As “Play It All Night Long” begins, the music is all gloom and dread. An image of Robert Mitchum chasing down those kids in Night of the Hunter comes to mind. The scenes described in this song are not comforting either. A surly grandfather who cannot control his bladder; a violent brother crazed by his experiences in Vietnam. Grandma has cancer. The cattle have brucellosis, There’s drunkenness, incest and a general disregard for life. The family put forward by Warren Zevon makes the Joads seem like the Waltons. But as Zevon begins to sing of the sad, chaotic lives, the beat picks up. The music is tailor-made for a square dance, Southern Gothic style.

The song has a rousing chorus: “Sweet Home Alabama, play that dead band’s song. Turn those speakers up full blast. Play it all night long.” It’s easy to visualize Zevon leading several rounds of the chorus with the guys at the Dew Drop Inn. It sounds like fun. However, one may not wish to linger too late at that watering hole.

According to a Rolling Stone review , “Play It All Night Long” was intended in part as a tribute to Lynyrd Skynyrd. Included on 1980′s Bad Luck Streak in Dancing School, Zevon’s fourth album, “Play It All Night Long” was not your typical tribute. The song’s description of country living, “sweat, piss, jizz and blood” was different from life in Alabama where the skies are so blue. But Zevon’s logic and sense of humor were delightfully twisted, allowing him to mix more than a dash of reality in his presentation.

Zevon’s perspective on country living wasn’t the same as Jesse Colin Young’s. Born in Chicago and having lived most his life in California, Zevon may have learned a lot about the Deep South from other Mitchum films such as Thunder Road and Cape Fear. A lot of tough living can be easily visualized or experienced. Encountering willful ignorance in out-of-the-way places isn’t all that rare, even more than 30 years after Zevon wrote “Play It All Night Long,” as Tracy Thompson learned in her reporting. And sometimes, what’s observed makes one careful not to share opinions.

We’ve Let The Demons Loose… In Northeast Georgia, away from the sprawl of the Atlanta area, there’s a cozy cabin serving as a restaurant and bar. It’s slightly more upscale than Zevon’s Dew Drop Inn. Emanating from the cabin often is the smell of barbeque. One day about ten years ago, I drove by the place but quickly turned around. It was time for a chopped pork sandwich. I’m out of my car with a copy of James M. McPherson’s great volume on the Civil War and Reconstruction, Battle Cry of Freedom, thinking I’d read it while drinking a beer. Upon walking inside, there’s a big Confederate battle flag hoisted on the wall, along with unflattering remarks about Georgia Governor Roy Barnes on bumper stickers and signs. Barnes’ great crime was fashioning a new state flag with less prominence for the Confederate battle emblem (St. Andrew’s cross). I headed back to the car to swap out books, grabbing one on baseball to peruse instead. It hardly seemed wise to invite a conversation about Harper’s Ferry or Gettysburg when all I wanted was a beer and a sandwich. After a great expanse of adulthood, one finally learns the proper subjects to discuss with certain folks. These people, fitting the Flannery O’Connor description as being more Christ-haunted than Christ-centered, may believe in Bible-reading and prayer in schools, but cross them and you’ll be praying harder than ever.

Thompson, recalling the 1962 Supreme Court edict prohibiting compulsory prayer and Bible reading in public schools, notes how the schools in her suburb, south of Atlanta, were determined to ignore the highest court in the land. Even into the early 70s, Thompson’s public high school would set aside time for Christian pep rallies “in which a local youth minister invited people down front to give their lives to Jesus.” In another southside suburb, not far east of Thompson’s home town, I attended public schools that exhibited similar defiance. Programs for all students* in the gym during school hours were held which featured Christian comedians and semi-celebrities (one was a former member of Paul Revere and the Raiders – one of that band’s two dozen former members, that is). Since most middle-schoolers were just happy to get out of class, there was little said between students about the church-state thing. Besides, many of us had gone through elementary school classes where Bible verses were read and the Lord’s Prayer was said, in unison, by all the students. It was part of the daily drill leading up to multiplication tables and past-participles. One teacher continued, Earl Warren be damned, to take 15-20 minutes reading stories from the Bible everyday. Give old Mrs. Bledsoe her due: she was good at it. Those Old Testament stories with floods, lust-inspired murder, a disobedient wife turned into a pillar of salt and other dramatic events were vividly presented.

After Appomattox… On The Losing Side… Warren Zevon could spin some tales himself. On his first album for Asylum Records, he sings of a woman who couldn’t be persuaded. She was determined to “marry that gambling man.” Zevon’s “Mama” paid no mind to her parents as they warned of the troubles ahead. No words, though, even when lovingly offered, could change her mind. The same goes for Mrs. Bledsoe’s stridency about class devotionals and the die-hard Southerners who believe the Confederacy has gotten a raw deal from historians. Such people can’t be persuaded to see things differently because of how fiercely they believe — and their belief that others should see things their way. Mrs Bledsoe believed she was serving God, not nine men in black robes. The die-hard fans of Davis, Lee, Jackson, et al have swallowed gallons of Confederate Kool-aid, holding fast to their contrived beliefs. The world passes them and Mrs. Bledsoe by, but those of us here persevering in the world as it is, see our home turf set back. We have the holier-than-thou who post Ten Commandments signs in their yards (inside their homes must be some really perfect people) along with spiteful reactionaries possessing enough clout to help vote a good Governor out of office. Tracy Thompson, in her journeys through familiar territory finds and reports on situations similar to these, all sad and confounding. Yet she does find rays of hope in a still-evolving South. Perhaps, nearly 150 years after Lee’s surrender, even those in the Dew Drop Inns will accept the war’s outcome.

Quite often we’re disappointed — or just put out — with the places we’ve called home. A lot of my kinfolk were born and raised in Northeast Georgia. I still go up there frequently to enjoy the natural beauty and push the mower through a mile or two of grass. From the ’70s into the early part of this century, it seemed things were getting better there and throughout the state. Old racist beliefs and reactionary politics were being set aside. Citizens seeking moderate and progressive government could point with pride to leaders like Jimmy Carter, Andrew Young, Wyche Fowler, Max Cleland, and for a time, even Zell Miller. Georgia-born Martin Luther King, Jr, though gone from us for more than four decades, became a lasting symbol for the state, unlike Lester Maddox, once Georgia’s governor and, despite his popularity with the bigots, a pathetic embarrassment. That silly little man, waving his pistol and ax handles to keep black people from coming into his Atlanta restaurant. In the mid 60s, he had his day, beating the drum for segregation, but Georgians, tired of the clamor, left him and his reactionary politics behind. Or at least they did in ’74, when they denied Maddox another term as governor. But how lasting was this positive change? Here in the 21st Century, the state has slipped back to reactionary ways. There seems to be more representation for those living far from the population centers than for those where the state’s larger economic concerns are tended to.The moderates and progressives shake their heads and hope for change in the next election cycle or maybe the one after that. A leading candidate for a U.S Senate seat, Paul Broun, now representing a portion of Northeast Georgia, claimed two years ago that FDR had sent advisers to the U.S.S.R. in order to study socialism with Josef Stalin. Private sessions with Uncle Joe. Of course, even as that claim and others by Broun were disproved and laughed off, he won reelection (with no real opposition) to his seat in the House of Representatives. Broun (rhymes with clown) also believes that the “only Constitution that Barack Obama upholds is the Soviet Constitution.” When people keep sending a guy like that to Washington, it’s a glaring sign of insecurity. They’re as desperate as Zevon’s man, hiding in Honduras. No rays of hope; just fear and the desire to create more fear.

Trouble Waiting To Happen… There’s nothing like fear to keep the people in line, and as Thompson makes clear, the South, especially Georgia, has churches to exploit those fears. The Pat Robertsons and Falwellians, with their crass form of Christianity, have been particularly successful in scaring conservative white Americans of minorities, homosexuals, immigrants and certain books in the public libraries. By the late 70s, Republicans tapped into that white Christian sub-culture, merging frustrations over the ’62 school prayer ruling, Roe vs. Wade and the struggling Carter Administration. The merger took and helped create a Republican base. Members of mega-churches got behind Ronald Reagan, as he spoke of a “strapping buck” buying a T-Bone with food stamps. Nancy Reagan, at a campaign appearance for her husband, gushed over seeing “all these beautiful white faces.” Battle lines were being drawn.

Touting fear and obedience works on both sides of the street. While not as politically connected, mega-churches have also become prominent in African-American communities, particularly in the South. In College Park, Georgia, close to where Thompson grew up, is World Changers Church International, founded by one of the nation’s most influential black leaders, Creflo Dollar. The chief Changer is quite skilled. He’s adept at mixing fear with promises of material gains. The prosperity pitch works even better when more dollars are sought for the collection plates.

Thompson attended a service at the World Dome, packed in with the other 8,500 congregants, most of them seeking guidance from the Reverend Dollar and willing to open their wallets for the privilege. They must believe they get their money’s worth as Dollar preaches, rambles and preens for an hour and more. Dollar channels his inner Joe Tex, admonishing the men there to cherish their wives, skinny legs and all. Thompson got it all down:

“You have Christian men who are arrogant and prideful and not accommodating, who have the nerve to tell their wives they are fat.” More mmm, mmms. A Christian man can’t just sit back and be the biblical head of the household, he went on; a woman whose man doesn’t treat her right will find a man who does. “An unsaved man will open the door for her. An unsaved man will wine her and dine her!….. “You have to get your mind right with God and treat your woman like she need to be treated! If you drink from the fountain, you ain’t gonna need no Viagra!” The crowd loved that, but Dollar stopped abruptly, as if the word “Viagra” had reminded him of where he was. He managed to look charmingly abashed. “Y’all forgive me. I’m still a work in progress.”

The people feasted on Dollar’s manna, laughing and showering the handsome Reverend with applause. This would be another profitable day for yet another Poseur-for-Christ. Thompson explains how Dollar closes the deal:

Here it comes, I thought, and when it did, it was a straight forward pitch, he had given them something spiritual today that was of value; in return, they should give something of value back.

And it was working: people were getting up from everywhere in the arena and coming down front in a steady stream with white envelopes in their hands, depositing them in front of the pulpit, while others were putting theirs in the buckets the ushers were passing along the rows. While this was happening, Dollar addressed his critics. “Now some people say, ‘I like your preaching, Reverend. I just don’t like all this talk about prosperity and healing.’ I say, fine. You want to be broke and sick?” And the money flowed down the aisles like a river.

The river of money guaranteed Dollar’s high-rolling lifestyle would go on. Jets. A Rolls. An estate. Crisply-tailored suits. All this and more when supposedly representing Christ, who said “The Son of Man has no place to lay his head.” (Matthew 8:20)

Dollar’s skills at persuasion also enabled him this year to have simple battery charges against him dropped by paying court costs and agreeing to attend anger management classes. There was some unpleasantness over slapping and choking his teenage daughter one night when she said something that set him off. He also claimed she hit him. The daughter, no doubt remembering to honor her parents, consented to the state court’s arrangements.

But what could the poor kid do? She’s still a minor — the daughter of the pastor with over 40,000 members in his church. The pastor with an empire of media and real estate. The material comforts of living at Manor Dollarama can surely ease some pain. And besides, she’s the daughter of one perceived by some of her fellow church members to be nearly Divine himself. The minds of Dollar’s supporters are no doubt filled with admonitions of honor thy father and mother and spare the rod and spoil the child: Reverend Dollar was only showing his daughter the path to righteousness.

Mutual agreement is often found between conservative Christians, be they black or white, about the discipline of their children. When news of the Creflo Dollar broke in summer 2012, well-known electronic media commentators appeared sympathetic to the Pastor. Brenda Wood, anchor for the local NBC affiliate, spoke on the air about spankings she received as a child, concluding, “I like to think I turned out okay.” Wood’s opinion was similar to that of local radio personality Frank Ski, who recalled punches in the mouth he got when back-talking his father. Ski appears to have turned out okay as well. At least that’s what he says. But he, Wood and Dollar also seem to embrace the guidance-through-fear approach, even though striking a child one brought into the world is a degenerate act. Like a lot of Christians, they love to talk about Jesus, but that Old Testament vengeance comes in handy too.

Jubilation In The Land… A rollicking song on Warren Zevon’s last album, The Wind, is “Disorder in the House.” Zevon’s “house” is one “where the tub runneth over” and “plaster’s falling down in pieces by the couch of pain.” He’s “sprawled across the davenport of despair” but vows, “I’ll live with the losses and watch the sundown through the portiere.” Written and recorded in the last year of his life, “Disorder in the House” Zevon reflects Zevon’s ever-twisting perspective, one that’s complicated but teeming with unique clarity.

Thompson captures the complications, some vexing and others compelling in The New Mind Of The South. Like a lot of baby boomers who grew up south of the Mason-Dixon line hoping for more and better, she takes note of the beliefs, attitudes and actions that keep the Deep South states from realizing their potential. She also sees reason for hope, however. It may be that, despite the reactionary politicians and the 21st Century versions of Elmer Gantry, the South is becoming a more colorful and interesting place to live. Throughout the book, she focuses on the Atlanta area, seldom exciting when she was growing up, but now culturally intriguing.

Today, Atlanta really is a cosmopolitan place. The Buford Highway corridor on the Northside of the city is home to a thriving polyglot community of Mexicans, Salvadorans, Vietnamese, Thai, Indians, and people from the Carribean nations: on the Southside of town, where I grew up, a Hindu temple has replaced what used to be a cow pasture on Highway 85 in Riverdale. Tucked away in the pine woods a few miles away is a trailor park of Hispanic residents big enough to qualify as a municipality in itself — just one of dozens like it throughout the country. A sizeable Pakistani community has settled in and around Jonesboro and there’s a mosque half a block from the courthouse on the main square in Fayetteville. East of the city, the DeKalb County Farmers Market — founded in 1977 as your basic roadside stand — is now 140,000 square feet of produce, coffees, chocolates, grains and cheeses from all over the world. These scenes are being repeated on varying scales in places like Raleigh-Durham, Charlotte, Nashville and Little Rock.

Hit Me Like A Ton Of Bricks… “We’ll go walkin’ hand in hand, laughin’ fit to beat the band,” sang Zevon in “Backs Turned Looking Down the Path,” a song from his first Asylum album, released in ’76. Zevon told his wife, Crystal Zevon, “When I’m dead, wait and see if they don’t figure out that was the best song I ever wrote.” Zevon may have been right. “Backs Turned Looking Down the Path” is a sprightly song, direct and optimistic, Zevon comes to a crossroads where he “had to get my outlook fixed.” A lot of outlooks have changed down South, as Tracy Thompson would acknowledge. Consider one white Southern family who lived in the Atlanta neighborhood of Grove Park, west of Downtown, near the epicenter of the region’s hip-hop scene: Bankhead Highway. In the 50s, the family moved from Grove Park as the kids all grown up and married, settled in the city’s suburbs, mostly south of the city. To say the least, it’s been a conservative crew, but in certain ways over recent years, they had to get their outlook fixed. Another human emotion: love, more potent and pleasing than fear, took hold again and again. Love across color lines and borders. Showing up at Thanksgiving were the new members of the family from Brazil, Sweden, Colombia, Venezuela and one from whose people were established in this country long before the landing on Plymouth Rock. Potential spouses with lineage from Mexico, Korea, and slave cabins have also shown up. Over turkey and dressing, backs have turned and some old ways become history. People can get their outlooks fixed.

*No students were forced to attend. They were allowed to sit in a study hall during the programs if they wished. That still didn’t mean the law of the land was obeyed.

###

Author’s Note: Thanks to Doug Monroe, a longtime Atlanta reporter for chatting with me about the matters addressed in this story. Also, a full disclosure: Tracy Thompson, while growing up, attended East Point Christian Church, just south of Atlanta. My grandparents taught Sunday School there and my parents were married there in 1951. She also worked at the Atlanta Journal-Constitution as a reporter in the ’80s, around the same time I began a 27 year career in the newspaper’s advertising department. Still, Tracy Thompson and I have never met.

Highway 61 Revisited

Bob Dylan casts judgement at someone who has fallen — quite badly — in “Like A Rolling Stone.” It’s one of the greatest rock and roll songs ever, one that contains an equally great story. The figure in “Like A Rolling Stone” has committed a lifetime of sins and slights in what must’ve been a short span of time. Dylan’s figure is hardly sympathetic; she seemed to have it coming to her. Perhaps there are many among us who’ve been wronged by a person who’s also managed to secure his or her own downfall. No vengeance is called for, but it does bring satisfaction to ask that pointed question: How does it feel?

