him that I still hadn't managed to get the taste out of my mouth. Far more appreciated was the housewarming gift that he and Gerry gave Katie and I last year: A six-pack of the Belgian brew Leffe (one of my faves) and two goblets to drink it from...
Back in early 2010, when I was going through the stressful process of selling the place in Palm Springs, Ante and Gerry were enormously helpful and supportive, offering my ailing cat and I safe haven for an afternoon or two while the house was being shown, and allowing me to store my records and DVDs at their place for months so as to make mine appear less cluttered and more saleable. I've never forgotten that kindness, nor forgotten Ante's mensch-y willingness to drive those boxes of music and movies to my new pad in L.A. in exchange for some Vietnamese food and a couple of Newcastles — and since he always loved the reference to Newcastle Brown in Humble Pie's "30 Days in the Hole," I'm sure he wouldn't mind me posting this immensely ass-kicking live version of the song for him right here...
Ante and I were last in contact about a month ago; he and Gerry were going to be back in the NYC area for the first time in ages, and he wanted some recommendations on things to do and see in the East Village. He passed away shortly after their return. I'm really glad that he got the chance to see the city one more time, at least. The last email I ever received from Ante went like this:
"Funny, I was listening to The Fugs while BBQ'ing earlier today. 'Slum Goddess' and 'Belle of Avenue A' are nice pieces of East Village poetry and sadly out of date, I guess. BTW have you heard Hollywood Brats? UK glam punks Dolls style with a Canadian singer who escaped to Sweden mid-late 70's. I heard the brilliant 'Sick On You' on the SWE radio back in 77 or so, and didn't find it again until the other day. Good times!"
BBQing while listening to The Fugs? Yeah, that was Ante in a perfect nutshell, and the world is indeed a poorer place without him. I cried for him this morning, but I know in my heart that's not what he'd want me to do. So tonight I'm gonna crack open a Leffe in his honor, and crank some Hollywood Brats (and plenty of other loud n' nasty garage, punk and hard rock anthems) for him, as well. You should do it, too, even if you didn't know the guy; I'm sure his soul would appreciate a joyously noisy send-off.
Farewell, my righteous Swedish friend, and thank you for all the rockin' good times — and even for the Bäska Droppar, which remains in my bar cart as a fond memento. May you rest in sweet peace.
It has come to my attention that Bertucci's Corner, my favorite Chicago restaurant, closed its doors a few months ago. A true old-school Eye-tralian jernt in the finest sense of the term, Bertucci's was located on 24th Street in the back of Chinatown, and had been serving up classic dishes like this plate o' red gravy-drenched fried mostaccioli and meatballs since before WWII.
I could probably recite half their menu to you right now without much prompting. Their shrimp pesto was a thing of intense garlicky beauty, their stuffed braciole melted in your mouth, their fried broccoli appetizer (drenched with fresh-squeezed lemon juice) was always a must-order, and they kept excellent cannoli on their desert menu long after most Chi-town Italian restaurants had abandoned the classic Sicilian pastry in the face of tiramisu's early-90s reign of terror. You could get a pretty decent martini there (at least, when the right waitress/bartender was on duty), and wash your meal down with a carafe of cheap-but-decent dago red. Over the bar hung several dozen decades-old ceramic drinking mugs, all emblazoned with the names of long-dead regulars from the neighborhood. The jukebox was packed with CDs by Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra, Louis Prima, Tony Bennett, Vic Damone and Al Martino; hell, they even had six or seven CDs of Jimmy Roselli's saloon songs on there. In other words, heaven with checkered tablecloths.
I was introduced to Bertucci's in 1989 by my late friend, teacher and mentor Bernie Markwell (a man who truly knew a thing or two about fine dining), and I dined there at least once a month before moving to Los Angeles in 1993. Not only was no return visit to Chicago complete without a dinner there, but arranging a meal at Bertucci's with friends was always my first priority — once I'd nailed down what night everyone was free to make the Bertucci's scene, I could relax and figure out the rest of my itinerary, secure in the knowledge that I would soon be digging into another plate like the one pictured above.
