Sunday, April 15, 2018

index | found poems by ron reed

Here are links to several found poems I've assembled over the years. They are centos, "poetical works wholly composed of verses or passages taken from other authors, disposed in a new form or order." 

Musicians and night-club proprietors lead complicated lives...

I know nothing about her but what I heard from the scuzbut on the streets...

It came to pass in New York...

gift wrap, old prescriptions, old chargers, broken headphones...

Other people's minds are a foreign country...

Earthlings are fragile, demanding, and germy...

Movements of the lower lip in dance,
A work consisting of a hundred love lyrics...

The morning was cold and the sky was bright...

God spoke.
My own true love...

Saturday, April 14, 2018

found poem 2017 #3 | assembled from the pages of the new yorker

While creating the universe,
did God have in mind that,
at a certain point,
a stuffed goat with a car tire around its middle
would materialize to round out the scheme?
It came to pass,
in New York -
where index cards escape their drawers and soar like white moths into the musty air,
and dried, vacuum-packed meats show promise as landing gear.

lost entities: out-of-print books,
elementary-school classmates,
decades-old damning quotes by politicians,
headlines with the words "sad last days" and "six months to live."

I think of the itch in world history and my mind goes blank.

by Ron Reed

Friday, April 13, 2018

found poem 2017 #2 | assembled from the pages of the new yorker

Mostly Beatrice

I know nothing about her but what I heard from the scuzbut on the streets.
Not real slender, not real bulky,
not black but not quite real blond;
polished trailer trash,
wasted, moody, and easy to snap,
A Cabbage Patch doll come to life.

We weren't really conducting our lives in a Christian manner for the most part.
We were all broken in one way, shape, or form,
brothers in the asshole nature.
Some were killed by flamethrowers;
others were shot by anti-aircraft guns before outdoor audiences.

O.K. But in the meantime my life has just went down the tubes,
sunk dead in the water.
I come from a very suicide-attempting home.
I am a work in progress on soft;
On the inside there is a soft person waiting to be released.

by Ron Reed

All but two lines in this poem are from
"Remembering the Murder You Didn't Commit" by Rachel Aviv
The New Yorker, June 19, 2017 

Thursday, April 12, 2018

found poem 2017 #1 | assembled from the pages of the new yorker

Character Sketches

Musicians and night-club proprietors lead complicated lives;
it's advisable to check in advance to confirm engagements.
Like a surly crew of mercenaries adrift at sea,
exhausted, strung out, and hungry,
they are so bored out of their wits
that they’ve taken to drinking the ship’s supply of whale oil
and throwing one another overboard for fun.

Rather than erupting in this healthy manner,
writers go home and quietly develop suicidal snacking habits,
or unnecessary family troubles,
or a rash.

He was a cineaste, plump and sedentary,
who made his own version of "Godzilla."
Made his name designing wryly impersonal T-shirts and
sculptures of clustered ductlike forms
in shiny aluminum sheeting,
home-made with shears and staple.
Call it post-zombie or born-again formalism.
During a break-in last summer, thieves took several tons of lead.

His job has allowed him to visit several countries,
which he described in terms of their cleanliness:
Switzerland (very clean),
Belgium (not so clean),
Bangladesh (not very clean at all).
In 2015, he went to Utah (clean).
He told me I was like a snail;
I was reaching out to be loved, but I was closing my doors.


Hypocondriacs aren't wrong. They're just early.
Perpetual magpies,
they pick up scraps of talk and offcuts of sensation,
tuneless singing and the slap of plastic slippers
that often flit about unpredictably,
like a mosquito stuck inside a car;
nothing goes to waste.


Communists hate to work.
They'd rather burn churches.
It makes them feel more alive.
If I had my ideal world I would not allow weapons and atom bombs anymore.
I would destroy all terrorists with the Hollywood star Jean-Claude Van Damme.

by Ron Reed

Sunday, January 21, 2018

j. kevin dunn | photos for the moose jaw herald

con's corner

untitled (city hall bench)

laundry day

untitled (hockey rink)

front row seats at the accident

prairie dog

ice cream

dog show contestants

three ladies

street shadows

prairie drive

from the article
"I was a small-town newspaper photographer. The paper's gone, but the images live forever: J. Kevin Dunn looks back at the vanished world he chronicled with his camera for the Moose Jaw Times-Herald"
Globe & Mail, January 19, 2018

Friday, January 05, 2018

jeanne murray walker | we have nothing to fear but fear itself

There were days heaven seemed easy.
Days it came right down,
drifting into my hair like pollen.
Then it seemed natural to pray.
Then everyone showed up in my prayer.
Talking was prayer, unlocking
the door was. In those days
I was all praise and thank yous,
without even moving my lips.

People will die for less--
to be taken into the sky like that,
to walk as the holy do, without exegesis,
without needing to explain. Now
the clouds above Chestnut Street
have clicked shut, locking us out.
One day we have a hunch. Next day
a grudge divides us.

Oh, to live before we made
separations our thesis. As if
a child has drawn a line with a crayon:
here's the sky, here's the earth,
here's a woman, here's everything else.
It's name is Enemy.

from Helping the Morning: New & Selected Poems

Saturday, December 23, 2017

connie braun | a christmas gift from the sea

This Christmas we are away from family and friends. The decision to leave was mine, and I wonder if I'm flawed, like a sweater with a snag, or worse, a defect in the domestic fabric of motherhood. I feel so overwhelmed at this time of year when other wives and mothers immerse themselves in the traditions of the season. Part of what makes leaving a little easier is that we both have families living close by that we see regularly, so, with our children, my husband and I come to an island in the sea this year. There will be no usual Christmas activities and obligations. And, as if to justify missing the snowfall at home, I imagine that a balmy breeze is truer to the nativity setting in Bethlehem anyway.