Mark Bradley (AJC)

Mark Bradley, a sportswriter for The Atlanta Journal-Constitution (AJC), has an enthusiasm for music that’s often shaped his perspective of the games he covers. Once he referred to Neil Young as the coolest guy on the planet. There’s enough symmetry in that. Young’s father, Scott Young, was a celebrated hockey writer in Canada. Interestingly, Neil Young’s career has comparisons to that of hockey great Gordie Howe, the National Hockey League Hall of Famer who played professionally from 1945 through 1980. Bradley and Neil Young have lots they could talk about, including that famous song by Bob Dylan. After all, like any aspiring Dylanologist would, Bradley had given the song a lot of thought. In December 2001, Bradley took that pointed question of Dylan’s and applied it to George O’ Leary, the head coach of Georgia Tech’s football team over the previous seven seasons. He implored O’Leary: How does it feel?

For most of his tenure at Georgia Tech, O’Leary was the toast of Atlanta. He turned the Georgia Tech Yellow Jackets around in his third full year as head coach. On Saturdays at the “Flats,” it felt as if the glory days of Bobby Dodd had returned. Attending a game at Grant Field now promised more than the fun of singing “Ramblin’ Wreck,” with its most famous line,”to Hell with Georgia” shouted lustily. People around the world love singing that song, rooted in “Son of a Gambolier,” an old barroom tune written by Charles Ives, the American classical composer whose works influenced many, including the Grateful Dead. Richard Nixon and Nikita Khruschev sang “Ramblin’ Wreck” together in 1959, although it was performed more vibrantly by Gregory Peck in The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit.

When Peck, playing a soldier in Italy during World War ll, grabbed the ukelele and sung the college fight song to his young lover, he thought it possible he’d have to cover up some deception if and when he got back to America. As it turned out, Peck’s secret about his affair and out-of-wedlock child would eventually be shared by a few. George O’Leary’s case was different. Millions would learn he padded his resume. Coast to coast, people who had admired O’ Leary for his great work at Georgia Tech learned he really wasn’t where it’s at.

The results on the field, though, were authentic. In his brief span of glory, O’Leary had two great quarterbacks, Joe Hamilton and, then, George Godsey, leading Georgia Tech to top bowl games from 1998 through 2000. Most significant of all, the Yellow Jackets beat the hated Georgia Bulldogs in each of those three years. Talk about “to Hell with Georgia.”Life was great at Georgia Tech. Once upon a time, George O’Leary lived so fine.

Bobby Dodd (Wikipedia)

Also once upon a time, coaching a college football team was a more secure job. The coaches then didn’t make a fraction of the money they do now, but they had more job security. When O’Leary won the Bobby Dodd National Coach of the Year Award in 2000, it made one think of the award’s namesake and how times and loyalties had changed. Dodd was at Georgia Tech as assistant coach, head coach and athletic director over 45 years (’31-’76). He was the head coach for 22 years. But by 1967, when Dodd coached his last game, money — big money — was starting to gain a foothold in college athletics. There was more riding on the score. Coaches felt less secure with their teams. Teams felt less secure they’d keep their coaches. Over the next 35 years, seven men would serve as head coach at Georgia Tech. Times changed. So had priorities. The integrity possessed by Dodd, readily apparent in his seriousness about his players’ education, seemed quaint to many. However, it made all the sense in the world to him that school athletes should attend their classes and make the most of opportunities their talents afforded them. Life away from the gridiron would begin sooner than later for most of the players.

Dodd passed away more than a dozen years before O’Leary won that great award. So did most of the principles Dodd lived and coached by In the world of big-time college athletics. Integrity had taken a back seat to shoe contracts. Do you want to make a deal?

Not everyone at Georgia Tech found O’Leary to be the most affable guy on campus. He was a bit of an operator and his manner could be brusque. In his last game as head coach, he bad-mouthed his players to the press. Not a good thing. It’s bad form to boo a college athlete from the stands and it’s even worse for the coach to hurl the raspberries. As one member of the school’s marketing department lamented, “They’re just kids, you know.”

And so like a kid, O’Leary decided to take his ball and go home. Home, that is, to the finest school all right – to the dream job for any football coach born with an Irish surname. Home to South Bend, Indiana. George O’Leary was named head coach of the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame. Talk about exchanging all kinds of precious gifts and things, O’Leary now had one of the two or three best jobs in sports. He had the job for all of five days.

Georgia O’Leary (Chris Gent CC)

One didn’t have to look into the vacuum of his eyes to know O’Leary really wasn’t where it’s at. All it took was checking his resume, which a reporter with The Manchester Union-Leader did while working up a story on Notre Dame’s new head coach. O’Leary had falsely claimed on his resume that he had played football at the University of New Hampshire, lettering ’66 through ’68. None of the players and coaches from the team remembered O’Leary playing there. His claim of receiving a masters degree in education from New York University wasn’t true either. O’Leary’s supposed accomplishments had been placed on his resume in 1980 when he began working as a defensive line coach at Syracuse. Even as the jobs got better for O’Leary in the years to come, the lies stayed on the resume. He could have easily removed the claims and no one would have noticed. The reporter in Manchester would’ve likely focused on O’Leary’s accomplishments, which were many, as a coach. As it was, however, O’Leary resigned from his dream job, then returned to Atlanta, pondering life with no secrets to conceal. Mark Bradley, in his December 15, 2001 column for the AJC, conveyed a reasonable amount of empathy for O’Leary. After all, it was the basic hubris and stupidity often seen in the world of football that left O’Leary’s life in tatters. How does it feel? Bradley has a good idea:

A man works all his life to make a reputation. At age 55, the man accepts the job of his dreams. In less than a week, the man is left without the job and without his dreams. Six days later, the man reputation isn’t of “class” or “integrity” or any of those lofty concepts he claimed to espouse. The man stands exposed as a liar.

O’Leary needn’t have worried about living out on the streets. The National Football League, more about winning than honor, can always find a place for a “liar.” So O’Leary was named defensive coordinator and defensive line coach for the Minnesota Vikings, who ranked 30th in the NFL in defense in 2001. As he did at Georgia Tech, O’Leary turned things around, bringing the Vikings up to a respectable 10th in defense. The latest entry in O’Leary’s resume was legitimate, bringing him another chance in college football: the head coaching job at the University of Central Florida in Orlando, near Disney World. As Warren Zevon sang, “Goofy, take my hand.”

At Central Florida, it was turnaround time again. After a brutal first season (0-11) in 2004, O’Leary made the Central Florida Knights a team no opponent took lightly. Over the next eight seasons, O’Leary took the Knights to five post-season bowl games with 2010 being the team’s best year, as they finished with a record of 11-3 and national rankings of 21 and 22 (Coaches and A.P. polls, respectively).

In “Honest With Me,” from his 2001 “Love and Theft” album, Bob Dylan sings, “I’m going to do whatever circumstances require.” George O’Leary appeared to take such a philosophy to extremes. After a 2007 season in which the Knights went 10-4 and played in the Liberty Bowl, O’Leary continued with his tough-guy approach in spring practice. On March 18, 2008, O’Leary vented his frustrations at running back Ereck Plancher. As the work-outs went on, Plancher got weaker, not up to continuing. O’Leary heaped on more verbal abuse and demanded that Plancher suck it up and sweat it out. More obscenities were hurled at Planchert by O’Leary in a post-practice huddle. Soon after the practice, Plancher collapsed and was rushed to a hospital. He died one hour later.

Players told ESPN and the Orlando Sentinel the practice was far longer and more rigorous than what O’Leary and his assistants would later admit. The same players also said O’Leary demanded others not assist Plancher when the pain hit. Worst of all, college medical reports indicated that UCF coaches knew of Plancher’s sickle-cell trait which was potentially troublesome. Even death could result when physical exertion became too intense.

The gang at UCF went into full denial mode, all the way through a trial that awarded Plancher’s parents $10,000,000.00. (The award was appealed earlier this year.) All the while, it appears O’Leary’s contract will be extended two more years, to 2017. The UCF administration is happy with O’Leary’s efforts as coach and the scholastic improvements his players have made. The ugliness of the Plancher case is something they appear willing to overlook, just as they did an O’Leary incident that occurred in 2000. At a Georgia Tech practice, sophomore Dustin Vaitekunas, an offensive lineman, missed a block, allowing the defenders to reach the Tech quarterback. O’Leary hit a boiling point. He called Vaitekunas, had him stand in position as four players were assigned to run at him – full tilt – and sack their teammate. The hit was savage. Vaitekunas, all 6-7 and 314 pounds of him, was down for 15 minutes. He got up and was given some medication. From there he walked back to his room and off the team. He told the AJC he was injured physically and mentally, “but to tell the truth, maybe more mentally.” A member of the National Honors Society and the Beta Club, Vaitekunas gave up his scholarship but kept his integrity. He continued his studies close to home at Cleveland State University. His mother considered filing assault charges against O’Leary but later chose not to, despite no apology from the coach.

But even with his checkered reputation, Central Florida’s admistration is thinkin’ they got it made. UCF believes O’Leary can still recruit top players to the school. After all, Notre Dame once believed he was the man to lead their hallowed program. As Atlanta writer Tommy Housworth despairs, “O’Leary is a coach to die for.” How does it feel? Dustin Vaitekunas can tell you. Ereck Plancher can’t. George O’Leary knows but it doesn’t matter. He’s only done “whatever circumstances require.”

Author’s Note: Helpful in the research for this story were reports from Sports Illustrated,ESPN, The New York Times, The Atlanta Journal-Constitution and The Orlando Sentinel as well as Georgia Tech football media guides. On a personal note, in the spirit of full disclosure, while working with the AJC, I handled the Georgia Tech Athletic Department’s advertising from 1987 through 2002. The people there were always very kind and professional. During several of the O’Leary years, my son and I were season ticket holders to Georgia Tech football games.

Young writes:

My own song, “Alabama,” richly deserved the shot Lynyrd Skynyrd gave me with their great record. I don’t like my words when I listen to it today. They are accusatory and condescending, not fully thought out, and too easy to misconstrue.

He also recalls performing the Lynyrd Skynyrd song in question, “Sweet Home Alabama,” at a concert in Miami. He says that it “must be the only thing I’ve ever done that I didn’t record.” That’s too bad. “Sweet Home Alabama,” no matter how one feels about its reference to Young’s “Alabama,” is a great song. And hearing Young before a live audience singing, “I hope Neil Young will remember, a Southern man don’t need him around, anyhow” must’ve been a great kick. Yet hearing Young’s recording of “Alabama” is still instructive. Anyone with a knowledge of 20th Century American history, especially as it relates to the treatment of the nation’s black citizens, knows there’s nothing to misconstrue. Young’s words sounded fully thought out in 1972 and they still do 41 years later.

Young’s “Alabama” does point some accusatory fingers. The time and events demanded as much. Unlike many black or white recording artists of the time, however, Young was at a safe remove. At his ranch in Northern California, or enjoying the festive vibe in Topanga, Young was far from the hatred and violence directed at those seeking equality in the southern American states, particularly Alabama. And in those days, as it was for much of two decades, Alabama was personified by George Wallace.

At every opportunity, voters in Alabama returned Wallace to the Governor’s office. Due to Alabama’s constitution, he was unable to succeed himself upon the completion of his first term in January ’67. No problem. He ran his wife, the political plebe (that’s putting it mildly), Lurleen Wallace. She won the general election on November 8, 1966 with 63.4 percent of the vote. With that election out of the way, George Wallace was now certain of being the state’s de facto Governor for the next four years. He could also build upon his national stature and follow up on his short-lived, yet boisterous, run for the White House conducted in ’64.

In her second year as Governor, Lurleen died of cancer. All of a sudden George Wallace wasn’t able to work the state government behind the scenes. But it didn’t stop him from running for President of the United States in ’68 as an independent. He ran an ugly and scary campaign, sowing more discord in a time when the country was already severely divided.

Much of the division throughout America, particularly in the Southern states, involved race. Too often, the focal point of discord was in Alabama. Wallace, after a losing run for Governor in ’58 as a moderate on the race issue, said he’d “never be outnigguhed again.” He lived up to his word in ’62, and then presided over Alabama as its black people lived in terror.

The Event Of The Season . . . A month after Wallace was first elected Governor, Neil Young, in Winnipeg, more than 1300 miles north of Montgomery, Alabama, put together his first band, The Squires. Just 17 years-old, Young was focused on music. It would be his career and his life. As for all young people with their eyes on a prize, the clamor of the outside world was hardly front and center.

A guy in Young’s shoes, actually, seemed quite fortunate to many young American men. Young was living in his native Canada, away from the racial strife in the US and its involvement in the Vietnam War. Canada was a destination for the 20,000 to 30,000 draft-age American men avoiding military service during the Vietnam years. As with race, the issue of Vietnam consumed Americans. The country that couldn’t shake off one yoke took on another.

The fear and defiance felt by young Americans made the emerging rock scene even edgier. It was already perceived as rebellious music, but with so many of its participants and fans a part of the country’s maelstrom, rock music symbolized the dissatisfaction with the established order. Or at least it seemed that way. As with most everyone, the rock and rollers had to deal with their own front and center. They were looking for the next break and yearning to feel free — that’s free from want as well as free from leaders who’d send them overseas and bring them back in boxes. This was a lot for most young people to absorb. It wasn’t time to die. It was time to embrace the fullness of life and enjoy its pleasures, such as the music gifted young people like Neil Young were creating.

But in Alabama, where so many of America’s greatest musicians were born and raised, Governor George Wallace was creating hardships. School kids in Montgomery, Birmingham, Anniston or any other Alabama town would recite the Pledge of Allegiance to the American Flag as leaders, like Wallace, who their parents put in power, made a joke of “liberty and justice for all.”

Consider the body count in Alabama. Four little black girls killed at the 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham on September 15, 1963, less than 8 months after Wallace was sworn in as Governor, pledging to Alabamians, “segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever.” Segregation meant keeping black folks down. In May of that year Wallace watched as Birmingham, his state’s biggest city, did its best to deliver on the Governor’s pledge. Birmingham’s police sicced dogs on protesters demanding equality. Its Public Safety Commissioner, Bull Connor, demanded those marching peacefully be blasted with water from city fire hoses. Children were hurt then too, but Alabamians in Wallace’s camp couldn’t be bothered. This pursuit of liberty and justice for all was a damned nuisance.

Wallace surely wouldn’t allow dead children to take him off his game. Five days after the bombing, he appeared on the Today show and took the offensive, stating the “Supreme Court, the Kennedy administration and the civil rights agitators are more to blame for this dastardly crime than anyone else.”

There’s A World You’re Living In . . . It was difficult for sympathetic people outside the South to grasp the mean spirit motivating Wallace and his supporters. Alabama, Mississippi and Georgia were part of the nation, but to millions of Americans, the states seemed to be part of a whole other country. And besides, there were other events seizing the hearts and minds in the U.S. at the time. In November ’63, President Kennedy was assassinated. The next year young Americans would celebrate the Beatles. Their emergence took minds off the tragedy in Dallas and the ugliness fellow citizens conjure. The Beatles not only restored spirits. In time their music and world view awakened senses to the promise liberty offered. That meant giving thought to the world outside — along with the music on the stereo.

Rock composers, as had their folk music peers, began to take interest in the notion of liberty and justice for all. They also conveyed their anger over the war in Vietnam. As America’s war over the war peaked in May ’70 with the Kent State murders, Neil Young was moved to write his weighty song of protest, “Ohio.” He called on his partners, David Crosby, Stephen Stills and Graham Nash to get to the studio post-haste. The song was alive in Young’s head and its vitality was perceived by the star musicians as they made their classic recording. “Ohio” is all at once a vibrant and angry song. It so resonates that it’s hard to hear the state’s name ever mentioned without “Four dead in Ohio” ringing between the ears. Who knew how informed Neil Young, a Canadian citizen, was about the war? Was he reading The Nation and listening intently to politicians like George McGovern and Frank Church? Maybe not, but it was obvious he gleaned what was truly and immediately wrong. Such distress guided him when he wrote “Alabama,” even if he now considers it “not fully thought-out.”

