Seriously. Just don’t:
Some of those postwar shoe styles might be au courant even today.
Miller-Smith Hosiery Mills was located in Chattanooga, and they last renewed the Fine Feathers trademark in 1969; it has since fallen into desuetude.
Seriously. Just don’t:
Some of those postwar shoe styles might be au courant even today.
Miller-Smith Hosiery Mills was located in Chattanooga, and they last renewed the Fine Feathers trademark in 1969; it has since fallen into desuetude.
I admit to having shopped at this place a time or two, twenty-some-odd years ago:
At least the keyboard looked substantial.
(From the collection of Rob O’Hara.)
A mere 89 years ago:
The Mississippi River, south of Memphis, grew to more than sixty miles wide.
(Via American Digest.)
A hint at what radio used to be:
You’d think an original three-letter call from the 1920s would be worth preserving, but apparently not: starting in 1984, KWK went through a dizzying variety of call letters, ending in 2015 as KXFN. Before it was KWK, it was KFVE, and over the years they moved from 1280 to 1350 to 1380. For a while, there was also an FM, at 106.5. This made for some interesting situations:
Since the AM and FM stations were licensed in different cities, KWK was only allowed to simulcast on both frequencies for a portion of the day. John Hutchinson remembered “when the AM and FM broadcasts were split, the FM jock would play the playlist from the top of the page down and the AM jock would play tunes from the bottom of the page up. When the time came to simulcast we would pick a tune over the intercom and try to begin the tunes at the same time so that we could flip the ‘simulcast’ switch and purportedly no one would detect the merge. Of course this did not always happen smoothly … causing much hilarity amongst the air staff.”
The station has been silent since last December. The Mutual Broadcasting System was killed by Westwood One in 1999; the “Muny,” still in Forest Park, continues.
This story might have been interesting even if it didn’t involve Canadian garage rock:
A Grand Forks, B.C. man is living his rock and roll dream after a half-century on the shelf.
Danny Norton fronted a psychedelic rock band in the 1960’s in Winnipeg. He recorded a minor hit called Expedition to Earth, that small-towners grooved to back in the day.
That single was the end of his dream. The album was never cut.
But clearly the single was never entirely forgotten:
Norton’s wife went hunting on eBay for the vinyl and found out it had turned to gold.
The orange-labelled disc fetched $900 from collectors.
Another copy appeared three months later. Bidding for that ended at $1137.
Because obscurity, here are both sides of Franklin QC 618: “Expedition to Earth” b/w “Time Time Time,” by Danny Norton’s Expedition to Earth.
Norton’s now working on an album.
(With thanks to Roger Green.)
This sort of broke me up: the opening and closing of The Howdy Doody Show episode #2343, the very last episode, aired Saturday, 24 September 1960.
The following week, Howdy was replaced by The Shari Lewis Show, which ran for three seasons.
Bitter irony: Buffalo Bob Smith died the last week of July 1998. Shari Lewis died the first week of August 1998.
(Via Daily Pundit.)
This has been floating around Facebook with the question “Do you remember when gas prices were this low?”
If you’re immediately thinking “1950s,” you’re just a little too early. This sign can’t be from any earlier than 1961, when Gulf decided to drop its super-premium Gulfcrest (from a purple pump!) and replace it with the sub-regular Gulftane.
Why would they do a thing like that? Presumably to compete with the cheap gas from that questionable-looking station on the wrong side of the tracks.
Thumbs up to this moderately-newfangled chip-repair service for automotive windshields. As World Tour fans will recall, I caught a meteorite or something while passing between the Carolinas on I-95. A Charleston glass shop balked at repairing the hole, saying that it was too close to the line of sight; South Carolina law is apparently fairly finicky about repairable and non-repairable zones. I balked at replacing the windshield, reasoning that I had a couple thousand miles to go, and what’s to prevent me from catching another freaking projectile? There were no further falling rocks, and I resolved to ignore the little dent — until today, when I watched a repair job being performed on a coworker’s vehicle, and I was sufficiently impressed to ask the young lady doing the deed if she could make time for my car next. She could, and all that remains is a faint semicircle surrounding a tiny zit, low enough on the glass that I actually have to look for it to see it. A shorter driver might not be so lucky, but while I’ve lost an inch or two off my waist, I’m not likely to lose that much off my height, so that’s not my problem.