The vibe was casual and unpretentious; you could pretty much always count on seeing the White Sox (or Hawks, Bulls or Bears) on the TV in the corner above the bar. No Cubs games, though. I once brought my friend Chris there on his first trip to Chicago; I'd been trying to explain the odd Cubs-White Sox fan dynamic to him — that Cubs fans don't really care when the White Sox win (unless of course they're playing the Cubs), but White Sox fans hate the Cubs with a white-hot, all-consuming fury — but it didn't really sink in until we pulled up to the curb outside of Bertucci's, and stepped out of the car onto a chunk of sidewalk which bore the chalk-scrawled words, "CUBS SUCK". Not "White Sox Rule," but "CUBS SUCK". There you have it, I said, pointing at the graffiti. He understood.
Life goes on, things change, but I somehow never imagined that Bertucci's would ever cease to function as I knew it. The last handful of Yelp reviews seem to indicate a rapid decline in food quality and service, which I'm thankful I didn't experience; I'm also thankful that the restaurant didn't suddenly alter its menu/appearance/vibe in an attempt to lure a younger crowd, as in the recent douche-ification of LA's classic and once-reliable Canter's Deli. I will always be able to remember the place in its cozy, aromatic glory, and I am comforted by all the memories of wonderful meals I've had there with my family and friends — there is really nothing better than the combination of people you love and food you love at the same table.
I enjoyed my second-to-last meal at Bertucci's in October 2010, when my dear friends Eric and Rebecca held their pre-wedding rehearsal dinner there; Eric and Rebecca (and John and Jennifer, and Jason and Gwen) were also there for my final Bertucci's repast last summer. Best of all, Miss Howerton, my lovely bride-to-be, was my date for both of those meals; I feel blessed that I was able to share this delicious chunk of my culinary past with her before it vanished.
George Jones, my all-time favorite country singer, died this morning. While this of course makes me incredibly sad, I'm also amazed and grateful that Ol' Possum actually managed to make it to the ripe old age of 81, despite a life of addiction and excess that could have easily ended twenty, thirty, forty or more years ago. Though he lived long enough to see himself (and fellow keepers of the traditional country flame like Merle Haggard) become obsolete in the eyes of Nashville and country music radio, he also lived long enough to grasp how important and influential his music was to a whole generation of artists, and not just in the country realm.
I'm no artist, but George Jones was damned important to me, too. His music has soundtracked endless work hours, desert drives and good (and bad) times, and has always seemed to pop back into my life at the most surreal moments. Fr'instance: I'm a lousy pool player, but I once (about 20 years ago) held a table for eight straight games at some East Village dive, while "If Drinkin' Don't Kill Me" played over and over again on the jukebox. I won each and every game because my opponents (much better cue-handlers than me) all scratched; I can only assume that was Mr. Jones' melancholy magic at work. And as soon as the song changed, I lost...
About a year after the release of Almost Blue, I was having dinner with my mom and sister at the
apartment of my mom’s writer friend Carol, with whom I’d bonded over our mutual
love of music and absurd humor.
That evening, Carol pulled out a copy of George Jones’ My Very Special Guests, a duets album
featuring folks like James Taylor, Waylon Jennings and Emmylou Harris. I’d
never heard of George Jones; but since my boy Elvis Costello was also on the
album, Carol thought I’d like to take a listen. But “Stranger in the House,”
the Elvis-penned song that he and George recorded together for the album, didn’t
particularly impress me.
What did interest me, however, were the stories Carol told
me that evening about George Jones — specifically, the ones regarding his
rampant alcoholism. I was just about the right age to really appreciate a good
binge-drinking anecdote; and while I was definitely intrigued by Carol’s
assertion that Jones was considered perhaps the most brilliantly emotive
country singer of all time, a far more sizeable impression was made by her tale
of Jones driving his lawnmower ten miles to the nearest bar after Tammy Wynette
took away his car keys. The story was rivaled only by the one Carol told me
where Jones had gotten so out of his mind on whiskey and cocaine that he’d
actually quacked his way through entire concerts, singing songs in a Donald
Duck voice. This, then, was clearly an artist worthy of my attention.