I have brought along a book, Gift From The Sea, by Anne Morrow Lindbergh, in which she comments on the luxury of choice many of us in our North American culture have, including me, between complexity and simplification of life. "For the most part, we who could choose simplification choose complication." This statement stirs me. The author goes on to say that a simplified outward life is not enough, but I decide that it is definitely a start.

Throughout the book, the author uses the image of an island as a metaphor for solitude and reflection. Solitude is necessary for a peaceful inner life, and vacations, she writes, are like an island of space and time – I think of the five of us here as being our own island. My thoughts shift like the sand in the breaking waves to another place, to home, where it is snowing. Our mothers will be engaged in activity for Christmas Eve while I have spent the day at the beach with no responsibilities – lazy hours liberally sprinkled with sand and salt.

Showered and refreshed, I recline on the patio sipping a glass of eggnog and gaze at the ocean in anticipation of the sunset and the descent of this special night. Just offshore, the water softly breaks and a dark shape emereges; the back of a whale! Elated, I call my family over with a hushed trace of urgency in my voice. They know how inexplicably drawn I am to these mysterious graceful giants and quickly gather around me. Together we watch, captivated, as the whale gently rolls to the side and a long fin, like a slender hand, claps the water's surface, as if to ensure our attention. Her act is audible a moment later, just as thunder is heard moments after lightning. Again and again, fin against water. Then a tiny fluked tail pops up from the waves and wags in response. The mother raises her tail, bringing it down with a thud and displacing water into a fan of spray that areches and showers like a summer downpour.

I am mesmerized by this affectionate interplay between whale and offspring. It goes on for fifteen minutes, a halfhour, is it longer? And suddenly during that time I sense the significance of what I am witnessing, so grateful that I wasn't preoccupied but rather sill and available. That these whales should pause along their journey to play in front of us, on this evening, seems intentional, as if this was an intimate gift from the Divine Creator to me. Time seems to stop, until the shimmering sun slowly slips into the sea.

At church, in the glow of the candlelight, once again I think of our families at home, gahtered by now around the tree, exchanging gifts. Mild guilt washes over me like a wave, then flows away as the singing begins. "O Holy Night... The night when Christ was born..."  As if speaking to reassure me, the pastor prefaces his sermon by commenting on all the things we do to get ready for Christmas, making ourselves three times busier than usual – baking, cooking, shopping, visiting, decorating – yet that is not what Christmas is about. All around me heads nod slightly, creating a subtle movement throughout the congregtion, like an undulating body of water. I feel acceptable. The purpose of Christmas, he declares, is simply for us to know God personally. The message that follows warms me like tropical sun rays.

A few days later, I enquire about a whale-watching excursion and an islander tells me that this is not the right time of year; experts have sensed only about twenty whales in this waters. He says I'd be lucky to see any activity at all. My intuition about the whales on Christmas Eve was correct; they were a gift, and they will become my personal metaphor for a simpler life wherein I recognize God's grace in the deeper, quieter moments.

Thursday, December 21, 2017

sheila rosen | no safe place : thoughts after reading frederick buechner

So there’s no safe place. God, it seems,
might insert himself into any conversation,
any century. Might settle in - any old place,
as he quintessentially did in the West Bank,
Palestine, small town called Bethlehem.
The story is - God breathed himself
into the womb of a woman, turning himself
over to her umbilical care, folding himself
into fetal position, pressing and turning
inside Mary, ‘til she, breathing hard, bore down.
Mary’s womb turned inside out - amniotic
water, gasping infant, placenta spilling
into the night, messy and miraculous
as any birth anywhere and not a safe place.
Did he know - he must have - when he took on
flesh and fingernail and bone marrow,
he would be at our mercy?

For us too, no safe place. For you see what
he’s done - given notice how he, at any time,
might break into our conversation, West Bank,
West Coast, Bethlehem, Vancouver. There’s no place
safe from his radical willingness to be among us.

Wednesday, December 20, 2017

mike royko | pretty well picked over

The owner of a Michigan Avenue restaurant called me with a problem that frequently comes up at Christmas. He had planned a party at his place for 100 needy children. But for some reason he had only half that many coming. Now, with the party only two days off, he was frantically trying to find an extra fifty needy children.

"Do you know where I can get them?" he said. I asked if he had tried an orphanage. He hadn't, so I gave him the name of one.

He called back a few minutes later and said: "No luck. They're already taken." All I could do was suggest that he keep trying, call orphanages and social agencies. But I warned him to expect disappointment. He had waited much too long. When you get down to the last week before Christmas, the needy children - especially orphans - already have been pretty well picked over.

Last year, on Christmas Eve afternoon, a very angry young woman called. She and some friends had just rounded up old clothes and old toys to give away, but couldn't find anyone to give them to. They had called several social agencies but they had closed for the day.

Knowing how upsetting such disappointment could be, I tried to be helpful and suggested that they wait until after Christmas when the social agencies reopened, since the clothes and toys would be needed then, too.

"But Christmas will be over then," the woman said, "and it won't be the same."

How true...

One should start thinking about these things as early as Thanksgiving-- or before, if possible...

One of the problems in looking for someone to good-deed is that there is no convenient way to shop around. What may be needed is some kind of special Christmas catalog, such as Sears put out for their merchandise, but containing instead a complete assortment of the needy. If people had something like that, they could plan calmly and avoid the frantic, last-minute rush to perform a good deed.

Best of all, there wouldn't be any disappointment. Christmas comes but once a year, and everyone should get a chance to do good. It's such a long wait until next time.

