Enjoy this picture of Joaquin Phoenix, the nicest man in Hollywood.
Where the hell have I been lately?
Sorry that I haven't posted anything lately. This is the time of year when we're busiest at work, and since the weather has been so nice lately I've spent most of my free time enjoying the outdoors. Shamefully, I have about four articles in "draft" stage that I can't seem to complete. They sit there in my Blogger page, mocking me. In the meantime, please enjoy this really cool, obscure single by the Modern Folk Quartet from 1966. It's called "This Could Be the Night," and it was written by two of music's all-time greats, Harry Nilsson and Phil Spector. Of course, Harry died of alcoholism in the 1980s, and Phil's in prison for murder, so neither is a great role model. But what a song! Just listen. It's a great example of Spector's patented Wall of Sound. Spector greatly influenced the Beach Boys, and here you can tell that the Beach Boys have started to influence Spector right back. This could practically be an outtake from Pet Sounds. I love the hell out of this.
Making up for his sins at home: Harvey Keitel in Mean Streets (1973)
"You don't make up for your sins in church. You do it in the streets. You do it at home. The rest is bullshit, and you know it."
- Martin Scorsese, Mean Streets
Martin Scorsese himself speaks those words, from off-screen, at the very beginning of Mean Streets, his grungy, heartfelt drama about small-time gangsters in a deeply Catholic Italian-American milieu. I quoted that speech last week during my stay at the behavioral health center while talking to a female patient (not the aforementioned Helen). She said she didn't feel like she could "fix" her problems from inside the hospital, and I told her about those opening words from the Scorsese film because I felt they were appropriate for the occasion. The entire opening sequence of Mean Streets is remarkable, and I want you to see it. Here, take a look:
In his book Ebert's Bigger Little Movie Glossary, critic Roger Ebert cites his own so-called "8MM Omen": "Films that start with old home movies are never about happy lives." And true to form, Mean Streets is not a cheerful, upbeat film. There are moments of humor and humanity in it, but in the larger sense, it is a tragedy. And what music does Scorsese use to set the tone for this downbeat film? "Be My Baby" by the Ronettes, a #2 hit from 1963. The song was co-written and produced by Phil Spector, who created the record along with the songwriting team of Jeff Barry and Ellie Greenwich, while the record's powerful lead vocal is supplied by Ronnie Bennett, who later married and divorced Phil Spector and is more commonly known today as Ronnie Spector. In short, there were a lot of talented people behind this record, but it somehow manages to be even greater than the sum of its parts.
"Be My Baby" is often used in romantic comedies, and Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys has called it one of the happiest records ever made, but I feel that there is a crushing sadness at the core of this song. Let's examine the lyrics of the first verse:
The night we met, I knew I needed you so. And if I had the chance I'd never let you go. So won't you say you love me? I'll make you so proud of me We'll make 'em turn their heads every place we go.
You will note immediately that there is no indication that the man Ronnie is addressing even likes her, let alone loves her. She just met him and suddenly decided that she "needed" him. They're clearly not in a relationship. She wants "the chance" to grab onto him and never release him. She hasn't been given that opportunity yet. "So won't you say you love me?" is a particularly needy inquiry, and "I'll make you so proud of me" is like a child promising her parents that she'll be on her best behavior. "We'll make 'em turn their heads every place we go" indicates that the singer cares what other people think of her and may be using this relationship to get attention from passersby.
The oft-repeated chorus is simplicity itself. It's just variations on "be my baby," "be my little baby," and "be my baby now," with a "please" or a "darling" thrown in now and again. This is as emotionally direct as singing or songwriting gets. The woman is asking, in no uncertain terms, for a man to love her. She's not playing coy or hard to get. She's just letting herself be vulnerable and open to rejection.
There really is only one other verse. The rest of the song consists of repetitions of the chorus. But the lyrics of that second verse are worth examining, too:
I'll make you happy, baby. Just wait and see. For every kiss you give me, I'll give you three. Oh, since the day I saw you, I have been waiting for you. You know I will adore you 'til eternity.
There is more than a hint of desperation here. The woman is promising the man everything. She is granting him the keys to the kingdom, so to speak. This is the kind of thing you might say to a photograph of someone you love when you're alone in your room, but if you actually spoke these words aloud to that person, he or she might think you were mentally disturbed. I think Ronnie is one step away from kidnapping this guy and chaining him up in her basement. Either that, or she'll buy one of those Japanese body pillows and fashion it into a facsimile of her dream man.
It's interesting to note that in another Scorsese film, The King of Comedy, Sandra Bernhard's character does participate in the kidnapping of a talk show host played by Jerry Lewis and uses the opportunity to "seduce" him and serenade him. In all seriousness, "Be My Baby" is a song that hits me hard every time I hear it. And that's why it's probably my favorite recording of all time.
While Zomby and his rodent pal formulate their plans for the evening, let's you and I turn our attention to more inspiring matters.
Craig Breedlove and the Spirit of America, circa 1962.
Craig Breedlove. Could any dime novelist think up a better name for a hero than that? Just the right number of syllables, too. Born in 1937, Breedlove was the courageous (or foolhardy) driver who broke the land speed record on five separate occasions between 1963 and 1965 in a series of vehicles dubbed Spirit of America. These "cars" were really wingless jet planes, and you could really only "drive" them in isolated locations like the Bonneville Salt Flats in Utah. I'm not sure what was the ultimate good of all this. Records like these do not and cannot stand, of course, as technology inevitably improves over time. The current title holder in this ridiculous category is Britain's Andy Green, who achieved a speed of 760 mph back in 1997, while Breedlove never quite cracked 600. A mere century before Green, the land speed record was something like 40 mph, a velocity which most people achieve each day on their way to work.
But back in '63, Breedlove and his earthbound rocket car proved a source of inspiration to one of America's greatest groups, The Beach Boys. Their song "Spirit of America," which Brian Wilson himself cowrote and sang as part of the Little Deuce Coupe LP, is neither about spirits nor about America. It's not really even a patriotic song, though I've occasionally heard it on the radio around the Fourth of July. Instead, it's a gushy, romantic tribute to Breedlove's achievements in velocity on the remote salt flats of Utah. If you spoke no English and heard this song, you would probably guess that Brian Wilson was singing about his love for some suntanned beach bunny. But, no, it's a song about a rocket car.
POSTSCRIPT: This song's strange but potent combination of wistful romanticism and high-octane auto racing makes it a predecessor to one of the Beach Boys' true masterpieces, the gorgeous ballad "Don't Worry Baby" from 1964. Like "Spirit of America," this was cowritten by Brian Wilson and radio personality Roger Christian with Brian again handling the lead vocals. To me, this song is one of the great musical achievements of the Twentieth Century. Hope you enjoy.