Thumbs down to whatever demons are automagically summoned when you have to install a HP DeskJet on an IBM ThinkPad, especially if it’s going to be running through a USB port. (No, it’s not a Windows 95 box, but thanks for asking.) I am sorely tempted to blow off this USB stuff and make the end user deal with a parallel port, the way God (or at least Centronics) intended.
I mention that because of this:
It’s kind of weird to think that the Web’s been around for just 25 years, and InstaPundit has been around for 15 of them.
And I’m glad for that, even as I muse that I’ve been around for 20 (and a fraction) of those years.
When I lived in Corpus Christi, circa 1960, there were two supermarkets nearby: a Handy Andy and a Jitney Jungle. No sign of Andy lately, but Jitney Jungle made it to Wikipedia, and with it, an explanation of the name:
The naming process began during a Sunday dinner at the home of Judge V. J. Stricker, a close friend of the [founding] families. The “Jitney” in the title was a popular name for the cut-rate five-cent taxis of that day, many of which were operated by returning veterans. It would be jitneys that would carry many of the cash customers to the store and back. Jitney was also a slang term for a nickel. That fitted in with the “nickel on a quarter” that the customer would save by patronizing the self-service store. Also, a popular expression of that time had to do with “jingling your jitneys in your pockets.” Thus, Judge Stricker ventured the name Jitney-Jingle. There is a legend that “Jingle” got to be “Jungle” by virtue of a printer’s error in the first advertisement. Rather it was a play on words by Mr. Will McCarty. Every Jitney would be a jungle of bargains that could save the customer a “jitney” on a quarter.”
I have no idea what’s in that space on South Staples Street today.
Note: The following originally appeared in Vent #14, from this week in 1996.
According to the packet of information dispatched to me by the Reform Party, about half the Democrats (about 15 percent of the electorate) and about half the Republicans (about 15 percent of the electorate) would prefer a third party if one existed. Of course, there have been third parties since the days of powdered Whigs; the Perot crowd believes that in 1996 a third party could actually elect a President.
Well, it could happen. Ross Perot himself, despite the swiftest descent into self-parody since Joe Piscopo, drew nearly one-fifth of the popular vote in 1992 against two fairly blah major-party candidates. This year, “fairly blah” is far too kind for either Bill Clinton or Bob Dole; you’d almost think the party faithful had decided that going through the motions wasn’t worth it anymore, and that we might as well replace Executive, Legislative and Judiciary with Time Warner, Philip Morris and Wal-Mart and get it over with.
From the vantage point of today, that might have been an improvement.
That which is Pony inspires us all, from whatever corner of the world as we know it.
The musician known to us as MelodicPony, who crafted this lovely bit of orchestration in 2013, has died, the victim of a stroke. He was twenty-seven.
Dale Ahlquist, President of the American Chesterton Society, in an historical piece for the Society’s Gilbert Magazine, May-June 2016:
It is commonly thought that [G. K.] Chesterton was fired from the Daily News for raising his voice against the Liberal Party, but the fact is he quit, and his leaving the Daily News was itself news. But even before he quit, we can see a change in tone during the last months of his tenure there, especially when he devotes one of this columns to an open letter to the Liberal Party. In it, he confesses that for the first time since he started writing for the paper, he is not enjoying himself. He admits that he has been a Liberal “since shortly before I was born” because the party represented freedom and democracy. He could see, however, that it was clearly acting in the direct opposite of those ideals. Before the straw that breaks the camel’s back, there is a penultimate straw that does severe spinal damage. For Chesterton it is the compulsory Insurance Act , and the fact that the paper calls someone who opposes the act an “anarchist.” Chesterton has already spoken out against the problems posed by compulsory health insurance: the rise in the power of the medical establishment joined at the hip with government, the looming threat of eugenics and, with it, infanticide, the messing with marriage, the manipulation of the working class, and above all, the helplessness of the citizen to do anything about it: “The broad, brutal fact about the capitalist State in which we live is in two parts: First, that we are all servants; second, that we know less and less whom we are serving.” And: “It used to be the weak things that hid themselves, now it is the strong things that hide.”
Historical notes: Chesterton’s last piece for the Daily News was in February 1913. The paper itself was merged into the News Chronicle in 1930, which in turn was absorbed by the Daily Mail in 1960.
Britain’s Liberal Party and Social Democratic Party merged in 1988 to form the current Liberal Democratic Party; a new Liberal Party rose the next year, but holds no seats in Parliament at this time.