Monday, December 18, 2017

Index: Christmas Readings

Tim Anderson | Re: Loneliness Can Be Contagious

Connie Braun | A Christmas Gift from the Sea

Frederick Buechner | The Annunciation
Frederick Buechner | Emmanuel
Frederick Buechner | The Face in the Sky
Frederick Buechner | Gabriel

Robert Farrar Capon | Advent
Robert Farrar Capon | Better Watch Out
Robert Farrar Capon | Naughty or Nice

Truman Capote | A Christmas Memory

Tom Carson | Snow Angel

Nicola Colhoun | Creche

John F. Deane | Driving To Midnight Mass in Dublin on Christmas Eve

Annie Dillard | Feast Days
Annie Dillard | God in the Doorway

Dina Donohue | No Room

Craig Erickson | Christmas Rant

John Henry Faulk | A Child's Christmas in Texas

Lawrence Ferlinghetti | Christ Climbed Down

Paul Flucke | The Secret of the Gifts

Rev. J.M. Gates | Death Might Be Your Santa Claus

William Gibson | Butterfingers Angel

Lorenz Graham | Every Man Heart Lay Down

Wayne Harrel | The Camels of Ancient Yore

Rory Holland | Frail Humanity
Rory Holland | Nativity

Garrison Keillor | The Seven Principles of a Successful Christmas

Ron Klug | Joseph's Lullaby

David Kossoff | Seth
David Kossoff | Shem

Rudi Krause | one way
Rudi Krause | unforeseen

Madeleine L'Engle | O Sapientia
Madeleine L'Engle | The Tree

Peter La Grand | Christmas Memory

Mike Mason | Three Fools

William Nicholoson | Christmas Drinks Party

Lance Odegard | Impossible Dream

Richard Osler | Advent Poems 2006
Richard Osler | Afterwards

Ron Reed | Clay
Ron Reed | It's a Wonderful Life

Sheila Rosen | No Safe Place

Mike Royko | Pretty Well Picked Over

Luci Shaw | Advent III
Luci Shaw | December
Luci Shaw | Madonna and Child, with Saints
Luci Shaw | Mary Considers Her Situation
Luci Shaw | Presents

Sufjan Stevens | Christmas Tube Socks

Diane Tucker | Advent Couplets
Diane Tucker | Christmas Couplets

Various Authors | Joseph & Mary

Sunday, November 05, 2017

paradise | two images

(2016, russia/germany, andrei konchalovsky)

the new yorker goes to korea

Families enjoy National Liberation Day at the Rungna Dolphinarium

My guide was Pak Song Il, whose job has allowed him to visit several countries, which he described in terms of their cleanliness: Switzerland (very clean); Belgium (not so clean); Bangladesh (not clean at all). In 2015, he went to Utah (clean) for a nongovernmental exchange attended by members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. The experience convinced him that Mormons have a lot in common with North Koreans. "When the L.D.S. started, they were hated. They were sent to the desert. But they made it thrive. They are organized like a bee colony, where everyone works for one purpose and they would die for it. And they make huge output, as a result. We understand each other very well."


When you buy a North Korean newspaper with an image of Kim Jong Un on the front page, the clerk folds it carefully to avoid creasing his face.

Kim Jong Un executed his uncle Jang Song Thaek. The charges against Jang ranged from “treachery” to applauding “halfheartedly” when Kim entered the room. Many of Jang’s children and aides were also put to death. Some were killed by flamethrowers; others were shot by anti-aircraft guns before outdoor audiences.


Kim Jong Il, who assumed power in 1994, was a cinĂ©aste, plump and sedentary, who made his own version of “Godzilla.” (His favorite films also included Rambo and Gone With The Wind.) On foreign trips, his aides brought home his feces and urine, to prevent foreign powers from hijacking the waste and evaluating his health. He was five feet two inches tall, and insecure about his height. In 1978, he ordered the kidnapping of his favorite South Korean actress, Choi Eun-hee, and greeted her by saying, “Small as a midget’s turd, aren’t I?”


Kim Jong Il's second son, Jong Chul, was reserved and gentle. While in Switzerland, he had written a poem called “My Ideal World,” which began, “If I had my ideal world I would not allow weapons and atom bombs anymore. I would destroy all terrorists with the Hollywood star Jean-Claude Van Damme.”

*   *   *

excerpted from
The Risk Of Nuclear War With North Korea
by Evan Osnos
The New Yorker, September 18, 2017

Friday, November 03, 2017

maggie's farm

If Dylan and the Band, buoyed by Levon Helm’s strutting, deep-in-the-pocket Southern groove, had sounded like American comfort food, a triumphant homecoming football team on a crisp Thanksgiving afternoon, the singer and his band on the Hard Rain album sound like a surly crew of mercenaries adrift at sea; exhausted, strung out, and hungry, they are so bored out of their wits that they’ve taken to drinking the ship’s supply of whale oil and throwing one another overboard for fun.

howard fishman compares two performances of maggie's farm
in never ending bob dylan
the new yorker, november 3, 2017

Monday, October 30, 2017

the pulp fiction of henri nouwen

"As Doc fired several rounds into the attacking platoon, he heard the unmistakeable rat-a-tat-tat of enemy fire, and felt a tearing, burning sensation in his left leg. Damn! He was hit..."

A shocking tale of wasted youth! He stole his father's money, fled his home town, and cast off every rule of decent society! He slept with hookers! He ate with pigs! And now... He's back! The long awaited sequel to the searing thrill-o-rama that shocked a generation! If you liked "The Prodigal Son," you'll LOVE... "The Return Of The Prodigal Son"!!