Of course, I'd come to appreciate George Jones' voice even more than I dug his less-than-savory personal reputation; and as much as I've always loved his up-tempo ravers like "White Lightnin'" and "The Race is On," there's no question that he did his best work on the slow, sad stuff — the way he combined operatic despair with an almost Zen-like resignation still kills me to this day. There are so many Grade A examples I could post here, but ultimately I have to go with "He Stopped Loving Her Today" — both because you just know he's imagining himself in that coffin, and because I was once walking down the street on a gorgeous California afternoon when I was passed by a Ferrari cranking the song at a level approaching booty-bass volume. Like I said, surreal... but I'll never forget just how cosmically huge his pain sounded and felt at that moment.
You like fresh air? You like 70s baseball? You like watching
published authors trying to hold the attention of Little Leaguers? Come
on out to my reading/signing event tomorrow (Saturday, April 13) at
Memorial Park (located at 16th street and Olympic) in Santa Monica, CA.
That's right, folks: Dan Epstein (dat's me!), author of Big Hair and Plastic Grass: A Funky Ride Through Baseball and America in the Swinging '70s,
will be reading from (and signing copies of) his book between two
halves of a Santa Monica Little League doubleheader. Word has it that at
least one of the teams will be wearing 70s throwback uniforms — and
really, how cool is that?
Reading/signing will happen at noon,
following the 8-9 year-olds game. It'll be free, it'll be fun, and I'll
be the guy in the Dave Parker jersey. (Here's the link to the Facebook event invite, if you're into that sorta thing.) Thanks in advance to Jay Smith and the Santa Monica Little League for inviting me!
In other writing-related news, my Rhino Single Notes eBook, Honky Tonk Tourist: The Night Buck Owens Almost Got Me Killed, is now available for download from iBooks and the Amazon Kindle store.
It doesn't have anything to do with baseball (other than a cameo
appearance by the home of the Bakersfield Blaze), but I can promise that
it'll be a highly entertaining read, especially for any o' you music
geek types out there. Joe Bonomo, author of Jerry Lee Lewis: Lost and Found and Sweat: The Story of the Fleshtones, America’s Garage Band, calls it "a bourbon-soaked blast," and he should know!
You've already been "listed to death" in the last few weeks, haven't you? Well, beautiful people, here's one more.
Only, I'm not going to tell you which were the best, most important, most relevant, most vital, most Talking Heads-influenced, most gluten-free, most "they're paying me to insist that this dogshit actually tastes like peanut butter" albums of the year. (Put it this way — I spun Boston's Don't Look Back LP way more often this year than I listened to The Black Keys' El Camino, simply because it's at least 100 times more awesome.) Nope, I'm merely offering up ten albums, in no particular order, that legitmately kicked me in the head/heart/groin in 2012, and will most likely keep me coming back for more...
The Greg Foat Group — Girl And Robot With Flowers
Actually, I also really loved their 2011 debut, Dark Is The Sun, which I didn't get hip to until this year. While that one was more in the Roy Budd/late-60s British soundtrack bag, this one is kinda more like Vince Guaraldi or Dave Brubeck in space — which is, of course, a beautiful (and unfortunately appropriate) thing.
Menahan Street Band — The Crossing
Another album of songs without words, The Crossing is a bit of a departure from what you might expect from soul man Charles Bradley's backing band, a collection of widescreen (but impeccably groovy) soundtrack jams in search of a film. These guys should really be allowed to score the next Bond flick, or at least tag-team it with the Greg Foat Group.
The Assemble Head In Sunburst Sound — Manzanita
Yeah, I'd rather listen to these contemporary San Francisco psychonauts than most 60s Bay Area bands, with the exception of CCR, Sly and the Family Stone and Blue Cheer; sue me, already. Though Manzanita doesn't blow me away quite as completely as 2009' When Sweet Sleep Returned — the first AHISS I got turned on to, and still their best in my opinion — it still casts a pretty heady spell with its swirling layers of dreamy vocal harmonies, whirring organs and thick guitar fuzz.
Cody Chesnutt — Landing On a Hundred
I completely missed out on Mr. Chesnutt's critically-acclaimed 2002 album The Headphone Masterpiece; I'll be sure to check it out one of these days, at least once I've fully absorbed the soulful excellence of this album, which comes on like a 21st century (and even more damaged) Marvin Gaye circa What's Goin' On/Trouble Man/Let's Get It On, and never lets up.