The National Insurance Act, never really as “national” as it was billed to be, was eventually repealed; however, many of its ideas would rematerialize with the founding of the National Health Service in 1948.
Note: The following originally appeared in Vent #10, from this week in 1996.
Occasional Baptist counterexamples notwithstanding, the true religion of Oklahoma is football, which explains why two of the state’s Representatives (out of six) are former college football players who have little else to recommend them. The First District’s Steve Largent, recently stroked by America’s leading political magazine — People Weekly — is owned and operated by the Pat Robertson crowd, and this always plays well in Tulsa, which is, after all, Oral Roberts’ home base. Largent, therefore, will probably survive this fall. More troublesome for the GOP is Julius Caesar Watts, installed in the Fourth District seat after spending a couple of years on the Corporation Commission shilling for utility companies. In the House, he rails against all government programs except the one that enabled him to buy a distressed Midwest City apartment complex dirt-cheap. And remember all that yammering about how Congress shouldn’t exempt itself from the laws it inflicts on the public sector? Our friend J. C. has managed to exempt a mere 94 percent of his staff from the Fair Labor Standards Act. (Steve Largent, by comparison, has fully a third of his staff covered, which by this state’s standards borders on commendable. The Tulsa World covered all this during the spring, if anyone is curious.) Word is now out that Watts turned a profit on his investment with Hillary-like speed, which automatically arouses suspicion around Dustbury, and this could well cost him his seat come November.
As it happens, neither Largent nor Watts had anything to worry about in the ’96 election, or the next two. Largent gave up his seat in 2002 to run for Governor, but was beaten by Brad Henry. Watts left in 2002 to sort of return to the private sector; he’s now CEO of the no-longer-scandal-ridden charity Feed the Children.
Muhammad Ali, we remember, had a decidedly activist side:
“I will not disgrace my religion, my people or myself by becoming a tool to enslave those who are fighting for their own justice, freedom and equality. If I thought the war was going to bring freedom and equality to 22 million of my people they wouldn’t have to draft me, I’d join tomorrow. I have nothing to lose by standing up for my beliefs. So I’ll go to jail, so what? We’ve been in jail for 400 years.”
Some found this disquieting. But Ali was working with ideas, not with buzzwords: no matter what he said, kidding around or deadly serious, he was never just going through the motions. And even when he told you he was The Greatest, he knew, and would willingly acknowledge, that there was Someone Even Greater.
A little bit of bombast, a whole lot of humble:
He wasn’t perfect, of course. For all his magic in the ring, he could be careless with his words, and full of contradictions as his faith evolved. But his wonderful, infectious, even innocent spirit ultimately won him more fans than foes — maybe because in him, we hoped to see something of ourselves. Later, as his physical powers ebbed, he became an even more powerful force for peace and reconciliation around the world. We saw a man who said he was so mean he’d make medicine sick reveal a soft spot, visiting children with illness and disability around the world, telling them they, too, could become the greatest. We watched a hero light a torch, and fight his greatest fight of all on the world stage once again; a battle against the disease that ravaged his body, but couldn’t take the spark from his eyes.
That spark lives on, even as the man who brought it travels to a higher plane.
Actually, this is a current page, but it was seriously pertinent to me back in the 1960s:
Bishop England High School has been providing a Catholic, college preparatory education to thousands of young men and women of varied backgrounds since it was founded in 1915. Students graduating from Bishop England make a mark on their world through leadership, achievement, and service — skills learned as part of the Bishop England experience. BE’s ability to prepare young men and women into adults who are critical thinkers, who understand the importance of human dignity and empathy, who respect themselves and others, and who live their faith through action, depends on the support of many — teachers, religious leaders, alumni, friends and family — giving their time, talents and resources.
Gifts to Bishop England, large or small, help ensure that the tradition of a Bishop education can remain strong and that qualified students are able to pursue a secondary school education here regardless of their ethnic, religious or socio-economic backgrounds. As you contemplate your personal support of BEHS, please know that every gift is important and every gift makes a difference in the lives of our students.
I remember how we scraped for tuition when I was enrolled. Having looked at the current rates, I don’t know how anyone scrapes for them: a year now costs about as much as two years of regional state universities where I live now, and that’s before the tuition hikes go in to cover for the 15.9-percent funding cut they’re getting this year.
So yeah, I sent a few bucks to the old high school. It isn’t the first time.