Friday, September 29, 2017

brad aaron modlin | what you missed that day you were absent from fourth grade

What You Missed that Day You Were Absent from Fourth Grade

Mrs. Nelson explained how to stand still and listen
to the wind, how to find meaning in pumping gas,

how peeling potatoes can be a form of prayer.
She took questions on how not to feel lost in the dark.

After lunch she distributed worksheets
that covered ways to remember your grandfather’s

voice. Then the class discussed falling asleep
without feeling you had forgotten to do something else—

something important—and how to believe
the house you wake in is your home. This prompted

Mrs. Nelson to draw a chalkboard diagram detailing
how to chant the Psalms during cigarette breaks,

and how not to squirm for sound when your own thoughts
are all you hear; also, that you have enough.

The English lesson was that I am
is a complete sentence.

And just before the afternoon bell, she made the math equation
look easy. The one that proves that hundreds of questions,

and feeling cold, and all those nights spent looking
for whatever it was you lost, and one person

add up to something.

by Brad Aaron Modlin
from the book Everyone At This Party Has Two Names

an almost holy picture | notes for an interview

where do we find hope in the face of loss?

small things
a burlap sack of beans, jars of salsa verde
making things grow
walking your daughter to school
watching your wife in a play
smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee in a friend's 57 Thunderbird

Tuesday, July 18, 2017

haas, baden, drake | three photos from an exhibition

Ernst Haas, New York City, USA, 1981

Karl Baden, Chestnut Hill, Massachusetts, 2009

Carolyn Drake, Breeze, Zhetisay Kazakhstan, 2009

from Cartier-Bresson: A Question of Colour
the inaugural show of The Positive View Foundation,
Somerset House, London

Wednesday, July 12, 2017

adam gopnik | shakespeare and forgiveness

Shakespeare believed in fate, order, and forgiveness; we believe in history, justice, and compassion – three pairings so similar as to sometimes seem the same, though they are not. The novelistic, psychological work of explaining why evil people are evil gets very little energy from him. His villains are the products not of trauma and history but of nature and destiny. He amputated Iago's motive for malignancy from the Italian story where he found Othello's tragedy, in order to make the evil more absolute. Even to ask if Shylock's graspingness is a product of his people's history of exclusion would not have seemed important to him. He wasn't looking for causes. Though not satisfying to our modern sense of psychology, this is actually psychologically quite satisfying. The malevolent people we encounter in life are mostly just like that. They don't have a particular trauma that, if addressed and cured, would stop them from being evil. They were creepy, malignant kids, too....

Shakespeare also believe in forgiveness in a way that we don't. Really rotten people get forgiven, in the comedies and romances, at least, in ways that still make us uneasy. In The Tempest, As You Like It, Twelfth Night, bad actors get easy outs. Even Shylock isn't killed. Dr Johnson thought the moment when Hamlet delays killing Claudius in order to deprive him of any chance of forgiveness was "too horrible to be read or to be uttered." We are much more ostentatiously compassionate and much more effectively vindictive. Small incidents of plagiarism end careers – not a rule that Shakespeare himself would have escaped – and sexual sins can place their perpetrators forever beyond the bounds of redemption. In Shakespeare, rotten people do rotten things, but if they stick around and say they're sorry they are forgiven. By contrast, we feel everyone's pain, forgive no one's trespasses."

Adam Gopnik, "Why Rewrite Shakespeare?"
The New Yorker, October 17, 2016

Tuesday, July 11, 2017

walker evans | stare

Stare. It is the way to educate your eye, and more. Stare, pry, listen, eavesdrop. Die knowing something. You are not here long.

Walker Evans

Sunday, April 16, 2017

samaritan woman | sheila rosen

On the outskirts of Sychar,
I bear my empty water jar to Jacob's well.
Under searing sun this daily trek is only one
of the vexing complications of my day.

Mornings I wake with dryness. I've dreamed again
of water pots, spilling, cracking, falling into shards.
I rouse myself before others, to keep my tryst
with the tiny bird that darts and sings each morning.
by my door. This small fidelity is all
that whets my appetite for another day.

The sun is high. Each day’s a new beginning, they say.
I set out alone, turning over, like dusty prayer beads,
the usual string of questions:

How is each day new? I am who I am, and was
all the other beginnings. Where is my help?
Neither in me nor the man who is not my husband
and isn’t likely to stay. I look up to the hills.
Where is the one true worship that might lift me,
even me, to the heights? Where is running water
for this never-ending thirst? Where, in this heat
is there even one bird singing?

My throat is dry. My feet hurt. I'll do well
to fill my water pot and bear it home. I'll climb
no bless/ed mountain today. Would that God
were a man who’d come down off his holy hill
and give me a hand drawing water. Deep water
from Jacob’s ancient well. And sweet,
I want sweet water, I want a soaking —
water enough to set a small bird singing,
under this scorching Samaritan sky.

Saturday, February 04, 2017

found poem | no use

gift wrap,
old prescriptions, old chargers, broken headphones,
old towels, old bath mats, chipped mugs,

old magazines,

shoe boxes, old bills, dried pens,
old warranties, receipts,

takeout menus,
event tickets, invitations, old nail polish,
party favours, broken jewelry,
unused gifts.

by Ron Reed
(source forgotten. probably the new yorker.)

Sunday, January 01, 2017

found poem 2016 | assembled from the pages of the new yorker

Other people's minds are a foreign country
in which we're guests, tourists, or strangers,
unsure where we are and what's expected of us.
People say things that they don't mean literally:
"Someday I am going to get my eyes open all the time
and then I will eat you and Lizzie both."
They tell jokes and they use ironic expressions:
"Make it extremely squalid and moving.
Are you at all acquainted with squalor?"

