15th & 16th September, 2005
Rod in Concert
Holland, December 2005!
San Sebastian Strings
albums now available on CD! Order
now!
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Photo by Edward McKuen 12 June, 2005.
© 2005 by Stanyan Music Group. All Rights Reserved.
A Thought for Today
Honesty combines the
best of innocence and experience.
SUMMER DREAMS IN SAN FRANCISCO
I was born in Oakland California,
but my first real love was the city across the bay, San Francisco. There was and is
something magical about that city. Something earthquakes and overpopulation, bicycles
versus automobiles, distance and time cannot alter for me. Whenever I go back the
memories, nearly all of them good, crowd my head for attention.
The 'beat days', rapping at The Cellar with Stan Getz' cool sax in front of me and behind
me, when rap meant poetry not rude rhymes for lawyers and accountants to fight about and
this weeks rapper of the moment to kill last weeks over turf. Jose was queen of all he
surveyed at The Black Cat. He surveyed a lot and was a mighty entertainer. So were T.C.
Jones and Ann Dee and Ray Bourbon.
In the fifties you could crawl up the rickety stairs of a fire trap called The Primalon
Ballroom and for five bucks cover listen to the real "Queen", Dinah Washington
as she exhorted a dozen black drag Dinahs, "Honey, this is my show tonight, move
back. Move back, darlin's or your mother will have your wigs for breakfast." They'd
move back, chuckling at being noticed, and out of this big lady in a blue satin sequined
dress and blonde tresses pour the loveliest love and blues songs in the world. The
audience only interrupted to say, "Yes, yes", "Do it Dinah, do that stuff
" or "Oh my!"
Oh, my it was a good time. On succeeding weekends at The Primilon Sister Rosetta Tharp or
Mahalia Jackson would thrill the same crowd. These times there would be rhythmic hand
clapping and shouts of "Sing out sister" and "Tell it like it is.
"Amen!" And again, "Oh My." I was a towhead kid in a sea of beautiful
black joyous people sharing in their wonderful, happy time. I went unnoticed and no
doorman asked for my I. D. They must have known that I was there for the music and the
happy time too.
Charlie Parker, Jimmy Witherspoon, Johnny Hodges, Lionel Hampton and even Cab Calloway
played The Blackhawk on Broadway. You had to get in early there because the place filled
up pretty fast. One night, encouraged by Getz I got up and sang "They Raided The
Joint" with Hamp. I was over the moon and what smattering of applause there was
sounded to me like thunder. I was hooked. Even though poetry and jazz was fun and the
interplay with Stan and his trio was magic in The Cellar, I wanted to be a real
entertainer. Someone who stood in the middle of the stage in front of a combo or a band
and commanded an audience.
Unless it was a weekend, the last A Train back to Oakland left at 2:AM so I had to watch
the time. Or, if I was lucky, and knew that I could crash at some new friends' pad, I'd
stay on until the club closed and go to the parties afterwards. If I was extra lucky I'd
get picked up by someone, it didn't matter much who, and be transported to a world of
closeness for the night. They were always a little older than me and that was good. What
wonderful teachers I had and what a willing pupil I turned out to be. In the mornings, I'd
whistle down the hill toward The Bay & A, always smiling as I went. I knew that I'd be
back another night, there would be more music and more arms. Dreams? Knowledge? I stored
enough to last forever, or until I went in to the army a little later on and learned new
dreams. - RM 9/15/98.
First published September 16, 1998
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ROD McKUEN
CONCERTS
ROD
McKUEN APPEARANCES
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Thursday 15 September
Roy Acuff o
Cannonball Adderley o
Richard Arnell o
Robert Benchley o
Ann Berzinsky o
Agatha Christie o
Jackie Cooper o
James Fenimore Cooper o
Norm Crosby o
Henry Darrow o
Milton Eisenhower o
Louis Frémaux o
Prince Harry o
Tommy Lee Jones o
Dan Marino o
Kathryn Murray o
Jessye Norman o
Merlin Olsen o
Gaylord Perry o
Jean Renoir o
Rin Tin Tin o
François, du de la Rochefoucauld o
Bobby Short o
Oliver Stone o
Penny Singleton o
William H. Taft o
Rin Tin Tin o
Bruno Walter o
Fay Wray
Friday 16 September
Independence Day (Mexico)
Marc Anthony o
Jean Arp o
Lauren Bacall o
Elgin Baylor o
Ed Begley, Jr. o
Sherilyn Bottoms o
Gwen Bristow o
Charlie Byrd o
Rosemary Casals o
George Chakiris o
Matt Chanoff o
David Copperfield o
Peter Falk o
Anne Francis o
Allen Funt o
Piero Gamba o
Jon Hendricks o
Linda Kaye Henning o
Kenny Jones o
B.B. King o
John Knowles o
Mouloudji o
Janis Page o
Korla Pandit o
Harrison Francis Parkman o
Amy Poehler o
Mickey Rourke o
Andy Russell o
Ben Shields o
Jennifer Tilly o
Jerry Wald |
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Life goes on forever. Youth lasts an hour maybe less.
Never stumble the same way twice.
If only we all were capable of taking
seasons in their balance,
we might be moved to change our attitudes as easily as we do our underwear.
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LOWER MONTGOMERY STREET |
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A bulldog
saunters down the white dividing line
no less menacing with tail awag,
he brags about his ugly beauty
every step.
Behind him two boys throw a ball
forth and back, forth and back
reaching up and bending
boy children in a non-atomic catch.
A hill still farther back
comes coasting from a higher hill.
There is no high drive
on this too warm summer / winter day,
only deft, low gear meanderings.
Random motion.
A ball midair, two young men,
slow overhand, slower underhand.
A bulldog at the corner, Churchill.
A tall black lady, fashion’s captive,
is passing, passes, passes on
the smell of mingled blossoms
lingers in her wake.
There is no mistaking costly scent,
like beauty is not approximated.
The boys come closer
with their silver sphere
its oval arch is ever higher.
Above pedestrians it sails a little
until they stretch to bring it down.
A woman passes with an unformed frown,
too many boxes carried in her arms.
And on that same slow coasting hill
a row of pastel houses or facades
sits quiet as premeditation.
A little car is at the corner,
undecided.
South toward the docks,
east to meet Embarcadero,
up the hill again and over? What?
Joggers crisscross in a thought-out pattern.
The heart is stopped
by one young girl not yet aware
of her capacity to still the heart.
And suddenly there is no suddenly
as nothing happens that will make
the broadsheet, evening news.
On and on, continuing
two young men, once boys
when they were further down the block,
send a tired football through the air.
A secret sexercise for those
who only watch and want.
Life moves and moves
without a hint of interruption.
But little dreams and lesser dramas
each different and the same
are acted, played out hourly
on Montgomery Street,
the lower end down near the bay.
Coming back to San Francisco
is not unlike reopening
an envelope unopened -
You know that you will be amazed
and dazzled by its content,
but just how dazzling
the prize inside turns out to be
is still beyond
the credibility of eye and heart.
- from "Suspension Bridge", 1984 |
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