Unchained Melody – Can you spot the bass mistake?

My friend Artie Wayne has put together some Halloween related music videos, two of which I happened to play on. They were “Unchained Melody” and “Hell Of It” by Paul Williams from “Phantom Of The Paradise”. One of the things that always amazed me on the “Unchained Melody” session was the bass mistake. I heard it at the session but in those days there was no “punching in”. It was the best take and that’s how it was released. To this day, every time I hear it, I still cringe a little. Can you find it? Play the below video, leave a comment and take a guess, if no one gets it I’ll leave the answer in a week or so.

The Quest

Much has been made of womens’ lust for shoes. Think Imelda Marcos or Carrie Bradshaw. But it’s not the Manolo Blancos that get me all fired up. It’s bags. Tote bags, shoulder bags, messenger bags, pocketbooks, purses. A bag by any other name would still be — a bag.

Art laughs at me. I have about 15 reusable bags for groceries. And yet, often I still manage to leave them all in the apartment when I drive off to do errands. Is a canvas bag still green, even if it’s hanging on a hook by the door when you check out at Trader Joe’s?

I recently ordered a “ketch purse” from a mail order catalog. I found it among the overstocks on sale for $14.99. Who could resist? A sturdy canvas bag with “lots of pockets”. I sent away for it. Loden green! I was so excited! However, when it arrived it was black. I was sure I had ordered the green. Oh, well. Back it went, and I quickly ordered its replacement in loden green. Finally, it arrived today. I could barely contain myself! Tore open the box, ripped open the plastic bag, pulled out half a ton of tissue paper, and then it hit me. It was perfect except: I couldn’t fit my wallet in it. Or, I could fit my wallet but not my keys. No room, either, for my oversized sunglasses. Definitely no room for a makeup case. I would have to make do with a lip gloss and a miniature tube of bronzer. I tinkered with it for about fifteen minutes, ran back to my closet to see if I had a smaller wallet. And when I looked up at the top shelf, there they sat, my last two “perfect” bags. The organizers to end all organizers. Both of them perfectly good bags, looking sad and abandoned, like two little wallflowers at a dance. I looked in the mirror, and I knew I had gone off the deep end. I carefully restuffed the tissue paper inside my teeny-tiny loden green bag, put it back in the same box it had arrived in, guiltily filled out the “return form” and admitted that I had misjudged the size (reason #31), slapped the return label on it, and resolved to drop it at the post office tomorrow. I pray I will never hear about this incident again. (But I have a sinking feeling that I will the next time I become infatuated with yet another bag).

The thing is, I am always in search of the holy grail of pocketbooks. I can see it in my mind: Just large enough to hold my wallet, my keys, my oversized sunglasses, a small makeup case, a travel size of Kleenex, my date book, a pen, and my cell phone. Nothing more, and nothing less. I would like it to look smart, but not pretentious. I would like for it to have the look of authority, but not pushiness. The sort of bag you could carry to work (even though I work at home), or to a night out on the town (although we mostly stay home and watch Netflix and Tivo). What I want, in short, is a bag that defines me and gives me an identity. You know, the identity I have always strived for and never quite achieved. The kind of bag that could be worn by a Vogue model along with a Chanel suit. Classic. Post-modern chic. (And of course, all for under $25.00).

And so, the quest continues, one bag at a time, always in search of the elusive enigma wrapped in a mystery. Will I ever find it? Perhaps not. Perhaps, as in so many other things, the joy is in the journey, not the destination. I just know, it’s out there somewhere. . . Maybe Macy’s?

Glen Campbell – Some Early Stories

The first time I remember seeing Glen was when I was playing with Dick Dale at a high school prom and Glen was the opening act. All I could think was who was this guy? Amazing singing and guitar playing. This had to be around 1961-62.

The first time I met Glen was at the recording session for “King Of The Surf Guitar”. This was my first recording session with L.A. session players and Dick’s first album on Capitol. From what I understand Capitol and/or the producer wanted to use session players and not the Del Tones (big mistake as why would you want to NOT use the band?). Anyway Dick insisted on having at least one of the Del Tones on the session and I got to be that guy. I was scared to death but young enough not to know better. I get to the session and who am I sitting next to but Glen Campbell! I was never a good reader and at that time didn’t know much about “charts” but of course the first thing everyone gets is a chart. I said to Glen “but I don’t read music”. Glen said not to worry he really didn’t either and they would run it down a few times and by then you would know it. Of course that’s exactly what happened and I was thankful to Glen for calming me down!