He'd had enough of what people said,
tips and tales, theories, tidbits.
If he could have it his way,
nobody would ever say anything again.

looking through this garbled, pearly whorled window,
he'd pulled a seven-foot coil of ingrown hair from an abscess
on the tip of a patient's tailbone,
theatrically slipping sleeping pills
into their tea,
a cluster of pastel plaster.

He was not well behaved in the girlfriend situation.
Unsuitability, resistance, seduction,
failure of imagination,
failure of courage,
bad planning,
the laws of nations,
the laws of physics,
the weight of history,
inertia of all sorts;
like an exotic dancer at a trustee's meeting.

by Ron Reed

Friday, December 02, 2016

adam gopnik | bill shakespeare, working playwright

As the ordinary poet of a working company of players, he sought plots under deadline pressure rather than after some long, deliberate meditation on how to turn fiction into drama. "What have you got for us this month, Will?" the players asked him, and, thinking quickly, he'd say, "I thought I'd do something with the weird Italian story I mentioned, the one with the Jew and the contest." "Italy again? All right. End of the month then?"

the new yorker
oct 17, 2016

Saturday, July 16, 2016

fifty years ago today | week ending july 16 1966 | billboard hot 100

click to expand

4. You Don't Have To Say You Love Me, Dusty Springfield

If you discovered Dusty Springfield in 1968 like I did, you'd know she was a Southern girl from Erskine Caldwell country. Son Of A Preacher Man had the same backwoods grit as Bobby Gentry's southern gothic masterpiece Ode To Billie Joe. But you'd know wrong. Roberta Lee Streeter was bona fide Mississippi, born and raised in Chickasaw County: Mary Isolbel Catherine Bernadette O'Brien hailed from much further north, and a ways east - Hampstead, North London, in fact.

A lot of people made that kind of mistake. Just hearing her sing, you'd easily think Dusty was black. She worshiped Aretha Franklin, her landmark LP "Dusty In Memphis" was the product of an iconic soul studio backed by seasoned rhythm and blues session players, and she was often the only white singer featured in black R&B revues. She hosted a UK program that spotlighted Motown stars.

But Dusty was white. Very white. The evening gown, the make-up, the bouffant hairdo - to look at her, you'd peg her as a Lulu or Petula Clark. And this week's #4 tune has her in full pop diva mode.  

"Pop diva" - I guess that sounds dismissive. It's not meant to. As much as Springfield was a chameleon (her first incarnation was as a folkie, in The Springfields, a pop duo with her brother), there's nothing ersatz in a single moment of this, her highest-charting single ever. Or anywhere in her recorded oeuvre, as far as I'm concerned. This girl's legit.

But "diva" fits. Certainly for the operatic scope, style, emotion. Also for the melodrama that was her life. Also for her artistry, the control she wielded in the studio or theatre: completely untrained musically, she knew precisely what she wanted, what pick the bass player should use, where the microphones should be placed. She found the acoustics of the Philips Studio wanting, and recorded her vocal for You Don't Have To Say You Love Me in a stairwell. Forty-seven times.

She discovered the tune in January 1965, competing in the Italian Song Festival. Pino Donaggio stepped up to the microphone and sang Io Che Non Vivo Senza Te, and Dusty wept - though she couldn't understand a word of it.

A year later her friends Vicki Wickham (the producer of Ready Steady Go!) and Simon Napier-Bell (manager of The Yardbirds) would quickly pen lyrics over dinner and in a cab ride to a London discotheque, though they'd never written a song in their lives. The next day Springfield was in the studio (and the studio stairwell) recording it.

The original Italian version of the song was featured in the Luchino Visconti film Vaghe Stelle dell'Orsa ("Sandra Of A Thousand Delights"), that placed Claudio Cardinale in a retelling of the Electra myth that mixed incest and Italian guilt about the Holocaust. It won the Golden Lion at the Venice Film Festival. Here's a clip that gives a feel for the film: unfortunately, no Io Che Non Vivo Senza Te.

Back to Dusty. You HAVE to listen to Guess Who, the b-side of a 1964 single that never climbed higher than "Bubbling Under" status on the Billboard charts. The ominous guitar riff, the extraordinary string and horn arrangement, the Motown-ballad background vocals. And that voice. Just go ahead and tell me she's not black.

This is a song you could get obsessed with. I did.

53. Summer In The City, The Lovin' Spoonful
41. Did You Ever Have To Make Up Your Mind, The Lovin' Spoonful
42. Younger Girl, The Critters
59. Younger Girl, The Hondells

How's this for a change of pace? From the dark romanticism of Italian film and tormented love affairs to the sunshiny summer pop of The Lovin' Spoonful.  Okay, there's some heft to Summer In The City, which debuts this week in the #53 slot and will pretty much end up the theme song of the summer of '66. It's gritty and urban the way Preacher Man is gritty and rural.

But it's the least Lovin' Spoonful of any Lovin' Spoonful tune. Too serious, too electric. That said, there's more "girlfriend pop" in the breaks, "But at night it's a different world, go out and find a girl...", and if you jump in around 1:10 you'll get a taste of the goofin' around vibe of John Sebastian and especially guitarist Zal Yanovsky (a Canadian, dontcha know? Just thought I'd point that out). "Yup, we're lip synching. Anybody see any trucks or taxis on the stage? Let alone autoharps? Who cares!" As seriously as Dusty Springfield took everything, that's exactly how seriously the Spoonful didn't take anything.

It's Billboard tag-team this week for the Greenwich Village boys - as Summer in The City shows up, Did You Ever Have To Make Up Your Mind slips out the back. It entered the charts back in early May, and held the #2 position (behind Paint It, Black - the Stones were the anti-Spoonful) for a couple weeks in mid-June.