Jack Benny, signing off his radio show on 30 May 1943:
Today Valley Forge and Bull Run and Gettysburg and Château Thierry come marching out of the past and we see them clearly again … because marching at their side are the men of Bataan and Pearl Harbor and Corregidor and Wake.
Someday time will erase the pain of the memory of Bataan and Pearl Harbor as it once erased the pain of Verdun. But tonight the gold stars are too new and bright, the wounds in our hearts too fresh and the pain too sharp to forget. And thus Memorial Day becomes more than a roll call of our honored dead and a roll call more of the living. And the living must step forth and answer and they must say … “all these men from 1776 to 1943 — they died for me. So let me work and let me buy the bonds, and let me — with the helping hand of God — make the sacrifice that tells the soul of each one of these men, “You did not die in vain.”
(Complete episode via transcription here.)
Except for the minor detail that actually, we don’t:
I was one of the fools who believed in W’s grand “nation building” project in the Middle East. I know more history than the average guy, and yet I was fooled, too — such is the power of wishcasting.
In reality, representative government is an Anglo-Saxon thing. And given the problems we have with it — our current election is between a criminal narcissist and a narcissist criminal — it’s no surprise that cultures with no tradition other than the despotic can’t get the hang of it in just a few years, despite the best efforts of National Review and the Peace and/or Marine Corps.
This is not, you should note, some kind of ethnic thing:
[N]one of this should be taken for an argument that only white people can do democracy — as if the ability to mark a ballot is somehow genetic. Again, see Presidential Election 2016, or any of the literally Caucasian countries surrounding the former USSR. The point is that representative democracy is the result of a long, long, long history, a unique combination of circumstances stretching back to the Greek polis (and, again, if you want to maintain that white folks have a “government” gene, imagine what would happen if you time-warped Demosthenes into modern America and told him that this is representative government. The poor dude would stroke out). Other cultures simply don’t have that history, and even the best-intentioned attempts to impose a facsimile from above give you — at best — India. Which bills itself as “the world’s largest democracy,” and it is … sort of, if you add a list of qualifiers about the size of the Chicago phone book.
Still, if India is the best-case scenario, and you can make a case that it is — well, you don’t want to think too hard about the worst-case scenario.
Pretty much everyone is agreed that slavery is a heinous thing, and we’re all better off without it. (I’d just as soon not hear from anyone who thinks we’re not better off without slavery, thank you very much.)
Then again, none of us actually lived in those days, so it’s all kind of theoretical to us — until we stumble upon something like this:
Typography aside, this could be an auto-dealer ad today, except for the lack of rebates.
[P]osters like this were as common as dirt. They should be in history books in school — not college. School. One month of black history.
It doesn’t even have to be in February.
Side note: Lewis County, Kentucky is just south of the Ohio River. It’s 98 percent white; over 40 percent of county income is government benefits of one sort or another.
(Poster from the Facebook page Black Knowledge.)
After Switched-On Bach, the deluge: all manner of music was processed through the magical Moog and its rival devices. Perhaps the biggest hit was a Debussy collection called Snowflakes Are Dancing, on which Isao Tomita spent fourteen months trying to do polyphonics on a machine that did one note at a time. Wendy Carlos faced the same issue on her early Moog work, but she was doing mostly Bach, nicely mathematical and discrete. Debussy, a “tone painter,” would prove tricker, but not at all impossible:
The only off-note is the title of the collection, a slightly warped translation of Debussy’s original La neige danse. I played the very dickens out of this disc, and it still comes out a couple times a year to remind me.
Unfortunately, this came down the stream yesterday:
Tomita died May 5, '16. An electronic music pioneer in the world of sine, sawtooth, square waves & control voltages. pic.twitter.com/iBeKaPIVuN
— Van Dyke Parks (@thevandykeparks) May 9, 2016
Tomita was 84. And before he was through, he did some Bach of his own:
The numbers still add up.
Roger happened to mention “Who Put the Benzedrine in Mrs Murphy’s Ovaltine?” this week, which is a great song because (1) it’s funny as hell while being utterly unrespectable in 1940s culture and (2) it sold several thousand more copies in 1975 as part of a Dr. Demento compilation album. This suggested that maybe it’s time to look at Harry the Hipster Gibson himself, born Harry Raab in the Bronx in 1915:
Yes, folks, that’s a Fellow of the Juilliard School, and the graduate school at that.
The Hipster continued to make records until 1989, like this jaunty little tune about Shirley MacLaine; tormented by congestive heart failure in 1991, he got his revenge on the failing organ by shooting it and thus himself.