Broke It Down The Middle . . . Returning as Governor after a vile race-baiting campaign against Albert Brewer in 1970*, Wallace again aimed high. In ’72 he would make his third run for the Presidency, this time seeking the Democratic nomination. Though he would tone down the racist rhetoric, what happened at Kent State hardly fazed George Wallace. The protesters, admired and honored by Young, were beneath Wallace’s contempt. He had often raged against the long-hairs and “anarchists” who protested the war, once joking about running one over in a presidential limo. (Southern conservatives weren’t alone in their hatred of anti-war protesters. On the day before the Kent State murders, Ohio Governor James Rhodes said of them, “They’re worse than the brown shirts and the communist element and also the night riders and the vigilantes. They’re the worst type of people we harbor in America.”)

Neil Young’s Harvest album was released in February ’72, just as the Democratic presidential primary season was getting under way. George Wallace seemed a contender. Even the renowned liberal, Hubert Humphrey, who gave a brave speech on civil rights at the ’48 Democratic convention, thought of making Wallace his running mate should he gain the nomination that year. Wallace’s show was now playing better in the Northern states. He wore stylish suits and his new wife was easy on the eyes. He was getting peoples’ attention. “Send Them A Message” was his campaign slogan that year. His approach was one that Carter, Reagan and even Clinton would later borrow from. People with a sense of history weren’t convinced, however. Even though it was a milder Wallace on the stump, one couldn’t forget the messages he had sent out before.

I Come To You And. . . . Harvest, which soared to number one on the Billboard chart, had the hits, “Heart of Gold” and “Old Man,” making Neil Young a rock star of the first order. Mostly recorded in Nashville, Harvest is a strong album, one listened to all the way through now just as it was in ’72. Even the more conservative of the customers in a suburban Atlanta record department were hardly bothered by “Alabama.” The decent young conservatives weren’t pleased their region of the country was being criticized, but they had followed the news and remembered a similar perspective on “Southern Man,” from Young’s previous album, After the Gold Rush. They figured Neil Young got it right.

Randy Newman didn’t see it that way. He told Young biographer Jimmy McDonough that both “Southern Man” and “Alabama” are a “little misguided.” Newman, though an admirer of Young, said, “It’s too easy a target. I don’t think he knows enough about it. Neil’s Big Issue things — ‘Ohio,’ or where he’s pissed off about people selling his songs — I don’t like as well. It’s not his best stuff.” Newman’s points are well taken — to a degree. After all, Newman is among the best-read of rock composers. Newman cited T. Harry Williams’ biography, Huey Long, as inspiration for Good Old Boys, his ’74 album that reflected on the real life politicians as well as the hopes and dreams south of the Mason-Dixon line. However, while Newman can hold his own at any history roundtable, Young, like many great artists, has displayed a gut instinct about when and where justice goes missing.

In “Alabama,” Young surveys the “ruin” of a state defined by the violence it visited upon fellow Americans. The ruin was spread across the state: Birmingham, in ’65, with its city-sanctioned attacks on protesters, young and old; Anniston, where the Freedom Riders were beaten in ’61; the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, where civil rights marchers were attacked by tear gas and billy-club wielding lawmen in ’65, and Birmingham again the same year, with the 16th Street Baptist Church bombing. All these horrors occurred in the decade before Neil Young recorded “Alabama.”

Neil Young calls out to Alabamians in his song, “Can I see you and shake your hand? Make friends down in Alabama.” He notes Alabama has gotten “the spare change” but it has “the rest of the union to help you along.” Yes, “Alabama” has its share of condemnation, but it’s also a plea for reconciliation. Even George Wallace, in a very painful but liberating moment, finally admitted he was wrong. In 1985, Joseph Lowery, a long-time civil rights leader and colleague of Dr. Martin Luther King, took Wallace’s remorse seriously. He went to Alabama and shook Wallace’s hand.

*Wallace supporters claimed “Blacks Vow To Take Over Alabama” in a racist flyer distributed by the thousands. The flyer’s picture of one little white girl at the beach surrounded by seven little black boys ran with the caption, “This Could Be Alabama Four Years from Now! Do You Want It?” Jimmy Carter later referred to Wallace’s ’70 campaign as “one of the most racist campaigns in southern political history.” Carter may have thought that to be true even at the time but it didn’t stop him from being deferential to Wallace as he was running for governor in neighboring Georgia that same year. A future Like the Dew story will focus on the early Carter campaigns with the usual mix of southern politicos along with Peter, Paul and Mary.

Author’s Note: Recommended reading and helpful in completing this story are the books Shakey by Jimmy McDonough, George Wallace, American Populist by Stephen Lesher, The Politics of Rage by Dan T. Carter, and The Making of the President, 1972 by Theodore White.

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Things had changed enough, as far as he was concerned, by 1964. One of the two grandsons that he and his wife loved and indulged was quite taken with the 4 boys from Liverpool, England: those noisemakers known as the Beatles. My brother, David, liked the Beatles as well, but not to the extent I did. David hardly needed to latch on to such interests at the time. He was popular, confident and athletic, always skilled at whatever game was being played at the moment. What he lacked in natural ability, he made up for in hustle and grit. I, on the other hand, had eaten too many grits and was usually the last chosen in neighborhood pick-up games. David was among the first picked. Sometimes out of necessity, we were a package deal. I’d go out to right field and they’d hope nothing would be hit my way.

But on many summer days while David was scooting around the bases, I was happily inside listening to Top 40 radio. And what a happy time it was for one enamored of the Beatles. In six months’ time, more than three dozen Beatles songs had been revealed. Atlanta’s pop music stations, WQXI and WPLO, seemed to be playing them all. So no worries. In the years ahead, the fat would disappear and there’d be fewer embarrassing moments on the playing fields, yet for a 10-year old in suburban Atlanta, 1964 was the year of the Beatles. Everything else could wait.

Just as they had with comic books and other things we wanted when David and I spent time with them, my grandparents would slip me some coins to buy the latest Beatles singles. On a birthday, an album might be provided. Saturday morning trips to Woolworth or W.T. Grant would result in vinyl purchases. Even more fun was a visit to the Radio Doctor, a shop in College Park, the town William Bell (“You Don’t Miss Your Water”) would eventually call home. The Radio Doctor was a real record store, such as they were in the South those days. A wide selection. The array of inventory would be more impressive in other places in years to come, particularly at Peaches Records and Tapes, the upstart chain I worked with for 6 years, but walking into the Radio Doctor in the mid-60s was like eyeing the stuff around the tree on Christmas morning. And one couldn’t help but remember what was purchased on those trips – the 45s and the LPs. Out we’d walk to Pappy’s big ’54 Nash or ’60 Chrysler after picking up “I Feel Fine”/”She’s A Woman,” “Eight Days A Week”/”I Don’t Want to Spoil the Party,” or even better, in summer ’65, Beatles VI. Then back to the house, with the radio blaring, where the wrapping was torn and one could hear – even then – the various directions the Beatles were taking.

My grandfather, Lamar Clarence Cochran, Sr, was better known around town as Pappy. Given the choice, Pappy was a far better handle. It seemed to fit his personality. While he wasn’t one to laugh loud or long, he generally seemed pleased with life, especially when seated in his lazy chair with everyone else minding their manners. Pappy, however, didn’t enjoy sitting through the Ed Sullivan Show when the new rock groups from England were featured. My grandmother, who we called “Mama Birdell,” leaned over one Sunday night and asked, “Don’t you like the Beatles, Pappy?” “No,” he said, tersely. And that was fine. He always came through on those trips to the Radio Doctor.

Many of Pappy’s prime working years took place during the Great Depression. While he was lucky regarding military service (“Too young for World War I and too old for World War II.”), he, like many, found the going tough in the 30s and 40s. But he hung in there. For a time he worked at the Atlanta Federal Penitentiary, where guys like Al Capone were provided room and board. Later he worked in film distribution and advertising with Warner Brothers, the company with the great gangster films. Had David and I known more of his life around the criminal types, we might have better understood his affinity for the lazy chair.

A decade after being carried around town by Pappy, I would visit him and Mama Birdell, often after sentimental journeys to the Radio Doctor. On one trip I showed them Writings and Drawings by Bob Dylan. If anything, I was sure they’d be impressed with my interest in letters, so to speak. At the time I was writing record reviews for Atlanta’s alternative papers, including the most radical of them all, The Great Speckled Bird. My grandparents would no doubt gasp at the political discourse in the pages of the Bird, but they never commented on that. “You write beautifully,” my grandmother said. Whether it was hanging out with socialists or playing rock and roll records too loud, a grandson could get away with pretty much anything.

Now More Than Ever … The “fifth wheel” sat in the back as the loving couple up front sang along to the hits on the pop radio station. The nadir was reached when Chicago’s then-current hit, “Just You and Me” came on. “You are the love of my life,” Randy crooned. Brandi responded, “You are my inspiration.” It’s a Sunday night somewhere in the suburbs just south of Atlanta; early autumn ’73. If bus service was available close by, then jumping out of the car was a viable option. “Just You and Me” was Chicago’s latest low, a song in such bad taste it was hard to imagine even Cher recording it. But Chicago, having veered way off Dearborn Street on to Primrose Lane, had grown comfortable producing tunes for the starry-eyed and smitten.

Electing to stay in the car even as Randy and Brandi did their best Donny-and-Marie, thoughts turned to Chicago. What happened with them anyway? Just four and a half years earlier, then known as Chicago Transit Authority, they released their first album (a 2-record set, as would be the next two albums). Delivering a stellar debut, Chicago quickly became a staple of progressive FM radio. They could rock. They were funky and bluesy. The band also wore their left-wing politics on their sleeves. Musically, they offered commentary, somewhat driveling, on the ’68 Democratic Convention (held in Chicago) and its aftermath. Specifics aside, Chicago at least embraced the proper spirit. What happened at the convention, with its shattered hopes, lies, brutality and making villains of young protesters beaten by cops, was America’s shame. Most in the country were far from embracing the views of the “Chicago 7,” but anger and dissent that summer were justifiable. And regardless of one’s political views, it was clear that many of the songs on Chicago Transit Authority were top-drawer material. “Beginnings,” “South California Purples,” “Questions 67 & 68,” “I’m A Man” and “Does Anyone Really Know What Time It Is?” all sounded fresh and vibrant. Now all this band needed was a snazzy logo.

The guys at Logo Central, likely inspired by a certain soft drink, created a bright new insignia for Chicago. The simple but illuminating logo made Chicago’s album covers gleam at end caps for years. Chicago had pizzazz: the band had the image, the marketing strategy – they delivered product. Now all this band needed were more good songs.

Their second album, Chicago, released in January ’70, featured one great song, “25 or 6 to 4,” and a few good ones (“Make Me Smile,” “Fancy Colours” and “Wake Up Sunshine.”). There was also the flute-infected “Colour My World,” a dreary exercise which became a favorite at high school proms. The next year, Chicago III was released. The third of the two-record sets had even slimmer pickings, with only one exceptional song (“Lowdown”). No doubt, the guys were exhausted. 6 long-playing discs in less than two years. A lot of touring too. The highlight of their touring was a week-long stint at Carnegie Hall. Yet despite all the practice, the performances there were not representative of the band’s best live work. No matter. Chicago, in October ’71, released Chicago at Carnegie Hall, a 4-record set that caused a stir more centered on its marketing and packaging. Inside the box set were posters and data on the voting laws of all 50 states. It was commendable that Chicago sought to get out the vote, essentially urging their fans to “Dick Nixon before he dicks you,” as Johnny Rivers put it, but creatively, the band was running on empty. At the peak of their immense popularity, they found new ideas harder to come by.

Summer ’72 saw the release of Chicago V, a single-disc void of the toughness and smarts of “I’m A Man” or “Does Anyone Really Know What Time It Is?” On the album’s hit single, “Saturday in the Park, ” Chicago sounded closer to Tony Orlando than to Steve Winwood. However, the new album did feature a political song of sorts, “Dialogue (Parts 1 and II).” Said dialogue was a conversation between two young men, one troubled by the man-made, greed-driven hardships of the world and the other content with the numbness of suburban life. The second part of the song ends with the band singing, “We can make it happen, we can make it better, we can change the world now….” Even those wanting change and weary of Nixon rolled their eyes. Crawdaddy! magazine opined that Chicago insisted “on bullshitting its audience.” That insistence grew stronger, and naturally, things got thicker.

From the mid ’70s on, Chicago built upon its fan base with more hits tailor-made for proms, including “Just You and Me,” “Call on Me,” “Old Days,” and “If You Leave Me Now.” Deep in their hearts, the members of Chicago must’ve had misgivings, although Tony Orlando had to be envious.

As Chicago transitioned itself from the Nixon era to the Jimmy Carter years, they remained a top concert draw. In the Atlanta area during the 70s, they played at Lake Spivey (near Margaret Mitchell’s fictional Tara), Atlanta Stadium, the Omni and Georgia Tech’s Alexander Memorial Coliseum. During the week of the Coliseum gig, Atlanta rock and roll artist Darryl Rhoades stopped by Peaches Records and Tapes to say hello and talk shop. Breaking away from my duties for a few minutes, I walked outside with Rhoades to discuss the upcoming show he and his Hahavishnu Orchestra would perform that same week. Always the timely satirist, Darryl wanted to do a musical spoof on Chicago. He had already assembled some ideas, framing a piece called “Suburban Guerillas,” which included the melody from “Beginnings.” I suggested lampooning “Dialogue,” with the line, “Do you think we’ll have some quality on our next LP?” and then, “No, I never never think of that at all.” Darryl liked that one and used it in a grand presentation that opened with a bit of “Chicago,” as in Sinatra’s toddlin’ town. The smart and funny take-off concluded with the coda, “We can make some money, We can make some money…” From Dearborn Street to Primrose Lane, indeed: Chicago had long insisted on bullshitting its audience.

The Empty Sidewalks Of My Block …. The tumultuous summer of ’68 supposedly helped inform the musical creations of Chicago in their early days. They used a tape of Democratic Convention protesters chanting, “The whole world is watching. The whole world is watching….” as part of a track on Chicago Transit Authority. What the world saw at the convention and throughout ’68 was often too painful to watch. The spring that year had been especially tragic. Robert F. Kennedy, campaigning for the Democratic presidential nomination in what would’ve been a very different convention, didn’t live to influence such matters as he was gunned down in Los Angeles on June 5, having just won the California Primary. Kennedy’s assassination came two months and one day after the murder of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.. Both assassinations cut deeply through the mainstream of the country, but the pain of King’s death weighed most heavily. The loss of King was profoundly hurtful. When one was truly paying attention, the sadness was overwhelming.

King didn’t hold public office. He represented millions who weren’t in politics and who were kept at bay by the powerful. His family didn’t have a Palm Beach or Hyannis Port for retreat as the grief took hold. No servants to handle requests and whims. Dr. King’s family, whether one was black or white, seemed like many of us. And from that family, a loved one – arguably the greatest leader of the 20th Century – was gone. Empathy for that family seemed just as deep as that for our country, a land sadly adrift.

Certain songs from that sad time resonate over the decades. The sound in one’s mind when reviewing long-past moments is often the music from days gone by. When the MLK assassination is evoked, so are a couple of hit records from ’68 by the Four Tops. Still part of the Motown assembly line of hit-makers, the Four Tops were branching out, recording songs written by rock and folk artists. As the emptiness felt over King’s death took hold, the Four Tops’ rendition of Tim Hardin’s “If I Were A Carpenter” filled the airwaves in Atlanta where the King family and much of the world gathered to praise, honor and bury Dr. King. “If I Were A Carpenter” expresses a desire to be loved and accepted, regardless of one’s lot in life. Whether employed in a wood shop or mill, the figure in “If I Were A Carpenter” is confident in his own self-worth, yet he realizes his worthiness must be acknowledged by the one who means the most to him. That sense of dignity was what the black people of Montgomery, Alabama demanded in ’55 and ’56, during the bus boycott, the first civil rights action led by Dr. King. The demands of the citizens were incredibly modest, for example, one being that black bus riders “be treated with courtesy.” That type of humility, given their circumstances, is reminiscent of the words penned by Tim Hardin and voiced so strikingly by Four Tops lead singer Levi Stubbs.