Okay, I'll admit, the attitude toward chicks gives me the willies. Always has. Call me a feminist or call me old-fashioned, I always cringe at this stuff.

"Sometimes you really dig a girl the moment you kiss her
And then you get distracted by her older sister
When in walks her father and takes you in line
And says, You Better go home, son, and make up your mind."

That's not exactly what I would have said to the two-timing lad. (Where's my shotgun...)

But I only cringe a little. Mostly, I just want to be up there with Zal and the guys, getting a kick out of everything.

Big week for the boys. Big summer. Big couple of years. They released their first single the year before (Do You Believe In Magic), and by the end of 1966 they would have charted seven top ten tunes. In spring '67 Zal pulled a Kazan and named names (drugs, not communism) and just that quick the band started to pull apart. But they had a heck of a ride.

Big week. As well as two Spoonful singles on the Hot 100, you've got two covers of their tune Younger Girl. If you grew up on the east coast, you know The Critters' version, recorded by a bunch of Jersey Boys. (Though they don't look nearly as tough as anybody from Jersey. And they don't seem to be having as much fun as anybody from Greenwich Village.)

If you grew up on the west coast, you're partial to version by The Hondells (not to be confused with the Rondels, or the Rhondells). (Or with a real band. The Hondells consisted entirely of L.A. studio musicians, pulled together initially to cash in on the vehicular sub-genre of Beach Boys music, and now looking to get their own spoonful of pop chart cash with a John Sebastian cover.) (Not to gainsay the musicianship: the players are mostly recruited from the ranks of the Wrecking Crew, top players who graced an infinitude of California hits in the Sixties. Curiously, the lead vocalist on several Hondells tunes (including their debut, Little Honda) was Chuck Girard, who later became a fixture in the burgeoning Jesus Music scene. Gary Usher is the guy who pulled together the Crew members for any given record, and they didn't just change personnel over the years, they changed monikers, recording as The Sunsets, The Four Speeds, Gary Usher and The Usherettes (aka: The Honeys), The Competitors, The Go-Go's, The Devons, The Ghouls, The Super Stocks, The Indigos, The Revells, The Kickstands and The Knights.

Younger Girl first appeared on the Lovin' Spoonful's debut album "Do You Believe In Magic", but was never released as a single. I'll admit, theirs is my favourite version, but that may only be because it's the one I heard first - which is likely the determining factor for Critters and Hondells fans, as well. To my ears, the autoharp gives it a nice propulsive rhythm right off the top, and when they shift down into the B section the tune finds a new loping energy. The others sound a little slick (Hondells) or earnest (Critters) to my ear, and neither has the light touch of Sebastian's original vocals. But you can make up your own mind.

You can also make up your mind about the lyrics;

"A younger girl keeps rollin' 'cross my mind
And should I hang around, acting like her brother
In a few more years, they'd call us right for each other
And why? If I wait I'll just die..."

If you're in grade eleven, and she's in grade nine, maybe that's just fine. If you're as old as Gary Puckett, and the Young Girl is "just a baby in disguise," it's full-on creepy. "Better go home, son..."


One last musicological footnote about the provenance of Younger Girl. You'll read things like "The song is basically Prison Wall Blues (1930) by Cannon's Jug Stompers, with a few lyrical changes." Well, that greatly overstates the case.

"Now my head is hanging down with these prison wall blues
The white mule made me act a pop-eyed clown
Now I've got no time to lose
When they bring you through that gate
You wish you hadn't 'a done it, but it's just too late
But you might as well laugh, good partner, when you fall
Now hollerin’ won't get you from behind these walls.

"These prison wall blues keep rollin' 'cross my mind
I can't get a pardon, looks like the governor won’t cut my time
I once was lost, but now I'm found
I'd leave this place running, but I'm scared of them flop-eared hounds
These prison wall blues keep rollin' 'cross my mind.

"This is the first fence I ever saw in my life that I can't climb
This fence will make a high yellow girl turn dark
It’ll make a weak-eyed man go blind
When I leave these walls, I'll be running dodging trees
See the bottom of my feet so many times, you'll think I'm on my knees
These prison wall blues keep a-rollin' 'cross my mind."

Notwithstanding the possibility of prison for the Older Man in Younger Girl, there's not a lot of overlap between the two lyrics, apart from the "keep rollin' cross my mind" bit. (Which also puts me in mind of The Peppermint Trolley's Baby You Come Rollin' Cross My Mind. But that doesn't come along until 1968, so we won't head down that particular rabbit trail for a couple more years.) But musically you can definitely hear it in the bridge (0:33 "These prison wall blues keep rollin'..." etc = "A younger girl keeps rollin'..." etc), and when you get to the instrumental section around 1:01, you can sing the John Sebastian lyrics over the jug band music just as slick as a whistle.

Last word about Younger Girl. Has there ever been a better lyric than this?

"I remember her eyes, soft, dark, and brown
Said she'd never been in trouble, even in town..."


And don't forget to check out...

the week ending july 2 1966
1. Strangers In The Night, Frank Sinatra
2. Paperback Writer, The Beatles
7. Cool Jerk, The Capitols
24. Rain, The Beatles
29. When A Man Loves A Woman, Percy Sledge
53. I Saw Her Again, The Mamas & The Papas
55. Solitary Man, Neil Diamond
59. The Work Song, Herb Alpert & The Tijuana Brass
74. When A Woman Loves A Man, Esther Phillips
90. I Want You, Bob Dylan

the week ending july 9 1966
2. Red Rubber Ball, The Cyrkle
6. Wild Thing, The Troggs
17. I Am A Rock, Simon & Garfunkel
33. Sweet Talking Guy, The Chiffons
44. A Groovy Kind Of Love, The Mindbenders
83. See You In September, The Happenings

the week ending july 16 1966
4. You Don't Have To Say You Love Me, Dusty Springfield
41. Did You Ever Have To Make Up Your Mind, The Lovin' Spoonful
42. Younger Girl, The Critters
53. Summer In The City, The Lovin' Spoonful
59. Younger Girl, The Hondells

Thursday, July 07, 2016

fifty years ago today | week ending july 9 1966 | billboard hot 100

2. Red Rubber Ball, The Cyrkle

Coming in at Number Two this week fifty years ago (as Frankie slips to Number Three and the Fabs ascend to Number one) are the lads from Lafayette College in sleepy little Easton Pennsylvania. Having the year of their lives, as you can see in the video.