First, the instrumental version:
Part of the New York state of mind, even though it originated outside the Tri-State Area:
An annual herald of summer for more than half a century, it is exquisitely Pavlovian, triggering salivation or shrieking — sometimes both at once. It is the textbook embodiment of an earworm: once heard, never forgotten.
It is the Mister Softee jingle, which for generations has sprung from ice cream trucks throughout the metropolitan area and beyond after first springing from the mind of Les Waas, a Philadelphia adman who died on April 19 at 94.
There are words [pdf]. I already knew this, though, and I am quite familiar with the power of a good jingle. About eleven years ago, rock-and-roll writer Dawn Eden — now Dr. Dawn Eden Goldstein, theologian — was here in the Okay City, and she regaled a bunch of us locals with, yes, the Mister Softee jingle. Let the record show that we defended ourselves with a spirited rendition of the B. C. Clark jingle, which is actually four years older: 1956 versus 1960.
In the early 1960s Lonnie McIntosh, having foreshortened his last name to “Mack,” was getting regular studio work with the smallish Fraternity label in Cincinnati, and one day — specifically, 12 March 1963 — he and the group killed a few leftover minutes of studio time with some guitar vamping on the theme of Chuck Berry’s “Memphis, Tennessee.” He didn’t think any more about it, as he was scheduled to be part of a Troy Seals tour. And while he was out on the road, someone at Fraternity got the idea of issuing Mack’s impromptu recording on an actual 45. It promptly rose to the Top Five on both pop and R&B charts, and Mack had no idea it was even out as a single.
No fool, Mack got home and laid down enough tracks for an album, including a single called “Wham!” with the exclamation point. What no one was expecting was that Mack could also sing, although Fraternity wasn’t at all keen on one of their stars diversifying. “Why,” from that first album, didn’t come out as a single for five years, and as a B-side at that. Then again, it might have been just a hair too fierce for an A-side:
And since we haven’t heard “Wham!” yet, here it is live, with another pretty amazing guitarist: Stevie Ray Vaughan.
I’m guessing you might have heard more about Mack’s death (at 74) had it not happened on the same day as Prince’s.
In late 1977, Prince spent some astonishing percentage of his original advance from Warner Bros. — possibly over 100 percent — on studio time at the Record Plant, sessions which yielded up nine tracks for an album, prosaically titled For You. (No, not 4 U. Too early for that.) He might have ponied up for a few instruments, but he didn’t overspend on studio musicians, as the Personnel list on this album is dazzlingly simple:
Prince — all vocals, electric guitar, acoustic guitar, Orr bass, bass synth, singing bass, Fuzz bass, Fender Rhodes electric piano, acoustic piano, Mini-Moog, Poly-Moog, Arp String Ensemble, Arp Pro Soloist, Oberheim 4-voice, clavinet, drums, syndrums, water drums, slapsticks, bongos, congas, finger cymbals, wind chimes, orchestral bells, woodblocks, brush trap, tree bell, hand claps, finger snaps.
That’s it. If nothing else, you could assume that Prince, then nineteen, knew exactly what he wanted. But then, Prince always knew exactly what he wanted, and he wasn’t above hectoring the record company to get it.
Perhaps by 2009 he was feeling the strain. He told Tavis Smiley:
It’s a hurtful place, the world, in and of itself. We don’t need to add to it. And we’re in a place now where we all need one another, and it’s going to get rougher.
“In this life,” he’d said in “Let’s Go Crazy,” the opening track to Purple Rain, “you’re on your own.”
— Brandon Wall (@Walldo) April 21, 2016
While we mourn, we know the afterworld will be cheering his arrival for the next few eternities.
This clipping was going around the Jack Benny Fan Club Facebook page this past weekend:
It surely is a measure of something that Mr. Anderson, who had started playing Rochester on the Jack Benny program only two years before, was so totally identified with that role, despite having appeared in at least two dozen films by 1939. (Then again, he was uncredited in most of them.)
And if “Negro comic” doesn’t make your eyes roll, consider the term “sepians.”