The powerful voice of Stubbs provided great lift to the dozen plus hits by the Four Tops. His rich baritone filled the group’s recordings. Whenever Stubbs was heard, it seemed he lived inside the songs. Such was the case on the Four Tops’ rendition of “Walk Away Renee,” their first hit single of ’68. An achingly beautiful song as originally recorded by the Left Banke in ’66, Stubbs took it up a notch. “Walk Away Renee” depicts heartbreak over lost love, where one’s environment appears vacant, even if the streets are just as they were prior to one’s world falling apart. Stubbs conveyed that feeling of devastation.

The Blues In Memphis …. Among the last words Martin Luther King, Jr. said on April 4, 1968 were in a request to saxophonist Ben Branch. As King looked down from the porch of his Lorraine Hotel room, he calls out, “My man!” to Branch after Jesse Jackson, also in the parking lot, tells King that Branch would be playing at their rally later that evening. King requested Branch play “Precious Lord,Take My Hand,” and to “play it real pretty.” Branch said sure. That’d be a piece of cake for him, a veteran of the Memphis music scene, having played on B.B. King’s first recordings in ’49 when MLK was barely out of his teens. It was natural enough for Jesse Jackson, the hep cat of the civil rights movement, to have Branch close by. Branch had appeared at benefits for SCLC Operation Breadbasket and Jackson’s PUSH, doing good and giving back.

Seconds after the lighthearted exchange with Jackson, Branch and King, the world went dark. Shots rang out. King went down, dying in a pool of blood. Jackson ran up to King’s room. In that very horrible moment, a touchstone of Jackson’s career was reached – rather dubiously.

Jackson smeared King’s blood on his shirt, which he kept on that night and the next day, even as he appeared on the Today Show, stating Dr. King died in his arms. Given how he’s prospered and been politically celebrated, it could be said Jesse Jackson got away with that lie. When one’s life is all about one’s success and acclaim, a little lie about a big event may not seem such a big deal. Some people chose to overlook that it was actually Ralph David Abernathy who held Dr. King at that tragic time. Like the band from the city where he built his political career, Jesse Jackson was skilled at bullshitting his audience.

More than most public figures in the second half of the 20th Century, Jesse Jackson worked to stay in the news. A striking figure and usually well prepared, Jackson commanded press conferences and events. Many of the causes he promoted were thoughtful and worthy, though it was often implied attention be granted him too. He also possessed the natural gifts of a successful politician. Richard Nixon, a lifelong campaigner himself, called Jackson “a poet.” Certainly, he was far more skilled at the flesh-pressing than his colleagues from the movement days such as Abernathy or John Lewis. In ’77, when both Abernathy and Lewis were running for the same congressional seat (vacated by Andrew Young, another of King’s right-hand men) in Atlanta, it was obvious neither had the flair Jackson would later display in his presidential campaigns. On one Saturday afternoon, Abernathy and Lewis dropped by the Peaches Records and Tapes on Peachtree within 30 minutes of each other. Lewis then seemed shy, although earnest when asking for support. Abernathy appeared as the loving uncle, asking, “Will you vote for me?” Before one could answer, he’d give you a big hug, exclaiming, “Thank you, thank you!” As it turned out, Atlanta City Council Chairman Wyche Fowler, long an Atlanta vote-getter, won the congressional seat (in ’86, Lewis was elected to Congress, beating Julian Bond in a heated race for the seat formerly held by Young – then Atlanta’s Mayor).

Jesse Jackson would’ve lit up Peaches that day with his smile and proclamations, dazzling the shoppers like Earth Wind and Fire. He was the shining star and he knew it. At times, during his presidential campaigns of ’84 and ’88. there was the sense he felt entitled to the Democratic nomination. And if not that, at least the second spot on the ticket. As with any presidential race, there were multiple factors at play, but rare was a nominee who’d feel comfortable with a running mate as electrifying and self-absorbed as Jackson.

Out A Carpet Of Gold … The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree and naturally, Jesse Jackson, Jr. wished to launch a political career while the bright lights were on his dad. The younger Jackson gave a speech at the ’88 Democratic Convention in Atlanta, impressing some more than others. There was the expected oohing and ahhing over the younger Jackson’s speech, but honesty compelled one to admit he wouldn’t have been at the podium were it not for his lineage. But he could always run for Congress in his hometown. In ’95, he was elected to represent Illinois’s 2nd Congressional District, encompassing Chicago’s Southside and the adjacent suburbs. To no one’s surprise, like Johnny Rocco, JJJ wanted more. In the back of his mind, he thought he might win the presidency. Dad could take credit for paving the way. Yet history gets messy. Another politician from Illinois, Senator Barack Obama, also an African-American, was elected President in 2008. Obama made it to the White House without the help of Jackson the elder, actually quite envious of the success he never achieved. Once when Obama’s name was mentioned and thinking his mike was off, Jackson said, “I’ll cut his nuts off.”

With Obama still fully-equipped and in the Oval Offfice, Jesse Jackson Jr. had reason to believe his ship had come in. He could assume Obama’s Illinois Senate seat. One of his aides got word to the Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich that in exchange for appointment to a Senate seat, Jackson could help raise millions for the Governor. That would help with Blago’s next campaign. A lot of walking ’round money. The Federal Government, already aware of Blago’s corruption, gets wind of the Jackson proposal and begins a major investigation. Through their digging, more of JJJ’s untoward behavior comes to light.

A lot of money was flowing into the younger Jesse’s hands, some of it on to his wrist. The U.S. Justice Department, in the administration of Barack Obama, filed charges against Jackson, accusing him of misuse of $750,000 in campaign funds. Jackson spent the money on, among other necessities, a $43,000.00 Rolex watch. The Feds had the goods on him, so he agreed to a plea deal, which will reportedly keep him in prison for 57 months. While doing time, JJJ can ponder all the other things he purchased with taxpayers’ money: An Eddie Van Halen guitar, membership to a health club, cruises, a reversible mink parka for his wife and some nifty Michael Jackson memorabilia. He may also contemplate how many months of meals $43,000.00 could’ve provided scores of his constituents in the blighted parts of Chicagoland he represented. To his credit, he may already be feeling the guilt. He’s Jesse Jackson, Jr. and he knows much of the world has been watching. When Jackson left the courtroom on February 20, he said, “Tell everybody back home I’m sorry I let them down, okay?” His apology will be accepted by many, although this time, they will hope he’s not bullshitting his audience.

When Chicago used the chant, “The whole world is watching” on their first album, it seemed a chant of defiance. There was, after all, much to defy. But the chant didn’t sink in, especially with those who really needed to ponder the words. A Come-to-Jesus moment is wasted when foes think they’re just being told to go to Hell. There’s no reconciliation, no forgiveness and certainly no justice. 45 years later we still have our wars of choice. Even as we reverse course on packing soldiers off for yet another muddled cause, the champions of muddled causes say the country is weak for showing restraint. There’s an unbelievable streak of meanness in our country that generates death and mayhem. From all that, a clattering segment celebrate the weapons. And there’s always the greed and the desire for more that corrupts even the most mild-mannered among us. Nice people. Nice people like Jesse Jackson, Jr., who by now, even without the $43,000.00 Rolex, really does know what time it is.

More resonant than the chant on the streets of Chicago is the Bob Dylan song, “When the Ship Comes In,” recorded in ’63. To a sweet but eloquent melody, Dylan sings of a world watching and hoping that the honorable prevail. The listener takes in what’s being seen.

A song will lift
As the mainsail shifts
And the boat drifts on to the shoreline.
And the sun will respect
Every face on the deck,
The hour that the ship comes in.

Then the sands will roll
Out a carpet of gold
For your weary toes to be a-touchin’.
And the ship’s wise men
Will remind you once again
That the whole world is watchin’.

Wise men such as Douglass, Gandhi, King, Havel and others have reminded us of what the world sees and how new visions can be shaped. Being truthful, unlike tyrants, corrupt politicos and, yes, bloated rock groups, can help us realize – even in small ways – that vision.

Author’s Note: Recommended reading on the subjects covered in this story are many, the best being Jesse, a fine biography by the late Marshall Frady. Also worthy of any reader’s time are John Hinchey’s Like A Complete Unknown, Louis Cantor’s Wheelin’ on Beale, and Requiem for A King by Rebecca Burns. Thanks also goes to friends Peter Stone Brown, John Hinchey, Darryl Rhoades and Tom Poland for their advice and encouragement. And in keeping with full disclosure, I worked as a volunteer with the Gary Hart campaign in 1984, when he ran for the Democratic Presidential nomination against Jesse Jackson, among others.

Down another avenue, this one just east of Downtown Atlanta, was Ray Charles performing at the Royal Peacock. That famous club on Auburn Avenue, Black America’s Wall Street, was an oasis for Black Atlantans in a state run by vile segregationists. Getting to see Ray Charles, James Brown, Sam Cooke or Duke Ellington perform there could ease the pain, if even momentarily, of life on the harsh side of the color line. Breaking through that color line was difficult, as Martin Luther King, Jr. was learning during the Montgomery Bus Boycott, with still two months to go when “Lonely Avenue” was peaking.

King was born in 1929, less than a mile from where America’s great Jazz and Rhythm and Blues artists played; change was on the way. But the change wouldn’t come without determination, courage and a strident belief that things would get better. Making things better required grand efforts.

Doc Pomus knew all about that. An intuitive and perceptive child, Doc (born Jerome Felder), faced the first of many life-altering challenges at the age of 7. He was struck with polio while at a New Jersey summer camp in 1932. Seeking a cure or some physical uplift, the Felders sent Doc south to Warm Springs, 75 miles southwest of downtown Atlanta. Franklin D. Roosevelt, who would take office as the 32nd President of the United States the next year, founded a hydrotherapy center in that resort town for those like him and the young Felder, then among those called “the polios.” Relaxing in the pools of Warm Springs’ mineral waters eased the pain and brought hope to those struck by the mysterious disease. The hope manifested didn’t lead to the healing sought, but it did lead to some dreams being realized. Neither Roosevelt or Doc would walk again but from wherever they were seated, they held court. Inspiration would surface. In that fall of ’32, when young Doc met FDR, much adventure awaited them both. Much adventure awaited society as well. The determination of Doc and FDR in taking on the road ahead brought victory and inspiration to millions.

The new film, AKA Doc Pomus tells the story of the determined soul who wrote or co-wrote songs that climbed the popular music charts over a period of three decades. In theyears that Doc’s words and melodies filled the airwaves, vast change not only came about in society at large but also in the world of music. Process changed. The way songs were produced, delivered and absorbed were far different than when a 17 year-old Doc Pomus first sang at a Greenwich Village club in 1943. That wasn’t necessarily a problem for Doc. He was always ready for a challenge. The Pomus response to whatever got in his way is joyfully conveyed in AKA Doc Pomus, co-directed by Peter Miller and Will Hechter. The film serves as a fluid story of the struggles and achievements of one man’s life, featuring the interviews of family members, friends, associates and the greats of modern American music. There are also photos of Doc with his neighbors in suburban Long Island, Doc at the clubs, and in the mid-80s, Doc with Bob Dylan, who visited one day for help with – of all things – writing songs. The film’s co-producer and editor, Amy Linton, gathered the souvenirs and remembrances of Doc’s life, creating an exceptional scrapbook.

“Lonely Avenue,” “Save the Last Dance for Me,” “This Magic Moment,” “Viva Las Vegas,” “Can’t Get Used to Losing You,” “A Teenager in Love,” and “Boogie Woogie Country Girl” are among the best known of Doc’s many great songs, sung by many, including Ray Charles, The Drifters, Elvis Presley, Andy Williams, Nilsson, Dion and the Belmonts, Bob Dylan, Dr. John and Lou Reed. The songs of Doc Pomus are great works that have attracted the great talents. As John Lennon proclaimed when first laying eyes on Doc, “It’s such a pleasure to finally meet the legendary Doc Pomus.”

Those who see AKA Doc Pomus get to meet and know Doc Pomus very well. Like Lennon said, “It’s such a pleasure.”

Doc Pomus weathered and rose to the challenges and the changes. In one of his last songs, “There Must Be A Better World Somewhere,” sung by B.B. King in a Grammy-winning performance, Doc shares a vision of how right life should be. Those living that life could gather at the Royal Peacock on Auburn Avenue, joined by Andy Williams, Lou Reed and friends from all walks of life – because Doc made friends of everyone – from Glitter Gulch to Greenwich Village. Brother Ray would belt out “Lonely Avenue.” Doc would be there, treating one and all to boxes of Popeye’s Chicken as they celebrated healing powers, like those of the mineral waters in Warm Springs, Georgia. Such is the spirit that lifts AKA Doc Pomus.

Watch the trailer:

“He’s the finest athlete in sports now,” he told his friend, Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, “I worship him.”

The worship services, or rather, game one of the 2001 Stanley Cup Finals between the Colorado Avalanche and the New Jersey Devils would soon commence. Zevon and the good Doctor settled in to watch Patrick Roy at work. It turned out to be one of Roy’s best days on the job. No pucks got past him as Colorado beat New Jersey 5-0. Thompson described the mood as beyond excitable, with Zevon claiming Roy “could have beaten New Jersey all by himself. He made midgets of us all. I will never forget this game.”

Afterwards, Zevon and Thompson, enlivened by Roy, the game and the sheer fun of it, fashioned their unique perspectives to create a song. Conjuring life in the Kingdom of Fear, Zevon and Thompson delivered their post-game highlight with the bluesy ”You’re A Whole Different Person When You’re Scared.” Zevon croons curtly that “Dangerous creeps are everywhere” and his dark appraisal takes hold. In other kingdoms of fear, Zevon has reported on athletes, junkies, sociopaths, mercenaries and werewolves, conveying their stories with vibrant melodies. Yes, Warren  Zevon quite understood the nature of “dangerous creeps.” He also had a certain empathy for ”goons.”

Unlike a Patrick Roy, goons are not among the finest athletes in the arenas, but on the ice, they make critical encounters and are valued by their teammates. More respectfully called “enforcers,” there is generally not more than one goon per National Hockey League team. Goons play at forward and on defense, but not all that skillfully. The goon’s main contributions stem from his aggressiveness. He has size and force to disrupt the opposition. He also carries an ample fist when it’s time to hit somebody. And that’s the sort of player Zevon, along with journalist Mitch Albom, wrote about in “Hit Somebody (The Hockey Song).” Not a Patrick Roy, Bobby Orr, Stan Mikita or Wayne Gretzky, but a goon, a player that John Branch of The New York Times described as what “may be  hockey’s favorite archetype,” those “seen as working-class superheroes –understated types with an alter ego willing to do the most dangerous work to protect others.” Branch calls them “underdogs, men who otherwise might have no business in the game.” What splendid subject matter for Warren Zevon.

Zevon tells the story of Buddy, “born in Big Beaver by the borderline.” Buddy dreamed of making it to the N.H.L., hoping one day he’d charge up and down the ice like Maurice “Rocket” Richard. Not graced with speed or dexterity, Buddy had to settle for another role: the goon. He would intimidate, punch and prevail as the ice turned red with blood. Zevon spins Buddy’s childhood story as one adjusting to his limitations: “Through pee-wees, juniors, midgets and mites… He must have racked up more than six hundred fights.” As the scout from the Calgary Flames tells it in the song, “Son, we’ve always got room for a goon.”

Buddy wanted to score goals, yet the coach reminded him that was the work of the fast guys.

The fast guys get paid, they shoot, they score
Protect them, Buddy, that’s what you’re here for

The dream of scoring at least one goal stayed with Buddy, and finally, in his last game, he got his shot. Think of “Rudy” at Notre Dame and then take in Buddy’s grand moment. After 20 years of being the enforcer, Buddy put the biscuit in the basket. The red light flashed. Dreams come true, at least in a world conjured by Warren Zevon.

Buddy’s dream was realized after a lifetime of sweat, dashed hopes and physical abuse. Zevon’s Buddy is unlike the most famous fictional character in rock and roll, Chuck Berry’s “Johnny B. Goode.” With Johnny, the talent was there, he just needed to keep playing that guitar, knowing people would hear him, and that soon they’d pay to hear him. Johnny’s mother knew his name would be in lights. He’d be the star, not an act way down the bill. Chuck Berry, whose own guitar work has given birth to scores of rock and roll songs, gave Johnny his happy ending, but it took a lot of persistence to make it happen. It’s reminiscent, in a way, of the teen-aged Bill Clinton. The 16 year-old from Arkansas thought of one day running for office; getting to shake hands with President Kennedy may have sealed his determination. His dream was born and through lots of grit, hard work and setbacks, Clinton also got his name in lights. But the lives of Johnny B. Goode and Bill Clinton are the exceptions that prove the rule, real world or not.