I think the next time I ran into him was on the Righteous Brothers session for “Try To Find Another Man”. I wasn’t on the session but went to listen and sure enough Glen was playing that cool, low guitar part. I asked Glen about that guitar of his as it had such a great sound and he told me he had bought it in a pawn shop in Tijuana, Mexico.

Throughout the years I would continue to run into Glen. At one point he was opening for the Righteous Brothers. I would stand backstage every night watching him and listening to his many, very, “hot licks”. I would also pester him to show me something he had just played and he was always kind enough to do so.

The first picture to the left is of Glen and Drew Johnson (drummer for the Righteous Brothers). This was on a tour through the south. The second picture is of Mike Patterson (piano player and road manager) and Glen on the same tour in Corpus Christi TX.

Another time we were out on the road with the Brothers and ran into Glen playing bass for the Beach Boys!

One of my favorite stories about Glen is that he and I were sitting at the bar in the Red Velvet, a hot spot on Sunset Blvd (This was probably around 1963). We were commiserating about the music business and all the ups and downs. I asked Glen how he was doing and he proceeded to tell me that things were not that great and he was thinking about moving back to Arkansas!

And the rest, they say, is history.

Searching For a Miracle

A few days ago, our neighbor generously shared a magazine with us which I have never seen before. I don’t remember the name, but you know — it’s one of those magazines about spirituality, unity and healing with lots of ads for Whole Foods and organic cotton yoga wear — well, you get the picture.

So here I am, the ideal target demographic: mid-fifties, college-educated, devoutly liberal or progressive – I forget which term is in right now — vegetarian, “airie-fairie” kind of a gal. I remember the 60s with a little bit of nostalgia and a little bit of a shudder. You could guess how I have voted since 1968, and you would be right (I would be left!).

So. I’m leafing through this magazine rather mindlessly, and I stumble across the gleaming countenance of a beautiful woman looking to be, perhaps, Indian, and perhaps of a certain age. She is radiant, dressed in a sari. Below her picture is her “bio”, which describes her as a “Divine Spiritual Luminary”and a “Great Mystic”. I have the same feeling I have whenever I see a picture of the Pope, Queen Elizabeth, or for that matter, Mick Jagger. I mean, I know these people are extraordinary. I know they each possess a unique insight informed by a unique vantage point on the world. And each of them holds a mystique, an aura of power that transcends the mundane. They are icons, and as such, they command a certain respect.

But at some point, I’m sorry to say, a little voice in my head says, “Is it real, or is it just pretend?”. And if it *is* pretend, is that such a bad thing? Or, is it as real as I allow it to be? Or should I be offended by pretense that basically, sells us snake oil? Or. What if it’s not snake oil? Is the believing itself the real magic?

You see, I am very, very confused. Part of me wants so badly to believe it all. I want to just swallow the Divine Light whole and let it illuminate my very being, curing me of everything from cancer to cataracts, from indigestion to indiscretion, from ignorance to inertia. (Okay, I’ll stop now). I think there is a secret, and that once I *divine* this secret, all will be well.

But then I say to myself: There is no secret. There is only the truth that is staring me in the face. There is only this moment where I am sitting in front of my computer, confessing my self-doubt before an imaginary audience (which, by the way, seems to be my calling in life, whether I am writing a song, composing a letter, or sobbing in front of a therapist. All one and the same. Me, confessing). There is only here an now. And isn’t that miracle enough?

Namaste.

Crimes Of Passion

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Abusive relationships, sadly, exist everywhere. Love can turn into something very different given the toxic recipe of passion, insecurity, and rage. The victim in this song fights back in the only way she can, with her words, and ultimately, by walking away. Although the subject matter itself may not be uplifting, the courage to speak out from the heart is always liberating, both to the victim and to the listener. I hope that this song may be encouraging to someone who can relate to this woman’s plight.
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