Dean Allen Foyd — The Sounds Can Be So Cruel
One of the worst band names I've heard this year — and ye gods, that's saying something — and these Swedes dare to compound the awfulness by calling the first two tracks on their debut album "Please Pleaze Me" and "Lovely Sorts of Death". And yet... this is one of the best, most consistently "set the controls for the heart of your bong" psychedelic rock albums I've heard in eons, all Syd-era Pink Floyd meets early Beefheart meets Lea Riders Group. If I was into to throwing happenings that freaked me out, these guys would be my house band.
Michael Kiwanuka — Home Again
This record pretty much had me from the delay-drenched flute that opens "Tell Me A Tale," and hasn't relaxed its grip since. A 24 year-old British singer-songwriter born of Ugandan refugees, Kiwanuka sounds at least ten years older (a compliment) with a definite Bill Withers/Terry Callier/Richie Havens thing goin' on. Folky, soulful, beautifully open-hearted, and occcasionally devastating ("Worry Walks Beside Me"), this is one gorgeous debut.
The Admiral Sir Cloudesley Shovell — Don’t Hear It… Fear It!
Tongue-twisting band name meets lame album title — and are both rendered completely irrelevant by this British band's mighty, meaty brand of hard psych. There's plenty of Sir Lord Baltimore/Captain Beyond/Black Sabbath/Pink Fairies damage in the grooves here, and maybe even a touch of SF Sorrow-era Pretty Things. Which means, of course, that it's highly recommended.
Witchcraft — Legend
There's no shortage of 70s-influenced doom metal bands out there today (which is certainly something to be thankful for), but I always find myself gravitating back to Witchcraft. Not only do these Swedes kick some vicious ass instrumentally, but frontman Magnus Pelander is their secret weapon; his measured, melancholy vocals — which completely avoid lapsing into growls, screams or any other kind of metal histrionics — mesh perfectly with the ineffable bleakness of the band's cough syrup-dark riffage.
Lee Fields & The Expressions — Faithful Man
Allow me to quote here from my eMusic review of this album, since I already got it right the first time:
"Lee Fields doesn’t mess around. On Faithful Man, his first album since 2009′s acclaimed My World, it takes the veteran soul man just eight seconds to hit peak intensity. 'I’ve always been a faithful man, till you came along,' he pleads against a tense 'It’s a Man’s Man’s Man’s World'-style groove. His voice filled with apocalyptic dread because he knows he’s powerless against temptation, but he also knows that giving in will change his life forever. It’s classic soul conundrum – and these days, nobody does classic soul better than Lee Fields."
Bill Fay — Life Is People
Widely ignored in the States, British singer-songwriter Bill Fay's first true studio album in over 40 years was hailed as a major event in the UK, and rightly so. "Humanistic" has been used repeatedly to describe this record, which is pretty much right on the money; hushed, elegaic piano ballads like "The Healing Day," "Jesus, Etc." and "Be At Peace With Yourself" all stare down the impossibly heavy truths of human existence, but do so with such beautiful gentleness, kindness and humility, you walk away feeling uplifted instead of beaten down. It's impossible to not read Life Is People as a final benediction to the human race before Fay shuffles off this mortal coil, but hopefully he's just getting started again...
I have to admit that I was never the biggest Spirit fan, beyond a handful of their hits ("I Got A Line On You," "Nature's Way," "1984") and deep cuts ("Jewish," "Girl In Your Eye"). I've owned all of their 60s and early 70s records at some point, but none of them ever left me with anything beyond a deep respect for their obvious skill and musicality. Their unique Topanga hippie/jazz/psych/hard rock stew just failed to get my salivary glands going, for whatever reason.
But as much as I've found it hard to dig Spirit, it was always hard NOT to dig Ed Cassidy. There was clearly something larger than life about that grinning, black-clad, chrome-domed dude behind that giant Spirit kit, and the fact that he was a jazz vet old enough to be the father of everyone else in the band — and, in actuality, the step-father of guitarist Randy California — just made him seem that much more otherworldly. (And, of course, he was an absolute motherfucker on drums.) Cassidy was always, by far, my favorite thing about Spirit.