I’m A Desperate Man . . . . Back in the real world, sometimes as interesting as Zevon’s, the N.H.L. is back at play. The second lockout this century has finally ended and a truncated season is on. That inspires celebration for fans and players of the game, which over the last two years, has gained unwelcome attention for its cursed labor-management issues and tragedies associated with its enforcers. Three players, each who had served as goons, none older than 35, died between May 13 and August, 31, 2011. The most sensational of the three deaths was Derek Boogaard’s. The New York Times, later that year published a three-part series by John Branch on Boogaard’s struggles. It’s a heartbreaking story. While with the Minnesota Wild for 5 seasons through 2010, Boogaard suffered severe back pain, undergoing two surgeries and developing a serious addiction to painkillers. He was a big man, so it took more pills than normal for the pain to ease. It was reported he’d go through 30 pills in a couple of days. His brother Aaron told Branch it would take “8 to 10 at a time” for Boogaard to feel okay. Branch wrote that “Boogaard’s fist was the most feared weapon in the N.H.L.,” but that was no help during those private painful moments.

As the 2010-11 N.H.L. season commenced, Derek Boogaard took the ice with the New York Rangers. Times seemed good in the field of N.H.L. enforcement. Boogaard had a new multi-year contract, a big one for a goon. He craved being on center stage in the city that doesn’t sleep. But in his 22nd game, Boogaard’s season ended with a serious concussion. Suffering from post-concussion syndrome, his dependency on painkillers increased. He’d drive out to the Long Island suburb of Huntington to buy thousands of dollars of prescription drugs, illicitly, from a dealer. The body that slammed its way through hockey arenas across North America could only take so much. Early on the morning of May 13, 2011, Derek Boogaard died from an accidental overdose of alcohol and oxycodone.

Boogaard died 41 days shy of his 29th birthday. Much of life set him up for an early death. He had it tough as a kid. Growing up, Boogaard was the biggest kid in his class and though not a natural bully, he was thought to be a troublemaker. One grade school teacher, according to John Branch’s series, often relegated Boogaard to a closet. For a kid, that was an extra cruel version of the penalty box. So what does an out-of-place prairie boy do? He learns to skate with a hockey stick and he learns to box. The combination of those skills, particularly given the ferocity of his punches, helped him realize his dreams. In the 2001 N.H.L. draft, Boogaard was picked by Minnesota. Three seasons later, he would make the big team and stay there for 5 years. Then on to a season in New York, a season that ended a month and two days after Boogaard’s death.

The N.H.L. wishes the fighting on the ice that mars a brilliantly beautiful game would just go away. That’s easier said than done. The fighting is popular with lots of paying customers. Even some players, including those punched out numerous times, respect the need for goons. Todd Federeuk, now retired after 9 years as an enforcer, believes the role is still vital. In an online chat with New York Times readers, Federuk stated, “There are certain players who have no respect for the opponent. A fighter enforces that respect amongst players.” He told one fan “the enforcer’s role is the best way to keep the players safe,” and to “keep in mind the game is entertainment, and hockey is not as exciting without physical play.” Federuk reminded another fan that his kids could see more violence on the 6 p. m. news in one minute than they would at 10 hockey games.” Despite his career-altering injury in a fight with Boogaard in 2006, and that he, like Boogaard, also battled the demons that are painkillers, Federuk isn’t a cheerleader for change in North American hockey. He also says he wouldn’t change a thing. Federuk now works as an assistant coach for the Trenton Titans of the East Coast Hockey League, two levels below the N.H.L..

Atlanta sports reporter and photographer Jeff Slate, who has worked over 1000 N.H.L. games and has interviewed over 5,000 hockey players, takes the Federuk comments in stride, but is optimistic about the game’s future. He acknowledges fighing in the N.H.L. has greatly diminished in the last 10 to 20 years. Slate says, “A goon can be a tremendous liability if he has no skills other than fighting … and since the league has really toughened up against goons, the goon can cost his team many games. A 4-minute power play can wipe out any advantage an even-strength team has over its opponent. Fighting will always be a part of the sport, but I, and I believe many others, find so much of the fighting ridiculous. It adds nothing to the game. In fact, I find it boring. Hockey can be a beautiful game of great skill in skating, passing and shooting. Fighting many times just slows up the game. It becomes an intrusion. Most of the fights are quite boring and pathetic.”

Todd Federuk’s statements come as no surprise to Slate. “It’s the game he grew up with and loved and probably doesn’t know how to play it any other way,” Slate says, then pointing out that “some goons think otherwise; for example, Dave ‘The Hammer’ Schultz, the holder of the most penalty minutes in a season, a record that will probably never be broken. Schultz wasn’t brought up to be an enforcer, but once in the league, he knew it was the only way to stay in it. Though not addicted to painkillers, he now regrets many of his actions.”

Dangerous Creeps Are Everywhere . . . . Warren Zevon gave Buddy a Horatio Alger story of sorts, happy ending intact. Buddy got his goal, but it would’ve been more thrilling to listeners of the song if the performance by Zevon and band hadn’t lumbered so. David Letterman’s guest slot on the chorus, when he shouts, “Hit somebody!” fails to make the desired impact because the music, a familiar Zevon melody, isn’t played with the dash that enlivens “Johnny Strikes Up the Band” or “Trouble Waiting to Happen.” Still Zevon leaves a strong impression with his creation. Buddy is so real that we can speculate about his life after he put away the skates that last time. Maybe the Calgary Flames hired him as a scout: a nice job with a contract and expenses. Many former athletes, even great ones, with their charms and P.R. skills, don’t have it so good. They’ve blown all their money. Some are working at used car lots. Others are dealing with the law over distribution of drugs and financial fraud. The worse among them slap their wives around. One famously stabbed his wife to death. Life goes on, sometimes very badly, after the cheering stops. You can run through linemen and you can run through airports, but you sure can’t hide.

(Author’s Postscript: Readers are advised to check out the columns Hunter S. Thompson wrote for the ESPN website, including “Champions Roy and Zevon,” which provided some inspiration as I prepared this piece. Thanks to Jeff Slate for his thoughts on pro hockey as well as a big Thank-You to Tracey Paul for providing the photo of her with Warren Zevon, taken at the Clearwater Peaches Records and Tapes in 1980.)

When I was back there in seminary school
There was a person there
Who put forth the proposition
That you can petition the Lord with prayer
Petition the Lord with prayer
Petition the Lord with prayer
You cannot petition the Lord with prayer!

Morrison’s voice could fill a revival tent, but his words would hardly suit the congregants in such a place. He, as did poet T.S. Eliot in “Ash-Wednesday,” alluded to a journey in search of solace. Morrison seeks “sanctuary.” Looking out from his rooftop in Venice Beach, California, he observes the materialism of mid ’60s America and the rat race joined in order to acquire the materials.

All our lives we sweat and slave
Building for a shallow grave

Unlike Morrison, Eliot’s sanctuary was spiritual (he wrote “Ash-Wednesday” shortly after joining the Anglican Church in 1927). He sought peace ordained by God, “Even among these rocks.” Roughly thirty years after his conversion, Eliot described his religious views as a blending of “a Catholic cast of mind, a Calvinist heritage and a Puritanical temperament.” That wasn’t the environment Morrison found in Venice Beach.

“The Soft Parade” is an array of sounds and visions. One could say it was a work with everything – including the kitchen sink (and some may call elements of the track pretentious). It wasn’t so much a song as ”Running Blue” and “Touch Me,” the more direct and accessible tracks on the same album. Quite often, the poet/experimentalist Jim Morrison overwhelmed the rocker Jim Morrison. He had long studied the poets and philosophers, citing their influence. Yet Morrison’s chief talent was creating driving rock and roll with dashes of soul and jazz. He could belt it out with the best of them when it came to wide open, sweaty music –as sweaty as those tent revival preachers on a summer evening in southeast Georgia. After all, when Morrison sang, “I woke up this morning and I got myself a beer,” the effect was far more blissful than hearing “You cannot petition the Lord with prayer.”

People, no matter what kind of music they favor, or faith they embrace, are happy when others pray for them, especially in times of need. In the wake of the Newtown murders, prayers have crowded the skies for the families and friends of the young victims. It is hoped the prayers provide the survivors with just enough strength, if nothing else, to make it through the day. That thought prevails when we “petition the Lord with prayer.” But what about those same parents in Newtown, who prayed daily for their childrens’ safety when they sent them off to school? It’s a mystery; even the people who do pray daily are bound to work the question in their minds over and over again.

The rock artist Darryl Rhoades, who grew up in a South Atlanta suburb, has done his share of pondering as well. On his 2007 album, Weapons of Mass Deception, he brings up the matter in “The Edge of the World.” The song is a prayer of sorts; one that questions God having “a plan.” Rhoades is talking to God, if not petitioning him.

This Could Be the Match of the Milleniums.

In this corner, a deity billions have prayed to. The one recognized throughout the world as Lord of all, whose followers pack His houses of worship every week. His book, printed and distributed by countless publishers since Gutenberg, remains a bestseller.

While in this corner, we present a man some have prayed for. The man who nearly packed the Variety Playhouse in September 2009. He was featured in a 1977 Rolling Stone article. And for the longest time he was this close to a major record deal. Darryl Rhoades!!!!

Sounds like a mismatch.

But “The Edge of the World” is a thoughtful song. Darryl Rhoades isn’t tearing down anyone’s faith. He’s trying to understand aspects of the faith, if not all its mysteries. The song features a pretty melody that emulates an Elvis Costello approach. The vocal by Rhoades, tuneful and clear-eyed, recalls that of Rick Nelson. Upon hearing it, one thinks of how great it would sound on the old car radio. Yet in the days of cruisin’ to the music, the tunes were about missing the only girl you had. “The Edge of the World” concerns missing out on eternal questions.

Rhoades, who grew up in the Church of the Nazarene -just like Gary Hart -appears to be in a lonesome town, an even bleaker outpost than Rick Nelson sung about. It was “a pretty angry place,” he wrote “The Edge of the World” from, according to Rhoades. He was looking up – above the clouds – wondering why two friends were struck down in the prime of life. One had suffered for a long period with cancer. The other died from a heart attack while sitting behind the wheel at a traffic light. Saddened and angry, Rhoades couldn’t fathom why two such gentle people suffered so, only to leave the planet before their time. He looked back at the faith he grew up with, remembering being told over and over of how God loves and cares for us all. It just didn’t make sense to Rhoades. He takes his petition to the Lord:

Hoping is denied
A hunger unsatisfied
In every miracle, I’m told to give you praise
But right now I’m filling up with blame
A lonely soul that needs to know

Rhoades articulates what many of the faithful have gnawing at them after a loved one has died. “What happened? I just knew with the prayer chain up and down the coastline that he’d come through,” many cry out, if only to themselves.

Then there are “miracles” which stir us too. The brother of a friend (known to Rhoades as well) was on his death bed. The hospital was making plans for the bed as it would soon be empty. The man was told he had very little time left. A few hours. The family could come in, say goodbye and at least, lift up a few prayers. In those few hours, however, he took a turn for the better. Several weeks later he was back on the streets of Athens, Georgia in search of the perfect taco.

Before Rhoades returns to the song’s very catchy chorus, crying out, “I’m sliding off the edge of the world and I might not make it back,” he asks God if life’s in vain. Showing some attitude along with his petition, he implores, “Could you explain?”

The apostle Paul said faith is “the evidence of things not seen.” Yet there’s still a lot of mystery to behold. Those picking up or dropping faith are also mysteries to us. People change. Attitides sharpen or they soften. On “Beautiful Boy,” a heartfelt song on his last album released before he was killed, John Lennon sings, “Before you go to sleep, say a little prayer. Every day in every way, it’s getting better and better.” That line intrigued when remembering how Lennon rejected the Bible, Jesus, Gita, etc, ten years earlier in his puzzling but liberating song, “God.” Some mysteries can be discussed for days and nights on end. God and those of us here below move in mysterious ways.

“Roll on John” has a sweet but stoic melody. It chimes and it despairs. So the music lingers as it gives way to the words: the tribute now at hand. More than a simple eulogy, it’s an affirmation that takes in much of Lennon’s life. There was much taking place in those 40 years: growing up in Liverpool, making the friends who’d journey with him, the honing of his craft in Hamburg, delivering a clever line about the cheap seats when giving a Royal command performance in London. On and on in a life so full - but done too soon.

The influence Dylan and Lennon (especially through the Beatles) had on each other is well documented. There was also a sense of rivalry between them coupled with their mutual admiration. Each could be heading in opposite directions and still come up with brilliant works in the same brief span of time. In October ’70, Dylan released his New Morning album, the work of a contented family man, embracing a gentler pace. He sang of building a cabin in Utah, catching rainbow trout and having “a bunch of kids who call me ‘Pa’.” “That must be what it’s all about,” Dylan sang out. He was ”happy to be alive underneath the sky of blue.”

Less than two months later, Lennon released his first post-Beatles solo album, John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band. There would be blue skies ahead for Lennon, but on this outing, the storm clouds gathered. The album served as a catharsis for Lennon. There was a lot to get off his chest. After spending the last decade in what he later dubbed “the greatest show on earth,” Lennon pulled away, shaking things off. In “God,” he let fly, naming all that he no longer believed in. The Bible, Gita, Buddha, Elvis, Kennedy, Beatles and even Dylan (“I don’t believe in Zimmerman”) are dismissed. But he believes in himself and wife Yoko Ono. That’s his existence and he’s got to “carry on.” There are, however, less exacting moments on John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band. In “Hold On,” an amiable tune, he sings of getting things done and how it would be alright. Still, the mood conveyed is far from that of the cabin in Utah.

From there on, Lennon, who had already immortalized the words “all you need is love” and “give peace a chance,” again sounded more optimistic tones in his songs. The man in isolation becomes the dreamer. Lennon’s own dreams came true midway through the 70s when Yoko gave birth to their son, Sean Ono Lennon. The newly contented family man devotes the next five years to hearth and home with Sean the center of his universe. When he returns to the studio to record Double Fantasy, Lennon has the bell ringing in celebration, a one hundred and eighty degree turn from the way John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band commenced.

The 70s had been busy – and interesting - for Dylan too. Since New Morning, he came forth with a potpourri of sounds, styles and forums. He made his own film, Renaldo and Clara, just a few years after recording the original soundtrack album for Sam Peckinpah’s, Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid. There were three live albums. Also released was The Basement Tapes, the ’67 recordings he made with The Band. Between ’74 and ’79, there were five studio albums, three of them ranking among career highs, especially Blood on the Tracks. The pain felt by Dylan over the separation from wife Sara colors and drives Blood on the Tracks, according to many who’ve closely followed his career. Dylan has countered that perspective, claiming the songs were based on short stories by Chekhov, even though son Jakob has said ”the songs are my parents talking.” He was more open, however, about what drove his ’79 album, Slow Train Coming. It was his new-found Christianity. Dylan loses his marriage, hits the road, finds Jesus and moves on- faster than any train.

Dylan and Lennon, each delivering much of the brains and brawn in music over the previous twenty years, had more thoughts and melodies in their heads. On a roll after the Double Fantasy sessions, Lennon was back in the studio, working on the next album. His nearly six-year hiatus from recording left a void in our daily sounds but now he was back in the game. Happy with where life had taken him, even writing a new song entitled ”Life Begins at 40,” John Lennon was stepping out again.

Late in the evening of December 8, 1980, Lennon took his last steps. The cruelty occurring that moment is still felt. So senseless. Another selfish action by another depraved mind. In “Roll on John,” Dylan walks us through the moment. The memory, still fresh, becomes more vivid.

He turned around and slowly walked away
They shot him in the back and down he went

The depraved mind, having conducted his business, with captors on the way, opens the pages of The Catcher In The Rye and presumably reads. Soon, the world takes in the shocking report.

I heard the news today, oh boy
They hauled your ship up on the shore
Now the city’s gone dark
There’s no more joy
They tore the heart right out and cut it to the core

John Lennon was taken from us, but still he shines on, “like the moon and the stars and the sun.” We know that. So does Dylan.