Many years later, “Rochester” was apparently still widely believed to be a real person:
Among the most highly paid performers of his time, Anderson invested wisely and became extremely wealthy. Until the 1950s, Anderson was the highest paid African-American actor, receiving an annual salary of $100,000. In 1962, Anderson was on Ebony magazine’s list of the 100 wealthiest African-Americans. Despite this, he was so strongly identified with the “Rochester” role that many listeners of the radio program mistakenly persisted in the belief that he was Benny’s actual valet. One such listener drove Benny to distraction when he sent him a scolding letter concerning Rochester’s alleged pay, and then sent another letter to Anderson, which urged him to sue Benny. In reality, Anderson did well enough to have his own valet.
Jack Benny, for what it’s worth, was never a cheapskate; that was just part of the character he played.
A cousin of mine unearthed this clip after hearing about the passing of Merle Haggard. For a guy who worked awfully hard at developing his own sound, he was really good at duplicating other people’s:
More recently, “here’s one for all the ex-convicts in the house”:
Besides, he never got closer to Muskogee, Oklahoma than, oh, 19 miles or so, at least not until much, much later.
Okay, 2016. You can stop taking people away now.
Addendum: Here’s a typically thoughtful sendoff by Lisa.
I was never that fascinated by The Patty Duke Show, partly because I couldn’t comprehend the genetics of “identical cousins.” (This business got particularly weird in season two, when there was an episode involving a third Lane clone.) Fortunately, I adored her singing; her voice wasn’t much more than serviceable, but the producer (studio pro Jack Gold, who’d been doing this sort of thing for two decades) knew how to get the maximum out of it.
From the liner notes of the Don’t Just Stand There LP:
[J]ust like everything she touches, it is pure gold. It is certain to find a huge throng of eager fans waiting to purchase it and catapault [sic] it quickly high on the nation’s best-seller lists. In addition to the title tune, it contains a wonderful selection of the great songs of the day — all eminently youthful and all hand-picked for our star of stars.
This is not the first time I’ve read a liner apparently written by someone who hadn’t heard the record. (And track four is a cover of “Danke Schoen,” which wasn’t “youthful” when Wayne Newton put it out two years before.)
“Don’t Just Stand There” topped out at a respectable #8. (I’ve written about this track before.) To promote it, she appeared on Shindig; to my surprise, she did it live.
Patty Duke indisputably achieved Far Greater Things in her life. But this is what I remember best.
Now that I think about it, it was definitely scary for Greg Lake to come up with these lines:
A bullet had found him
His blood ran as he cried
No money could save him
So he lay down and he died
Especially, you know, when he was twelve.
I doff my hat to Keith Emerson, unfortunately not saved at the tender age of seventy-one.
No visuals here, just the cover art. This is track two from Jimmy Webb’s El Mirage album, turned loose on the world in 1977. Just in case someone asks “What’s your favorite George Martin production, other than Beatles material?” — and someone will — this is it. (It’s also his arrangement.)
(Meme swiped from Tape Op Magazine.)
In 1988, Dell had only just retired the PC’s Limited name, and this was a bid they put in on a complete 80286-based system:
— Lesley Carhart (@hacks4pancakes) October 21, 2014
Seven hundred American dollars for a 40-meg hard drive! Then again, this was quite a deal, considering what was on offer not that long before.
Now, which was worse? Windows 2.0, or MS-DOS 4? (I suspect the answer is Yes.)
Maurice White, the founder and leader of Earth, Wind & Fire, has died at home in Los Angeles, said his brother Verdine White. He was 74.
A former session drummer, White founded Earth, Wind & Fire in the late 1960s. The group went on to sell more than 90 million albums worldwide, displaying a flashy and eclectic musical style that incorporated his influences from growing up in Memphis, Tennessee, and working at the influential Chicago music labels Chess and Okeh.
EWF was practically everywhere in the 1970s: you couldn’t avoid them if you wanted to, and why in the world would you have wanted to? I got tuned in circa 1973, with the Head to the Sky album, which still delights me today.
But White went back farther than that. From his days as a studio musician, we have here the supersized version of George Gershwin’s “Summertime” as trilled by the late Billy Stewart, and on the kit off to the right, Maurice White playing like the greatest drummer ever to work out of Chicago.
Head to the Sky led off with a lovely little number called “Evil,” which was in fact a reworking of “Bad Tune,” off EWF’s very first (and eponymous!) album in 1971, the sort of thing that might make you think that this was where Sly might have gone if he could have kept his head together.
Said Verdine of his brother:
“While the world has lost another great musician and legend, our family asks that our privacy is respected as we start what will be a very difficult and life changing transition in our lives. Thank you for your prayers and well wishes.”
Amen to that.