I only saw Ed Cassidy play once: In the summer of 1994, with a pared-down version of Spirit (Ed, Randy and a keyboard player), who were opening for Arthur Lee and Love (the Baby Lemonade version) at the Strand in Redondo Beach. The show was, unfortunately, pretty weak; Ed and Randy still played great, but there were huge holes missing in the sound where the rest of the band ought to have been, and Randy kept bogging down the pace of the show with interminable between-song monologues. Some of my most vivid memories of the show are of Arthur — who happened to be standing next to me, and who was definitely not on his best behavior that night — mercilessly heckling Randy from the audience.
"You know," offered Randy at one point, while meandering his way through an introduction to a cover of Jimi Hendrix's "Red House," "A lot people don't know that Jimi loved children, maaaan. Jimi just LOVED children!"
"He hated YOU!" shouted Arthur. "I KNOW! He TOLD me!" Amused by his own razzing, Arthur then turned and elbowed me conspiratorially in the ribs. "Heh, heh! Got him that time!" he cackled. This basically continued throughout the rest of the set, with Randy nattering on between songs about the innate grooviness of this or that while pretending not to hear Arthur's relentless wisecracks.
The other thing I remember vividly about the show was walking out into the lobby afterwards and seeing Ed manning the Spirit merch table, where he was interacting with his fans with the same kind of open-hearted enthusiasm he brought to playing the drums. I watched him sign a copy of The Twelve Dreams of Dr. Sardonicus LP for an old hippie dude, who was gearing up to tell Ed a story about the time he'd seen Spirit play at some festival back in the day... but then had a full-on "veteran of the psychic wars" brain fart, and completely lost track of what he was trying to say.
"I, uh... you were, uh... it was... Ohhh, maaaan..."
Ed — bald, imposing, still soaked in sweat from the show — just nodded patiently, grinned, and patted the guy gently on the shoulder.
Info-Mat magazine? No, I'd never heard of it either, at least until my friend Josh Mills — who always seems to have a knack for unearthing interesting and oddball things — laid this 1968 issue on me about five years ago. And as far as I can tell, this may have been the only issue of it that ever existed. Not only can I not find any info on it on the internet, but I can't even find a masthead or any mailing info inside the mag; all of which leads me to suspect that this "complimentary issue" was a trial run for a magazine that never actually got off the ground.
So what was Info-Mat, then? It looks like someone wanted to do a Los Angeles-centric Ebony, though with the exception of an excellent interview with saxophonist Charles Lloyd (conducted by photographer Paul Slaughter, who also handled record reviews for the mag's "Info-Scene" section), much of Info-Mat's written content consists of banal ad-speak regarding alleged trends in fashion, cooking — a "gourmet foods" section revolves around recipes whose "secret ingredient" is invariably one Lawry's seasoning packet or another — and home decor.
Still, Info-Mat is a fascinating artifact, if only for the ads, which (aside from being just plain awesome in their own right) say much more about the upscale black community of Los Angeles circa 1968 than the editorial content does. Only three years after the Watts riots, there was clearly quite a hip fashion and nightclub scene happening in South LA, especially around Santa Barbara Plaza in the Crenshaw district — a shopping center which has now been sadly derelict for decades. (For a fascinating/depressing exercise, try typing some of these addresses into Google Maps, and check out the 21st century street view.)
How I wish I could pick up a new suit from Lesner's Men's Shop or Esquire Men's Clothing, and then take Miss Howerton (looking fine in mod fashions from Donna Michele's or Black Foxe, LTD) out for a steak and some jazz at Earl Bostic's Flying Fox, Vee Jay's Bill of Fare or Marty's On The Hill, then pick up some classy booze from Empire Liquors and repair to our shag-carpeted mid-century modern love pad. But until I get my time machine out of the repair shop, these images below will have to do.
Dan Epstein is the author of Big Hair and Plastic Grass: A Funky Ride Through Baseball and America in the Swinging '70s and Stars and Strikes: Baseball and America in the Bicentennial Summer of '76, both published by Thomas Dunne Books/St. Martin's Press. He writes about baseball, music and other cultural obsessions for a variety of outlets and publications. He lives in Greensboro, NC, and is available for speaking engagements.