Shine your light, move it on, you burn so bright, roll on John

Writing of “Roll on John” in Counterpunch, Peter Stone Brown notes how “Dylan tells various parts and aspects of Lennon’s story and it’s one of those things where you have to hear the way he sings the lines he quotes.” Music’s top wordsmith of the last 50 years recognizes Lennon had a lot of great lines, dropping a few in “Roll on John.” On that terrible night, December 8, 1980, coming through loud and clear were the words that summed up everything, “I think I’m gonna be sad, I think it’s today.” And though we’re still sad, John rolls on.

In Wonder Boys, the film that Dylan wrote “Things Have Changed” for, there’s a lot of sloughing off by principal character, Grady Tripp. A talented writer and appealing in enough ways to attract three beautiful young women to marry him over time, Grady has what it takes to charm the birds out of the trees. But what would he do with the birds? He’s content to slough off troubles, caused by him or not, then move on. To his advantage, he seems quite affable when doing so.

As Wonder Boys opens, Grady, in a voice-over, describes his current plight. It sounds like an extended time of misery awaits him, but he’ll muddle through it.

“I was distracted. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that my wife had left me that morning. Maybe not. Wives had left me before.”

Open Up The Gate For You … By the film’s end, Grady stops muddling. He’s made some choices and has acted as honorably as possible, given the circumstances. There’s a fourth wife and a baby who depend on him, at least for love and attention. He’s moved away from his reliance on marijuana. Life without the haze looks good after all. Grady Tripp, at age 50, is finally going to fit in as an adult.

Wonder Boys director Curtis Hanson did great work in selecting music for the film. Besides “Things Have Changed,” there were three other Dylan songs on the soundtrack. The songs by Dylan and others, especially those by John Lennon, Van Morrison and Neil Young, fit perfectly with various moments of the film. With Neil Young singing “Old Man” in the background as Grady limps across a Howard Johnson’s parking lot, the image hits home. Grady, played by longtime Hollywood golden boy, Michael Douglas, is old. He’s older than it says on his driver’s license – and he can feel it. It’s a way to age, but no way to live.

When first watching Wonder Boys a decade or so ago, it was easy to think of golden boys and girls from my early adult years. What happened with them? Did they live up to their promise or land in jail? Some landed six feet under too soon. A friend who once glowed with youthful promise described a rough two-three years. “Boy, I raised hell. I got fired. I got divorced. I just bummed around. It was fun, though.” Of course, his conservative politics hadn’t changed. Oh well. He was likely to sleep through election days anyway. Another old friend, who spent a goodly portion of his early 20s in a Grady-like haze and often on the verge of losing his job, was jolted into major league responsibility. He married a woman who had a background vastly different than what she claimed before walking down the aisle. There was the possibility of him losing contact with their child. He straightened up and flew right. The guy became so upright that it was a bit unsettling.

Another old friend, always supportive of the Left, showed up in the early to mid ’80s. It was great to see him after all the years. We talked politics. Things had changed. He embraced conservative views, even going as far to support the Reagan Administration’s policies in Central America, jingoistic as they were. He explained,”I have kids now; I understand what Reagan’s doing and support him.” Oh. So he had kids. One day his kids could end up in the revival of the American roadshow that failed our country so in Vietnam. His kids may not make it back from El Salvador, Honduras, Nicaragua, wherever. Who knew what a William Casey would conjure up and how long would we be at it? If the guy really cared about those kids, he needed to ask more questions.

Roads Stretch Out … In youthful days, politics are often fashion. As in high school and college, people may gravitate toward the political beliefs of their friends for a short time, just as they’ll buy the same music as their friends. When working a chain store’s record department in the early ’70s, I was often amused at the cross section of local youth who purchased Machine Head. There were a lot of friends to impress. It’s reminiscent of Animal House when the boys are on the way to an elite girls college, hoping to score with the dates they’ve yet to meet. “Just mention modern art, civil rights or folk music and you’re in like Flynn,” Boon, the “road trip” veteran tells his pals.

Of all the frat boys, Boon seemed the most knowing of the world existing outside Delta House. If only he’d applied himself in school, he would’ve made Dean Wermer proud. Boon was played by Peter Riegert, who gave an impressive performance of the Red-baiting Congressman Richard Nixon in the ’84 PBS film, Concealed Enemies. In the film, as it was in real-life Washington, D.C., Nixon wins the day over Alger Hiss. That put Nixon in good shape in 1950 as he pursued one of the California seats in the U.S. Senate and even better as Dwight David Eisenhower’s running mate on the Republican ticket two years later. Riegert’s portrayal of the relentless politician was convincing. It was Classic Nixon, already the Campaigner, a role Neil Young realized Richard Nixon had filled all his political life. It was a role, for all intents and purposes, that lasted until he took his last breath in 1994.

Some Are Bound To Live With Less … Young’s song, “Campaigner,” included on his ’77 Decade collection, provides a sympathetic view of Nixon. The two years after Nixon left the White House in disgrace were tough ones. He and wife Pat both dealt with life-threatening illnesses. Neil Young, a traveler on the human highway, felt sorry for Nixon, noting in “Campaigner” a place “Where even Richard Nixon has got soul.”

When including the years of exile for Nixon – lasting from his resignation as President until his death – his political career lasted roughly the same amount of years as Neil Young has already put in as a singer-songwriter. That’s a lot of writing and singing. And Young has addressed political matters in many of his songs. Nixon made his first appearance in a Neil Young song, “Ohio.” His view of Nixon then, in the wake of the Kent State murders, was hardly sympathetic. Neither was it in “War Song,” a song written and recorded two years later with Graham Nash in support of George McGovern’s ’72 presidential run.

Even though he maintains his Canadian citizenship and cannot vote in U.S. elections, Young has maintained a great interest in American politics while offering not-so-predictable political opinions. Young inveighed against racial discrimination in the South on a pair of his early ’70s songs, “Southern Man” and “Alabama.” Both songs captured the brutality of life in the region where Jim Crow too often got his way. But Young still expressed a desire to “make friends in Alabama.” Given the horrible truths witnessed so close by, Young’s judgments seemed fair and his call for friendship admirable. But in his book, Waging Heavy Peace, Young admits his view of “Alabama” has changed. He writes that “I don’t like my words when I listen to it today. They are accusatory and condescending, not fully thought out, and too easy to misconstrue.” Yet another change of heart from Neil Young, one not called for, but indicative of what we experience with many of our longtime friends.

A way of keeping up with old friends these days is via Facebook, every bit as annoying, maybe more so, as it is helpful. We call it social media but on many days, it’s social disease. Between pronouncements from some friends that they’re eating nachos or sitting in traffic (Where else do Atlantans sit?), there are thoughtful comments. Some, like writer Tony Paris, place a lot of photos from Atlanta’s music scene of 30 and more years ago. Then we have those who are quite political, making pronouncements as if they’re running for office. You wonder how that nice, quiet person’s politics evolved. One also questions a person’s sensibility.

After the unspeakably awful killings in Newtown, people, using the social network as a soapbox, went on defense, calling out so-called foes of civil society seeking more control on the sale of weapons and ammo. Especially surprising were comments by a friend who experienced a personal tragedy in the late ’90s. A drunk driver ended his girlfriend’s life. The pain felt for our co-worker was palpable throughout the building. Something like this shouldn’t happen to such good people, it was said over and over. Nearly everyone wanted to speak with him about his loss and talk intensely about it. Not me. What can one say? I thought it wise to approach him and talk about what we usually did: baseball. After covering the latest on the Atlanta Braves, I headed back to the desk, but before walking away, he said, “Hey thanks, I appreciate you coming over and not talking about, well, you know.”

What Your Good Book Said … Most striking about my friend’s attack on even the mildest form of gun control wasn’t his position on the issue. No surprise there – he no doubt goes along with the recent opinion of the Second Amendment as expressed by the Supreme Court. The disturbing element was the lack of sympathy he and his Facebook chums conveyed for the victims of the Newtown shootings. And only three days later. The commenters threw in attacks on liberals, Democrats and Progressives who “want to build a socialistic utopia without God.” What must they think about liberals who still attend Christian churches, Evangelical and otherwise? And did they rip out the 5th chapter from the Gospel of Matthew? They must be more comfortable with an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. Their promised land is where all the righteous are well-armed with God on their side. Strange times indeed.

This takes us back to the days that used to be. When even in the midst of tragedy, voices were sober and responsible people didn’t provide forums to bozos who complained of a “lamestream media” or argued for more of what was killing us. Watching the ’69 TV documentary, Theodore White’s The Making of the President 1968, one is reminded, of how, even in that violent period, Americans grasped and shared the sorrows of others. A telling and touching segment covers the assassination of Bobby Kennedy in June ’68 at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles. Cameras are at the Eugene McCarthy headquarters across town at the Hilton as campaign workers lament their man’s defeat in the California Democratic Primary. Then the news comes on their TVs. RFK has been shot. The young campaign workers – the kids who had gone “Clean for Gene” – take in the news and break into tears. They’re seriously weakened by the news. The scene hits home as much as any dramatic piece could. McCarthy and his campaign were not enamored with Kennedy. McCarthy had broken considerable ground less than three months earlier garnering the anti-war vote only to see RFK enter the race once he decided the time was right. Serious bitterness existed between the two campaigns. It all disapeared, however, as the McCarthy people recognized the tragedy and the chaos overwhelming their country. Their tears were for RFK, the fading hopes for peace – and their country. If TV news had then been as wide-open and boisterous as it is now, there would’ve been interviews with NRA types claiming RFK would still be alive if he had only been armed when walking through the hotel’s kitchen.

The times have kept changing and not the way envisioned. People get more information but they’re less informed. And they insist on talking – or shouting – like crazies. Times that aren’t so strange would be most welcomed.

Always in the rotation at the closest CD player is Willie Nelson’s  Hill Country Christmas album. It’s a simple down-home collaboration from Willie and Bobbie Nelson, as inspiring as anything Handel could work up. There are no silly takes on the season that pop up repeatedly on the airwaves each year. No overblown production. No Celine Dion-type histrionics. As Handel would say, Hallelujah for that.

Willie, with his battered Django-accented guitar and pianist Bobbie,who puts flair into her purpose, are joined by Freddy Fletcher on drums and Jon Blondell on bass and horns. Kimmie Rhodes provides backing vocals and via another Christmas miracle (or dubbing), Gene Autry joins Willie on his ’40s hit, “Here Comes Santa Claus.” So, as expected from Willie Nelson, it gets festive, but it also gets reflective. With a thoughtful spirit Irving Berlin would appreciate, Nelson delivers a memorable version of “White Christmas,” just following the jolly moments of “Deck the Halls.” Is there an artist better at calling for or causing a celebration than Willie? Not really; his music is the stuff of joyful times, from the 4th of July on. That said, he also provides some clarity on what’s behind the Yule tide treasure.

The strongest musical moments of Hill Country Christmas are the Nelson takes on the traditional songs extolling the birth of Christ, such as “Away In A Manger,” “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” “Silent Night,” and “Hark the Herald Angels Sing.” Willie adorns the simplicity of the songs with an humble sheen, like a single string of lights across a bare Christmas tree. There are great results when one doesn’t seek to enhance things of natural beauty too much.

Then too, particularly on the spiritual songs, is Bobbie’s joyful noise on the piano, mixing a high spirit with what’s heard on high. Bobbie Nelson’s unpretentious but artful work recalls my Aunt Mary Lois on the 88s at the country church when we sang “Dwelling in Beulah Land.” Feasting on the manna from a bountiful supply…..

The crowning achievement of Hill Country Christmas is “El Nino,” a Willie Nelson original. It’s a gorgeous song about the birth in the stable. There’s the sense of hope as Nelson sings, “He is born.” The great songwriter declares, “There’s a reason to carry on,” and “Write another song;” after all, “love is here.” Bobbie’s playing on the vocal and  instrumental versions of the song captivate. There’s mystery in her approach, and since faith is said to be the evidence of things unseen, her work on the piano is heaven-sent.

Willie and Bobbie Nelson bring to mind the role of Linus Van Pelt when he recited from the second chapter of Luke, reminding Charlie Brown of the true meaning of Christmas. Good old Charlie Brown, disturbed with the commercialism of the holiday, couldn’t fathom the joy. His good sense made him cynical, but it kept hope out of reach. The words Linus spoke lifted his spirits and, amazingly enough, the acquisitive kids around him.

Even with the glow of A Charlie Brown Christmas, it must be remembered Charlie Brown was just 6 or 7 years old. He wasn’t a grown-up having a blue Christmas. Adults are equipped with yearnings hard to shake, as Joni Mitchell tells it, wistfully, on “River.”

“River” isn’t a Christmas song, but then again, it is. Mitchell bangs out a bluesy “Jingle Bells” on piano as “River” opens and sings that “It’s coming on Christmas” and people are “singing songs of joy and peace.” But with her man gone, there’s no joy and she’s not making peace with the situation. She just wants to get away. “I wish I had a river I could skate away on,” she sings.

Mitchell’s character in “River” blames herself. She was selfish and hard to handle, therefore she laments, “Now I’ve gone and lost the best baby that I ever had.” He’s not coming back. Living in Los Angeles, far away from the colder climes she knew most of her life, she desires a large enough patch of ice to skate away on. But she knows better. There’ll be no “White Christmas” in Southern California. Mitchell and the song’s character have to remember what Darlene Love said, “There’s never been such a day in old L.A..” Darlene Love, in the Phil Spector version of “White Christmas,” sang as one who just wants to be up north and see the snow. Mitchell’s character, although calling her environment a “crazy scene” would be content, far from her prairie home, if she were joined again by the one who tried to help her. But she’s an exile in what many still think of as paradise. She could care less about the pleasant climate and being so close to where, as Neil Young wrote, “the mountains meet the sand.”

“River” is one of ten great songs on her Blue album, released in June ’71. Eight years after the album’s release, she told Rolling Stone there was “hardly a dishonest note in the vocals,” then adding, “At that period of my life, I had no personal defenses. I felt like a cellophane wrapper on a pack of cigarettes.I felt like I had absolutely no secrets from the world, and I couldn’t pretend in my life to be strong. Or be happy.” Mitchell did learn to be a keen observer of herself and those around her, which made her even sharper as a songwriter.

On an Atlanta stage one evening in ’73, David Crosby, with Graham Nash at his side, called Mitchell the greatest songwriter around. Crosby, quite generous with his thoughts, went into a long discourse of why he was so taken with her talents, but no words said it as well as did the version of Mitchell’s “For Free” he and Nash did that evening. Earlier that year Crosby had sung a fine rendition of “For Free” on the reunion album by the original Byrds. Crosby did a fine job of it on Byrds; it was an album highlight. However, that night in Atlanta, he really put it across. It was clear that he, like Mitchell, had lived the song. “For Free” is about a star in the music world checking out the everyday life from the protective bubble of limos and “velvet curtain calls.” The star plays for fortune but keeps thinking of a busker playing the street corners, making nothing, just “playing real good for free.”

Mitchell’s deft touch is evident on “For Free” and dozens of her songs, particularly “River.” There’s not much explaining, her backdrop is spare. On “River,” the sly and quick but key inclusion of Christmas music on her piano brings a technicolor clarity to the story. It’s familiar and it’s reality. Whatever the locale - L.A. or the cold Canadian prairies – a blue Christmas does come along. You can’t skate away from it.

The gospel according to Robbie Robertson

“Christmas Must Be Tonight” was a highlight of Islands, a patchwork of songs that made up The Band’s last studio album, at least that of the original group. The Band’s guitarist and primary songwriter, Robbie Robertson, said he was tired of the road, thus pulling the plug on a great rock institution. Robertson also had other things on his mind, like the recent birth of his son, Sebastian. The blessing of Sebastian’s birth inspired Robertson, causing him to dwell on another birth some 2000 years before. Hence “Christmas Must Be Tonight.”

The Band delivered a lovely and earnest performance on the euphonic song, matching the joy felt by Robertson. Rick Danko, taking the role of shepherd abiding in the field, is the first of the three singers to share the Christmas story. The words aren’t straight from the Gospels, but the spirit hews closely to what’s reported in the second chapter of Luke. Danko is joined by mates Richard Manuel and Levon Helm and they harmonize beautifully. The feelings of a ”simple herdsman such as I,” spellbound by the angels calling on him to fear not and rejoice are conveyed, as is the humility of witnesses in the fields and those in the manger. It’s a great retelling of a familiar narrative by a master songwriter. Robbie Robertson understands the way an humble shepherd felt, just as he empathized with the plight of a Virgil Caine.