Last fall they got signed by none other than Brian Epstein, who changed the band's name from The Rondells – not to be confused with the Rhondells, the brass-boosted Bill Deal band who'll show up on the charts in a couple of years with terrific covers of beach music standards like May I and What Kind Of Fool Do You Think I Am). In consultation with none other than John Lennon, Brian dubs them The Cyrkle. (That's just how they spelled thynges in the Sixties...)

The band with the fresh-minted moniker got temporarily sidetracked when Tom Dawes (the guy with the double-necked guitar) started 1966 by heading out on Simon & Garfunkel's "Sounds Of Silence" tour – this week they hit Denmark and the UK. But somewhere between New Rochelle High School and the Ithaca College Gymnasium, Paul wondered if Dawes and his band might want to record an old song he had kicking around, one he'd written with a guy from The Seekers, and that set the stage for stardom.

On May 25 1966 the first Cyrkle single hit the charts, and this week it peaks in the Number Two slot, right behind Brian's other band. Appropriately enough, as Cyrkle's next big adventure is to head out on tour with none other than The Beatles. (Any time you mention anyone connected with The Beatles, you have to say "none other than.") Fronting the Bravo Blitztournee in Germany, playing the first pop concert ever in Tokyo's Budokan, snubbing Imelda Marcos, apologizing for being more popular than Jesus, dodging the Klan in Memphis, and playing their last-ever public concert in San Francisco on August 29. (Who can blame them? "Them," in this case, being none other than The Beatles. The Cyrkle continued touring for some time. Without The Beatles. Which probably affected attendance figures.)

As I said, the year of their lives. As you can see in the video. Which is conveniently subtitled for the deaf and hard of hearing – which I guess means they didn't care too much about the sound quality. If you want a better-sounding video, here's a link. But this one's more fun. Note the proliferation of red rubber balls.

17. I Am A Rock, Simon & Garfunkel

Yup, it's S&G all over the place. Writing songs for oddly-spelt nascent pop groups, touring high schools throughout America, and placing their own tunes on the Hot 100. I Am A Rock peaked at Number Three back in June, but now it's in its second-last week on the charts. Don't worry, the lads will be back in a month with a track from their next album, Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme.

My introduction to the earnest and iconic Sounds Of Silence album (from whence the Rock song hails) didn't come until the fall of 1969, when the new kid showed up in my Grade Eight class at Fairview Junior High. Exotic, he'd spent Grade Seven at some private school, snowshoeing in the far north. Also some kind of chess genius. Also sophisticated, music-wise; he had a big sister, who had albums.  Not just 45s.  Albums.

So one day after class I went over to Mike's house, and he put a stack of LPs on the automatic record player, and before long we were lost in conversation. About snowshoeing and chess and stuff, I guess. Maybe about sasquatches and yetis (which was the correct name for the so-called "Abominable Snowman") - eventually we would mount an ambitious Science Fair project presenting compelling evidence in support of the existence of these elusive, controversial bipeds.

Whatever the topic, we were immersed in it when abruptly my new friend lifted his hand to stop the conversation. A thoughtful pause, as though he were listening to the sounds of a distant drummer. Then... "I have tended my own garden much too long."

Holy smokes. This guy was Deep. I was blown away. I mean, what kind of Grade Eighter says things like that? I knew I was going to have to up my game in the profundity department.

I don't know how much later it was that I got my own copy of The Sounds Of Silence, and the penny dropped. Mike wasn't listening to the sounds of a distant drummer - except, I suppose, the uncredited studio drummer who was backing Paul and Artie on Side I, Track Three of Liz's copy of the first S&G LP to crack the Billboard album charts.  "Blessed are the penny rookers, cheap hookers, groovy lookers / O Lord, Why have you forsaken me? / I have tended my own garden much too long..." He was quoting, not disclosing. Still...  Not bad for an eleven-year-old. I had to wait another 47 years to learn (from Mike's pal Will) that Paul Simon himself may have been quoting, something of a pop-music rejoinder to Voltaire's Candide. And wouldn't that be just like Paul Simon. "I have my books and my poetry to protect me..."

6. Wild Thing, The Troggs

To tear ourselves away from Simonized folk-pop profundities, let us turn our attention instead to the musical stylings of The Troggs - short for Troglodytes, one would assume. This stuff's heavy, man.

"Wild thing,
You make my heart sing,
You make everything groovy."

Well, it rhymes.

A note on the word "groovy," which was in 1966 ubiquitous.  Now, you would be forgiven for thinking that the term is strictly Sixties. But you would be mistaken.

John Ayto's 20th Century Words: The Story of New Words in English Over the Last 100 Years dates the first usage of the word circa 1937, and offers these definitions; "1) MARVELOUS, WONDERFUL, EXCELLENT. 2) HIP." The earliest recorded use I've managed to find is in the Anita O'Day / Roy Eldridge patter that leads into Gene Krupa's recording of Let Me Off Downtown from May 5, 1941;

"Hey Joe!"
"What do you mean Joe? My name's Roy."
"Well come here Roy, and get groovy!"