Hearing Danko, Manuel and Helm together on the chorus is always wondrous. Their performance reflects the joyous spirit felt by those who regard the story as an article of faith as well as Robertson’s delight when his son entered the world.

How a little baby boy bring the people so much joy
Son of a carpenter, Mary carried the light
This must be Christmas, must be tonight

Many parents have sensed the same elation as did Robbie Robertson. When mine and Gena’s son, Andrew, was born one April day in ’86, it seemed I flew to the waiting room to tell family members. My mother said she had never seen me so happy. True enough; no one had.

“Christmas Must Be Tonight” was recorded during the sessions for The Band’s Northern Lights -Southern Cross album, released in late ’75. The album was essentially the group’s last cohesive studio collection and would have served as a more proper setting for “Christmas Must Be Tonight,” which would not be made available until the March ’77 release of Islands, a few months after The Band’s farewell performance in San Francisco. The song would have been welcomed with open arms, especially by those of us working at the Atlanta Peaches Records and Tapes, during the ’75 holiday season.

As Christmas Day drew closer, it meant that soon we wouldn’t have to hear Greg Lake’s “I Believe in Father Christmas” dozens of times each work shift. The bassist for Emerson Lake and Palmer had just released his solo single and decision-makers at his label, Atlantic Records, did backflips to promote it. Lyrically, the song isn’t an endorsement of the Christmas message and that’s  fine. It’s a big world out there and perspectives are shaped by environment and what’s experienced. But the song’s bombastic production set up against Lake’s preening vocal was too much. It’s a hazard when rock stars want their songs to sound like Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture.

What Lucky Men We Were . . . . For those of us working the front at Peaches, we got to hear the boom, boom, boom in Lake’s song a dozen or more times each hour. Atlantic Records had brought in a large TV with what then passed for a video player. As shoppers walked in the store, there was always an opportunity for them to see and hear Greg Lake proclaim his faith in Father Christmas. Welcome now my friends to the show that never ends.

One day a few of us decided enough was enough and found a football game on the set to watch. Greg Lake could take five….. Five hours or more would be fine, Greg.

The football game was on. Who knew who was playing? Who cared? We had been liberated from All -Greg- Lake-All- The-Time.

One of our managers came walking up and stopped to watch the game in progress, as if he had some interest in it. And for a few minutes he did. Then he remembered he was in management and said, “Get that Greg Lake thing back on. Do you know how pissed the Atlantic people would be if they came by and saw us watching football on their set?” Knowing the Atlantic guys to be reasonable sorts, I answered, “Oh, they’d understand.”

*Robbie Robertson recorded a version of “Christmas Must Be Tonight” for the 1988 film, Scrooged. The latter-day version falls far short of the beauty created by The Band more than a decade earlier. Let’s just say it’s a real ’80s version.

The latest day of horror was last Friday, December 14, 2012. It’s a tough one to sort through. The news of the mass murder in Newtown, Connecticut only got worse with each new report from early afternoon on. Too much to take in. But it’s all you can think about. And you think it through over and over again and still you can’t imagine the pain of the families, especially the parents of the 20 murdered children. We’re not equipped to absorb that much pain.

Less than two weeks after the unimaginable comes Christmas Day, a celebration focused on children and the birth of a child some 2000 years ago. In many cases, the meaning of the holiday compels us to feel more kindhearted and less judgmental, but in this modern world and particularly now, with the mass murder at Sandy Hook Elementary School, all one can feel is anger at how things have fallen apart. Despite our nation’s power and wealth, like the figure in that great song by the Clash, we’re “lost in the supermarket… can no longer shop happily.”

Still, Americans like to think of themselves as concerned and generous. Think of the last few minutes of Frank Capra’s film, It’s A Wonderful Life. When we see it each year, we like to believe we’re like that, working hand in hand with angels. Think again.

A few weeks ago, my wife and I went to see the film, Lincoln. It was rewarding to see the portrayal by Daniel Day Lewis of the great man. Lewis’s performance brings us closer to the iconic president. Of course, thoughts on Lincoln can also lead to melancholia and that’s the direction Gena and I took on our way home. Thoughts drifted to the assassinated president of our lifetime, John F. Kennedy. In his inaugural address, JFK called on Americans to ask what they can do for their country. Less than three years later, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. spoke to a crowd of over 200,000 about his dream in which “justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.” Many of those who heard Dr, King were also familiar with a recently released Bob Dylan song, “Blowin; in the Wind,” that called for weapons to be “forever banned.” We looked back at those years of promise and took in the failures of our generation. So much wealth, energy, talent and creativity squandered.

Returning to town from the cinema in the close-in suburbs, we passed the big box stores and shopping palaces, many with empty storefronts that served as evidence of greed, materialism and plundering of the land. There were times, we thought, when it seemed the baby boomers could turn things around, even as we found ourselves well into our adult years. As the ’80s ended, Garry Trudeau’s “Doonesbury” characters, in a Sunday strip, said goodbye to wretched excess, corruption, and mindless consumption while greeting the new decade. We could only hope.

In September ’89, Bob Dylan released his Oh Mercy album, which often suggested a prayerful spirit. Rolling Stone critic Anthony Decurtis noted Dylan’s new songs with “biblical shadings” that held to “a faith that is millenarian but far more generous than the one he articulated on his more overtly Christian records.” Dylan also served as social critic on “Political World,” singing of how “Wisdom is thrown into jail” and again on “Everything Is Broken” where he laments “Broken hands on broken ploughs” and “Broken treaties, broken vows.” On “Shooting Star,” the song that closes Oh Mercy, he reflects on things that go beyond the temporal:

Listen to the engine, listen to the bell
As the last fire truck from hell
Goes rolling by
All good people are praying
It’s the last temptation, the last account
The last time you might hear the sermon on the mount
The last radio is playing

“Shooting Star” conveys the reverent mood and melodic sense that imbued Curtis Mayfield’s “People Get Ready.” It takes one out of the everyday pursuits like those of the political world, which is part and parcel of the tragedy in Newtown.

“Mercy walks the plank,” Dylan wrote, no matter what, in the political world. First we have to deal with the Bulletheads who believe it bad form to speak up for stricter gun laws in this tragic time. They hurl their sweeping statements, absolving blame from policies they support. Then we have the Bulletheads’ partners in politics, the right-wing Christians, following in the grand tradition of Pat Robertson, James Dobson and the late Jerry Falwell, whose concern of peoples’ pleasure-seeking allowed them to spin wildly out of control.

Former Arkansas Governor Mike Huckabee, who worked to give the impression in his 2008 presidential run that he and Keith Richards were buds, couldn’t help himself from weighing in at the pulpit that is Fox News. “We ask why there is violence in our schools, but we have systematically removed God from our schools, Huckabee declared, then asking, “Should we be so surprised that schools would become a place of carnage?” Huckabee, also a minister in the Southern Baptist denomination, has little sense of nuance; his followers probably less. They make up a modern day version of the Scribes and Pharisees. Their convoluted logic frees them to grant the NRA a pass while blaming Supreme Court decisions made in ’62 and ’63.

Millions of Americans, whatever their thoughts regarding prayer in public schools, aren’t setting God aside. They’re seeking Him out in a time when they have no answers to what happened last Friday. They want guidance and succor from those who’ve studied the scriptures and embrace a loving God, not one moving about spitefully.

The pain the parents feel will never go away. When they sent their kids off to school that morning, they thought another typical weekend was ahead. Dad would pick up pizza or Mom might drive some of them over to a friend’s house to spend the night. Maybe there’d be a Christmas program at their church to attend or perhaps they’d go to the mall and the kids could see Santa.

On “Ring Them Bells,” another of the Oh Mercy songs that implies a strong faith, Dylan’s words hit home.

Ring them bells for the times that flies
For the child that cries
When innocence dies.

Not only does the child feel sadness over the loss of innocence. Those of us who thought the innocent days disappeared with the assassination of JFK  feel the pain once again. It happens whenever goodness is taken from us for no good reason.

Sunday evenings are slow at Capp’s. The evening of March 26, 2001 was proceeding as most every Sunday there. The one difference was that instead of taking in the music of Sinatra, Martin and Bennett, the few patrons there looked up at the TV above the bar. The Academy Awards was on. For a few kindred spirits who love films but pay little mind to the hype of Hollywood, something special demanded our attention: Bob Dylan’s “Things Have Changed,” evoking the sensibility of Wonder Boys, the film for which it was written, was an Oscar nominee for best song. Prior to Jennifer Lopez naming the winner, a special treat was in store: Dylan and his band would perform “Things Have Changed” via live feed from Australia. Dylan gave a forceful and compelling rendering of the song, which like much of his best work, is as robust and vital upon hearing it the hundredth time as it was the first. In a neighborhood where Dylan had some friends and some history, there was a sense of celebration while watching him on Capp’s TV. Most of us, either 10 years older or younger than the other, recognized ”Things Have Changed” for what it was, a song that reflected both the puzzling and affirmative aspects of lives led since the ’60s, when the times were changing and seemed as hopeful as the melody of Dylan’s “I Want You,” recorded in 1966, years before we started dealing with the consequences of changes and choices.

Finally, Ms. Lopez, with at least another decade ahead to greet shoppers from magazine racks in grocery store lines, made the announcement. Bob Dylan had won. How could he not? Try and think of any song written for a film as good since Lennon and McCartney wrote their eight songs for A Hard Day’s Night. But we cheered on as if it was a wonderful surprise. Another Moretti to celebrate and then up Powell and through Chinatown to the hotel.

The spontaneously-assembled Dylan pep rally was in keeping with the spirit of Capp’s Corner. Standing by the  restaurant’s bar in the historic neighborhood, one could sense the connection with history: local and national. Then into his fifth decade of reflecting and making history, Dylan had his Oscar. He could now take his place with an old Capp’s Corner regular, Frank Sinatra, who won  for Best Supporting Actor (From Here to Eternity) on March 25, 1954. Less than three months earlier, Sinatra’s friend, San Francisco native and baseball great Joe DiMaggio got his own Hollywood prize when he married Marilyn Monroe. The DiMaggio-Monroe union didn’t last a year, but the aura it created lives on in American culture. The relationship was impossible for the couple to shake also, as DiMaggio, on August 1, 1962, asked Monroe to remarry him. Monroe was found dead four days later. (According to some reports, Monroe’s funeral was on the day she and DiMaggio were to marry again.)

In conversations about DiMaggio at Capp’s Corner, it was his dazzling skills as a baseball player, not his marriages, that were most often mentioned. DiMaggio was a friend, apt to drop in at Capp’s from time to time. He had connections at the restaurant that took him back to childhood. As a boy, DiMaggio delivered copies of the San Francisco Call-Bulletin. One of his co-workers, also a teammate on the City’s sandlots was Dante Benedetti, who never made it to the big leagues but did coach the University of San Francisco baseball team for 16 years. Benedetti also operated his family’s restauarant, New Pisa, just a short walk from where Joe Caporale opened Capp’s Corner in 1960. Caporale was yet another competitor for Benedetti in North Beach’s crowded field of Italian restaurants, but that was fine; he and Caporale went back a long way. As a district circulation manager of the Call-Bulletin, Caporale was Benedetti’s boss when he and DiMaggio delivered the papers.Benedetti proved a reliable employee but Caporale had to fire DiMaggio. Too often, Joltin’ Joe skipped work to play baseball.

DiMaggio was the Wonder Boy for many Americans from the mid-’30s on. He played baseball as beautifully as anyone who ever took the field. At the beginning of his last season (1951) as a player, he said, “There is always some kid who may be seeing me for the first or last time, I owe him my best.” In retirement, DiMaggio married America’s Wonder Girl and he was immortalized in Simon and Garfunkel’s “Mrs. Robinson” some 17 years after he left the game. It was in keeping with DiMaggio’s legend that he also is a part of Wonder Boys.

Wonder Boys was one of several films that seemed intriguing but I hadn’t seen yet. The film’s director, Curtis Hanson, was known for making smart and intense films like The Hand That Rocks the Cradle, The River Wild and L.A. Confidential. Dylan admired Hanson’s work and expressed interest in writing an original song for Wonder Boys.  Based on Michael Chabon’s novel, Wonder Boys explores one life in particular, that of Grady Tripp, a Professor of Creative Writing at a college in Pittsburgh. Tripp is, naturally, a gifted writer but in the seven years since his breakthrough novel won him a Pen Award, he’s struggled with finding his voice and then containing it. 2611 pages into his follow-up, he says the ending keeps getting further out of reach. Grady, played by Michael Douglas, has trouble making choices with his writing and his life.  After three failed marriages, the choices he’s made have not turned out so well. As in the words of Dylan’s song, Grady is “a worried man with a worried mind.”  Thankfully, he has tenure at the college, but otherwise Tripp seems in a downward spiral. What he depends on to get him through the days, marijuana, is also what keeps Tripp in a fog, enabling him to postpone making choices. For all his interpretive skills with literature, the good-hearted Tripp is unable to connect the dots in his own life. Then on a snowy Pittsburgh weekend, he gets a cram course in decision-making. He must make up his mind, follow through and take care of those affected by his choices. In “Things Have Changed,” Dylan sings, “Lot of water under the bridge, lot of other stuff too.” Grady Tripp, through hard-learned lessons, looks down from the figurative bridge. Things would change for him and at long last, he could see past the haze.

Tripp’s third wife, young and beautiful like the first two, has just left him, apparently for good this time. He knows he let her down and would like to say something that would make her feel better. Then he would consider his next step, the one he’d take with his girlfriend, who’s just told him she’s pregnant with his child. But complicating matters further is that his girlfriend, Sara, is married to his boss, the head of the English department. Sara, the college’s Chancellor, played by Francis McDormand, is all at once weary and loving with Grady. And even though it may go against Sara’s better judgement, she’s hopeful he’ll decide to take that next step with her .

Along the way, Grady, in need of serious guidance himself, can’t help but try to help one of his students, James Lear, whose talent for lying nearly exceeds his writing skills. Grady tells Sara he’s helping Lear “through some issues.” Sara jabs Grady by noting Lear’s good luck. What Sara doesn’t know is that Lear is forcing some issues on her. Lear has stolen her husband’s prized possession: the jacket worn by Marilyn Monroe on the day she married Joe DiMaggio. Sara’s husband, Walter Gaskell, is both pompous and understated: except for not realizing his wife is sleeping with one of his employees, Walter is keen and worthy of his Harvard diploma. He’s most impassioned, though, about the DiMaggio-Monroe marriage, believing it emblematic of modern American life

While Walter fumes over the disappearance of the Monroe jacket, as well as his dog, Poe, Grady is back into the weekend which has already included calamities, criminal intentions and unexpected turns, many quite comical. And all in all, even with the betrayals, broken marriages, the loss of the valuable artifact, a badly infected ankle and a dead dog found in Lear’s bed, matters are resolved. James Lear gets his novel published while Grady’s work-in-progress, nearly all 2611 pages of it, is flotsam on the Monongahela. That’s liberation for both James and Grady.

Everybody gets enough of what they get to want. In the manevering that brings closure in Wonder Boys, Walter Gaskell will get his book published. It’s a treatise on the DiMaggio-Monroe story, tentatively entitled The Last American Marriage. Perhaps City Lights Books, a few blocks over from Capp’s Corner, would have a copy in the window to entice passersby. Enticed, one could go into Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s wonderful store and purchase a copy to read while enjoying the camaraderie at the bar in Capp’s. Dante Benedetti, who later on his life, would live upstairs from Capp’s, had little to say about DiMaggio as sociological figure, but he would regale you with stories of how he and Joe played the game when they were kids and how his friend, “the best baseball player that ever lived,” paid him tribute that day in 1980 when the USF baseball diamond was named in his honor. Speaking at the dedication, “DiMaggio said, “When I refer to Dante Benedetti, I refer to him as Mr. Baseball.”

Ferlinghetti might’ve enjoyed heading to Capp’s and joining in a conversation with his customer about earlier times in North Beach, Joe DiMaggio and baseball in general. Besides, as was Benedetti, Ferlinghetti is a gentle soul with a sweet-natured demeanor, not what people would expect from one who shocked proper society by publishing Allen Ginsberg’s Howl. Ferlinghetti also knows his baseball. After all, he wrote the great poem, “Baseball Canto,” about a 1960s game between the San Francisco Giants and Los Angeles Dodgers. The great poet delivers his own brand of play-by-play.

Watching baseball, sitting in the sun, eating popcorn,

reading Ezra Pound

and wishing that Juan Marichal would hit a hole right through the

Anglo-Saxon tradition in the first Canto

and demolish the barbarian invaders.

A live recording of Ferlinghetti reciting “Baseball Canto” was featured on the “Baseball” edition of Bob Dylan’s Theme Time Radio Hour on XM in 2006. Also featured on the program were two songs about Joe DiMaggio, “Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio” by Les Brown and His Orchestra, and “Joe DiMaggio’s Done It Again” performed by Billy Bragg and Wilco (the song’s lyrics were written by Woody Guthrie). Wilco’s Jeff Tweedy provides the play-by-play as Woody Guthrie conjured it:

Up along them clouds where the eagle

roams: Joe

cracked that ball to whine and moaann; His

buddies laugh as they trot on in, Joe

Deemaggyoe’s done it again!

Dylan’s fondness for baseball was well-known prior to his show honoring the grand old game. In ’76 he and Jacques Levy co-wrote “Catfish,” a tribute to pitching great, Jim “Catfish” Hunter. The year before, Hunter, in his first season as a New York Yankee, won 23 games while pitching 328 innings. That kind of work ethic had to appeal to Dylan, who this year, at the age of 71, gave 87 concerts in 8 months across 3 continents.

Bob Dylan has proven the road warrior, particularly since the late ’80s. However, in the early stages of his so-called “Never-Ending Tour,” he began to experience, for the most extended part of his career, a writer’s block. In 1992, Robert Hilburn of the Los Angeles Times reported on how Dylan admitted the songs didn’t come as quickly as they did before. It was, Hilburn wrote, “a delicate topic,” but Dylan was forthcoming:

“Songs are mostly personal – something happens in your life or flashes through and then it’s gone, and sometimes it’s a song and sometimes it’s just lose. Sometimes things work, sometimes they don’t.”

“Part of the secret of being a songwriter is to have an audacious attitude. There was a time when the songs would come around three or four at the same time, but those days are long gone.”

“Once in a while, the odd song will come to me like a bulldog at the garden gate and demand to be written. But most of them are rejected out of my mind right away. You get caught up in wondering if anyone really needs to hear it. Maybe a person gets to the point where they have written enough songs. Let someone else write them.”

Ain’t No Shortcuts . . . .  By the time Dylan won his Oscar for “Things Have Changed,” he was already on the comeback trail, again writing songs at a steady clip. On September 30, 1997, he released Time Out of Mind, his first album of original material in over 7 years. It was worth the wait. Bob Dylan had recorded nine new songs that were moving, gritty and stark. For him and his listeners, the songs worked.

Like Catfish Hunter, Dylan was ready to log some serious innings again. The thought and effort that went into “Things Have Changed” made that clear. Dylan paid a visit to Curtis Hanson one day as the director was going through some rough footage of Wonder Boys. “I told him the story and introduced him to the characters. We talked a lot about Grady Tripp and where he was in life – creatively and emotionally,” Hanson said after the film’s release. Hanson’s emotions must have been running high. It had long been a dream of his that Bob Dylan would one day contribute an original song to one of his films. And there he was, 27 years after Dylan had written the soundtrack for Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid, talking with the man about the song.

Weeks later, elation arrived on a CD. Hanson popped the CD in a player and his dream was fully realized; “There was Bob Dylan singing about a lot of water under the bridge . . . Dylan’s unique voice and imagery capturing the spirit and troubles of Grady Tripp and in so doing, the soul of Wonder Boys,” Hanson said, adding it was “Dylan’s own caustic mid-life commentary on life at the turn of the new century. We’re lucky to have it.”

No doubt, the song is brilliant. It possesses the element of surprise as did ”The Groom’s Still Waiting at the Altar,” “Cold Iron Bounds,”  and “Honest With Me,” to name just a few Dylan songs of consequence. The words and thoughts come flying out with verve. When the song comes on, attention must be paid.

Postscript: While preparing this story, a friend informed me of the similarity of “Things Have Changed” to Marty Stuart’s “The Observations of A Crow.” So I listened to Stuart’s song for the first time in years (“The Observations of A Crow” is on Stuart’s The Pilgrim album, released in 1999). And yes, the melody and structure in Dylan’s song are quite similar to what Stuart created. Dylan counts Stuart as a friend. On a day the two were viewing some of Stuart’s huge collection of country music memorabilia at a Nashville warehouse, Dylan was effusive about The Pilgrim, saying, “You’ve finally done a grown-up album, man.”

Stuart’s song must have lingered in Dylan’s head. Something like that is common for Dylan. Earlier this year, on a discussion page of the Dylan-centric site, Expecting Rain (www.expectingrain.com ), Scott Warmuth pointed out Dylan’s explanation of his composition process he once offered to Robert Hilburn of the Los Angeles Times:

“I meditate on a song. I’ll be playing Bob Tolan’s “Tumbling Tumbleweeds,” for instance, in my head constantly – while I’m driving a car or talking to a person or sitting around or whatever. People will think they’re talking to me and I’m talking back, but I’m not. I’m listening to a song in my head. At a certain point, some words will change and I’ll start writing a song.”

Twelve years after “Things Have Changed” was recorded, the similarity of it and “The Observations of A Crow” is now among the latest of Dylan subjects debated. Michael Gray, who has written eloquently about Dylan and culture, joined in the discussion on his blog (http://michaelgrayouttakes.blogspot.com). The give and take is interesting; Gray says that to him,”the resemblance is too close for comfort,” but then says there is “a bridge section in the Dylan song that isn’t there at all in Marty Stuart’s. And yes, Bob Dylan’s is a far, far better song.”

Michael Gray hits the nail on the head. “Things Have Changed” is a powerful and riveting song. As Curtis Hanson reminds us, we’re lucky to have it.

Some things never change
They stay the way they are
-Neil Young, from “Opera Star,” 1981

Some people never change, but don’t count Neil Young among them. To both the delight and consternation of his fans, particularly over the last three decades, there’s been much about Young’s career that has screamed change. If one liked his most recent album at any given time, it was a sure bet one wouldn’t think as fondly of his next album. Neil Young would be into something else. He has been – and is – into a lot of things. Readers of his new memoir, Waging Heavy Peace, will learn a lot -perhaps more than they ever wanted -about what inspires and moves Neil Young. They’re also likely to feel frustrated with what they thought would be a standard autobiography. For example, he devotes more space to Pono, the audio system he’s developing (to “save the sound of music”) than he does to his brain surgery and subsequent close call with death. But despite the book’s curious passages, readers should also come away newly impressed with the storyteller. There is nothing standard about Neil Young.

The Keeper Of The Key To The Locks… Neil Young made a grand impression with the five songs he wrote for the first Buffalo Springfield album, released in late ’66. Even with brilliant material released that same year by the Beatles, the Beach Boys and Bob Dylan, such Young compositions as “Nowadays Clancy Can’t Even Sing” and “Out of My Mind” made it clear he would impel attention for years to come. And now, nearly a half-century later, for numerous reasons, some having nothing to do with his music, Neil Young has kept our attention.

Young tells his story in Waging Heavy Peace. The book at times is a collection of well-told events in his life and at other times a collection of random thoughts that must have occurred to him while sitting at his computer. As a writing endeavor, it’s part After the Gold Rush, his brilliant third solo album, and part Life, a bewildering collection Young released in the mid-80s. Like the fictional George Bailey, Neil Young has had a wonderful life. The reader senses Young’s appreciation for the days gone by. Many of his days have been challenging and painful, but he’s grateful for the experiences, and most of all, happy being here to relate the ups and downs.

Understandably, the pains encountered by Young would be enough to cause many to wallow in self-pity. At the age of 6, he was struck with polio, recovering in less than a year’s time, with help from the warmth of the New Smyrna Beach, Florida sun. His parents brought him there from Ontario so his body wouldn’t have to carry the weight of thick clothing through a Canadian winter. Young returned to Canada, making it through boyhood, adolescence and his parents’ divorce before heading to Los Angeles in ’66 to hone his musical chops. He did so in a big way, joining Buffalo Springfield, yet then began suffering epileptic seizures. The artistic success of Buffalo Springfield proved little comfort. The tumult in the band led to a breakup a few months before their third album, Last Time Around, was released in July ’68, barely a year and a half since their first LP revealed such promise. Always one to make the best of bad situations, Young as a solo artist would deliver on much of that promise himself.

Five months after Last Time Around, Young released his first album, a self-titled effort that would signal the beginning of eleven years of grand accomplishments, unmatched by any rock artist, excluding Bob Dylan. In those eleven years were, in their own unique ways, twelve great albums. With the 70s closing, Neil Young was still at the top of his game, approaching new peaks and enjoying a new wave of popularity. Through most of the decade he also intrigued followers with his on again-off again relationship with David Crosby, Stephen Stills and Graham Nash. Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young was considered the American supergroup, in some minds taking the place of the recently disbanded Beatles. Those minds had it wrong. Except for “Helpless,” “Ohio” and his live performances with them in ’70 (as heard on the 4 Way Street album) Young’s contributions to CSNY didn’t represent his A game. Feeling “better down the road without that load,” Young didn’t tour as part of CSNY again until ’74 and it wasn’t until ’88 before he recorded another album with them, the frivolous American Dream, which Young biographer Jimmy McDonough described in Shakey (2002) as “a prime contender for the most wretched album Neil Young has ever lent his name to.”

American Dream fell into the pattern Young had set, willy-nilly, through most of the ’80s. Until Freedom, his brilliant comeback album, released in October ’89, his recordings were disappointing and perplexing. After nearly a decade and a half of making great music, Young seemed on the slide, like a pitcher who had lost his fastball. During this period, Young experimented with different sounds and genres. There was the country-western approach on the second side of Hawks and Doves, then the guitar hero gymnastics of Re-ac-tor, followed by the futuristic computer sounds on Trans, rockabilly on Everybody’s Rockin’ and more digressions to come. Young was all over the map and ineffective at most every spot. This was hard to explain. Young defenders could counter that at least he was looking to expand musically - and that still he was producing more interesting material than Crosby, Stills and Nash in those years, but that was cold comfort. Young’s perspective on his 80s output was positive, however, saying the years were “artistically strong for me.” Yet more important to him was his home life, which presented challenges that called upon his creativity, perseverance and devotion.

In ”Beautiful Boy,” the song written for his son, Sean, John Lennon sings “Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans.” Lennon would’ve been impressed with how Neil Young has dealt with the events of life unplanned. In 1978, Young and his wife, Pegi, welcomed son Ben into the world. For the second time Young was a father. Ben, as with Young’s first child, would be diagnosed with cerebral palsy. The diagnosis of Zeke Young, the son Neil had with actress Carrie Snodgrass in ’72, was later determined incorrect. Zeke had likely suffered a stroke in utero, but symptoms in such cases are very similar to cerebral palsy. Young writes in Waging Heavy Peace of the instability he felt, given the plight of his boys. Neil and Pegi wanted to have more children, but he was apprehensive. They talked to a doctor, considered the advice and gave it a lot of thought.

Pegi and I weighed this information. To know someone like her and to make a decision as important as this with her was a gift beyond anything I have ever experienced. It was her idea and she guided us to this point. We made a decision together to go forward and have another child.

On May 15, 1984, Pegi gave birth to Amber Jean Young. The happy parents brought their daughter home in a baby-blue 1957 Chevy Bel Air wagon.

139 pages into Waging Heavy Peace, Young says “Writing this book there seems to be no end to the information flowing through me.” And he shares much of that information. Young lets the reader in on what interests him most, his family being number one. He provides a lot of detail about the rest, however – old cars, electric trains, and his sprawling ranch in the Santa Cruz mountains. Not far from home he and his associates have labored at turning a ’59 Lincoln Continental into the world’s first Series Electric Car with a generator fueled by biomass. Young envisions stylish cars hitting the American road, but doing so with zero emissions and requiring no roadside refueling. Another project of Young’s is the Farm Aid benefit concerts, which he founded with Willie Nelson and John Mellencamp in ’85. The very next year he hosted a concert featuring Bruce Springsteen benefiting the Bridge School, founded by Pegi Young, Jim Foderer and Dr. Marilyn Buzolich. The school, located in Hillsborough, California, teaches communication through technology to children, those like Ben Young, who have severe speech and language challenges. The work of the school is “dear to my heart,” writes Young, proud of Pegi and the vision she shared for a school that is two and a half decades into its mission. Neil Young may be the famous name associated with the Bridge School, but he makes it clear Pegi is the catalyst.

It was her idea. One day when Ben Young was young and we were looking for school placement, after a depressing look at a local California classroom for the disabled, Pegi was near tears. She just blurted out, “Why don’t we just call your friends and put on a concert to raise money and start a school? We could get Bruce Springsteen!” I just looked at her, dumbfounded by this audacious idea.

Because of his grace, Bruce did it and made our first concert a sellout. We started the school on those funds.

I Could Be Happy The Rest Of My Life… Young refers to Pegi as his “Cinnamon Girl” and it’s apparent that if she’s not the star of his book, then she’s the star of his life. Throughout Waging Heavy Peace, words of praise and awe for Pegi Young are abundant. Pegi stands by - and understands - Neil, who surely strikes many as a real piece of work, despite all he’s accomplished. She must have been what he had in mind when he sang of searching in Hollywood, Redwood and across the ocean.

Neil Young has lived, albeit in different ways than what Teddy Roosevelt had in mind, the “strenuous life.” Beyond his celebrated and influential musical career there has been much of facing up to what John Lennon defined as life. Young looks back at his own 67 years, counting his blessings which include parents who loved him, despite an atypical home life. He also remembers and still mourns for Danny Whitten, the promising singer-songwriter and guitarist for Crazy Horse, who met a tragic end after overdosing on a mix of valium and alcohol, inspiring* Young’s dark and glorious Tonight’s the Night album (1975).

Even heavier on Young’s heart is the loss of his close friend and pedal steel guitarist Ben Keith (“Long Grain”). Already a sought-after session player (The first hit record he played on was Patsy Cline’s “I Fall to Pieces.”), Keith first made Young’s acqaintance in ’71 during the recording of Harvest. The lovely strains Keith added to “Heart of Gold,” “Old Man” and other songs on that album helped launch a nearly 40-year bond between him and Young. The partnership ended on July 26, 2010 when Keith passed away due to a blood clot in his lung. Young got the bad news from Pegi over the phone while he was out cruising on the bus over the Manitoba prairies with his brother Bob Young and friend Dave Toms. In a sad and tender part of the book, Young reveals the great pain he felt - as well as what he thought he had felt - when he spoke with Pegi.

…. The phone rang. It was Pegi crying and crying. I knew something was really wrong, so I went to the back of the bus with the phone. “it’s Ben!” she cried. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Neil. He’s gone.”

I let out what Dave described as a primal scream. I was consoling her, thinking she was talking about our Ben Young, when she finally said something that told me it was Ben Keith, Long Grain. I felt a sigh of relief, but then a different sadness come over me.

 They Give You This But You Pay For That… For readers not fully familiar with the trajectory of Young’s life and career, Waging Heavy Peace has to be frustrating. There’s a lot of jumping around from beginning to end about a strenuous life filled with elation, heartaches and diversions. Even for Young’s followers who’ve kept close tabs on his career since the mid-60s, there are parts in the book that do not pay off as expected. There are many songs and albums such readers want to know more about, especially from the best source. All that will have to wait for another Neil Young book, hopefully one written by him but maybe by someone else. Yet there is admiration for an artist deemed iconic by tens of thousands willing to share so much about his life, his family and a multitude of other things important to him, digressions included. Neil Young has written his story in his own way. Waging Heavy Peace is very much in the spirit of the opening words of Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five, “All this happened, more or less.” For those of us who’ve kept tabs on Neil Young, that’s what we should have expected.

* The heroin-induced death of Young’s roadie, Bruce Berry, is also a subject of the song, “Tonight’s the Night.”

** There is much covered about Young’s recording career in Jimmy McDonough’s, Shakey, published in 2002.