Other non-Troggs to employ the term prior to July 9 1966 include Charles Brown, Slim Gaillard, Earl Bostic, The Hal McIntyre Orchestra, Johnny Moore's Three Blazers, Webb Pierce & His Southern Valley Boys, The Chet Baker Sextet, Bill Haley & His Comets, Red Prysock, Red Garland, Bobby Rydell, Cannonball Adderly, Joe Brown (in A Picture Of You, later covered by none other than The Beatles), Billy Abbott & The Jewels, George Kingston, George Clinton & The Parliaments, Herbie Mann, The Beach Boys, The Lovin' Spoonful, The Ric-O-Shays, Simon & Garfunkel (see Blessed, above), James Brown, The Mamas & The Papas, and... (See below; Mindbenders, The) (And for more on this and other Groovy Greats, click here)

But back to the song at hand.  One has heard few less convincing protestations of love than in Wild Thing.

"Wild thing, I think I love you.
But I wanna know for sure.
Come on and hold me tight.
I love you..."

Colour me skeptical.

Bit of a dumb song, but it gets at something primal. And how 'bout that crazy recorder solo? Or whatever it is. And, actually, the video's pretty awesome....

44. A Groovy Kind Of Love, The Mindbenders

Leaving the charts this week is a slow dance for the end of the sock hop, by one of England's grooviest beat groups. This one also rhymes. A lot.

"When I'm feeling blue
All I have to do
Is take a look at you
Then I'm not so blue..."

The band hailed from Manchester, named for a 1963 Dirk Bogarde movie about brainwashing; A dedicated British scientist tests the possibility of brainwashing. If the experiment succeeds, he will stop loving his wife" (IMDb).

BBC, Sounds Of The Sixties: "It's an almost courtly record, with its martial snare rolls suggesting a formal dance, maybe in a tea garden." Also pretty sexy. But sweet.

"When you're close to me
I can feel your heartbeat
I can hear you breathing in my ear..."

A Groovy Kind Of Love and Wild Thing. Could there be two more opposite love songs? Not insignificant that AGKOL was written by what may have been the Sixties' only female song-writing duo, Toni Wine and Carole Bayer Sager. It was recorded by a bunch o' lads, but written by a pair o' birds, and that makes sense. Wild Thing's got a whole other thing going on. (And if I remember right, Chip Taylor thought WT was actually kind of a joke. I'll look it up when I get home and let you know.)

I always thought it was Wayne Fontana & The Mindbenders. Turns out Wayne stormed off stage in the middle of a 1965 Wembley concert, and from that time forward his name was stricken from the records. Appropriately enough.

And yup, Phil Collins covered the tune a couple decades later. But we won't mention that.

33. Sweet Talking Guy, The Chiffons

Last week on the charts for this one as well. And I'm like, what? This is still on the radio!? It sounds like it debuted in, I don't know, maybe 1963?

It actually debuted May 7, 1966, though the Chiffons did place six singles on the Hot 100 in 1963 - He's So Fine, One Fine Day, and four others you've never heard of. And really, this is one fine record. Classic Girl Group sound, but still making the Hit Parade in 1966. I do love the mashup of sounds in 1966 - from Sinatra and Alpert to Simon and Garfunkel to Troggs and Stones and Beatles to Soul to The Chiffons.

I guess there's something timeless about this record. For whatever reason it was re-issued across the pond in 1973, and made it's way back to the Top Of The Pops at #4.

83. See You In September, The Happenings

New this week, this entree in the Lovers Torn Asunder During Summer Camp oeuvre was the wistful heartfelt yearning tune for the Class of '66 - not to be confused with the perennial pop platter Sealed With A Kiss...

"I don't wanna say goodbye for the summer,
Knowing the love we'll miss,
So let us make a pledge to meet in September
And seal it with a kiss"
Bryan Hyland, 1962
Gary Lewis & The Playboys, 1968
Bobby Vinton, 1972
Jason Donovan, 1989...

I do love the innocence of the tune, and the squeaky-clean video is a nostalgic treat. But reading the comments below, I'm reminded that 1966 wasn't all sunshine and lollipops. "Popular when I headed off to Viet Nam in September 1966. I didn't see my girlfriend the next September. Marine Corps tours were 13 months..." And I realize it wasn't just teenyboppers who may have found the tune poignant. More than a few of the 382,000 Americans who were drafted in 1966 may have connected with the song's sentiments.

"Bye, baby, goodbye...
Have a good time but remember
There is danger in the summer moon above
Will I see you in September
Or lose you..."

And don't forget to check out...

1. Strangers In The Night, Frank Sinatra
2. Paperback Writer, The Beatles
7. Cool Jerk, The Capitols
24. Rain, The Beatles
29. When A Man Loves A Woman, Percy Sledge
53. I Saw Her Again, The Mamas & The Papas
55. Solitary Man, Neil Diamond
59. The Work Song, Herb Alpert & The Tijuana Brass
74. When A Woman Loves A Man, Esther Phillips
90. I Want You, Bob Dylan

2. Red Rubber Ball, The Cyrkle
6. Wild Thing, The Troggs
17. I Am A Rock, Simon & Garfunkel
33. Sweet Talking Guy, The Chiffons
44. A Groovy Kind Of Love, The Mindbenders
83. See You In September, The Happenings

4. You Don't Have To Say You Love Me, Dusty Springfield
41. Did You Ever Have To Make Up Your Mind, The Lovin' Spoonful
42. Younger Girl, The Critters
53. Summer In The City, The Lovin' Spoonful
59. Younger Girl, The Hondells