My love for the movie Annie Hall is well-documented. Diane Keaton is wonderful in it. I always appreciated the fact that Diane’s given last name was Hall, so all those references about Grammy Hall seemed more genuine. La-de-dah, la-de-dah.
Yet, I remain convinced that, though she won the Academy Award for Best Actress in the Woody Allen film, she was picked as much for the much darker film from 1977, Waiting for Mr. Goodbar. Or, at least, it added to her “body of work” that year that allowed an actress in a comedy to win an Oscar.
Her first claim to fame was performing in the original Broadway production of Hair, in which she refused to disrobe at the end of Act I when the cast performed nude. This was actually controversial at the time, though being naked was contractually optional.
She has appeared in a number of Woody Allen films, starting with Play It Again (1972) through Manhattan (1979), with a cameo in Radio Days (1987) and another starring part in Manhattan Murder Mystery (1993), all of which I have seen.
Interesting, and I could have noted this last month on Woody Allen’s 80th birthday, I now wait for the reviews and decide whether to see a Woody film. In the days when Diane was his costar, I saw everything he made. That’s probably more a reflection of his filmmaking than her star power, but there it is.
I’ve also Diane Keaton in The Godfather (1972 – she’s in all three films), Reds (1981 – nominated for a Best Actress Oscar), Crimes of the Heart (1986), Baby Boom (1987), Father of the Bride I and II (1991, 1995), The First Wives Club (1996 – which I liked a lot), Something’s Gotta Give (2003 – nominated for a Best Actress Oscar), and The Family Stone (2005).
I haven’t been drawn to see her more recent films, and I see her only in L’Oreal commercials. But I do want to watch the movie Marvin’s Room (1996), for which she received her fourth Academy Award nomination.
“Keaton wrote her first memoir, entitled Then Again, for Random House in November 2011. Much of the autobiography relies on her mother Dorothy’s private journals, in which she writes at one point: ‘Diane…is a mystery…At times, she’s so basic, at others so wise it frightens me.'”
Sinatra would occasionally muscle his way onto the pop singles charts against the likes of the Rolling Stones and the Beatles.
When the Times Union Center, or the Knickerbocker Arena, as it was then called, was first opened in downtown Albany in 1991, Frank Sinatra was the first performer. I didn’t go, but it seems that I’ve managed to have collected music representing most of his career.
I’ve acquired two CDs of his V-discs, recorded on Columbia Records, tracks sent out to the troops during World War II. He was idolized by “bobby soxers”, predated the adulation Elvis Presley and the Beatles would experience.
Then I have a boxed set of his Capitol singles from the 1950s. This is my favorite period, after Sinatra fell out of favor for a time, in no small part because he dumped his wife, the mother of his children, for actress Ava Gardner, in what was a tumultuous romance. Sinatra reemerged after appearing in the movie From Here to Eternity, a gig Gardner helped him get; he won an Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor.
By the time I was old enough to really know who he was, he had left Capitol in 1961 to start his own record label, Reprise Records. And the Rat Pack mystique was in full force. He would occasionally muscle his way onto the pop singles charts against the likes of the Rolling Stones and the Beatles – Paint It, Black and Paperback Writer were the #1 pop hits immediately before Strangers in the Night, a song Sinatra hated. Still, my favorite Sinatra song, That’s Life, also came out in this period. So I do have the Reprise box as well.
This 1966 Esquire article explains the Sinatra mystique, and thus my ambivalence about his persona. The Frank of this period reminded me of the caricature played by Joe Piscopo and others on Saturday Night Live, the guy who was old-fashioned, using “cats” for guys and “chicks” for women. He retired, then unretired in the early 1970s.
I started “getting” him in the 1980s and actually bought the two Duets albums in the 1990s. He died in 1998. And my appreciation of his music, especially the albums, has grown.
We thought people would act honorably, and say what they mean, rather than behave with a level of subterfuge.
If I have told this story before, I’ll tell it again anyway.
My late mother, at some point during the last decade of her life, received a telephone call at her home for a product or service – it little matters what – that she was not interested in receiving. She tells the young man this, and yet he remains on the phone with her another ten minutes or more before the call is finally terminated.
She complains bitterly – well, as resentful as she was capable of getting – that she TOLD him she wasn’t interested. Why didn’t he listen? Why didn’t he hang up? To which I said, “Why didn’t YOU just hang up?” I have nearly perfected the “Thanks but no thanks, bye” thing, upon which I disconnect the call.
But she was expecting that the unknown individual on the other end of the line would do the honorable thing, hear what she has to say, and act accordingly.
I believe that at least two of my mother’s three children, and I’ll acknowledge being one of them, have been hurt and surprised by people who we thought would act honorably, and say what they mean, rather than behave with a level of subterfuge. In retrospect, we should have seen it coming, but because we trusted their words, were not only surprised but hurt. I shan’t get into the details, but my sister’s situation was much worse than mine.
Because my late father was such a strong persona, people often compare us with him. Mom’s influence was there too, and often it is manifest in compassion and fairness. But sometimes, people take niceness for weakness, and this continues to be part of our learning curve.
Today would have been our mother’s 88th birthday. I think of her all the time, mostly with good thoughts.
Earlier this year, some friend of mine was kvetching about something Neil Young had said or done. Given that his current album, which I haven’t heard yet, is an indictment of the Monsanto Corporation, I rather expect that this would be a highly likely prospect.
How did Elvis Costello become “a prototypical angry young man”? “About seeing a ferocious Neil Young performance, he writes [in his new autobiography]: “This was the lesson I took away from that day: If there is an apple cart, you must do your best to upset it.”
The second and third of Neil’s solo albums, Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere and After The Gold Rush, were regular visitors on my college turntables. Neil has put out about three dozen albums, and I have about half of them. This does not include his work with Buffalo Springfield or Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young. And his album Decade includes some of his group efforts, to complicate this list; I opted to leave off Ohio and Helpless – but link to them here – lest I then need to consider other CSNY songs on this already long list.
To say his body of work is eclectic understates the phenomenon.
35. Piece of Crap– Sleeps with Angels (SWA), 1994. It’s about shoddy merchandising. 34. Ordinary People – Chrome Dreams II, 2007. 18 minutes. In 2012 Rolling Stone had a list of Neil Young’s Top 20 Obscure Songs, and these two songs are on the list. 33. Mystery Train – Everybody’s Rockin’, 1983. Rockabilly. I’m a sucker for his many train songs, and, to be honest, most train tunes. 32. The Losing End (When You’re On) – Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere (EKTIN), 1969. “Wilson, pick it!” 31. Wrecking Ball – Freedom, 1989. I actually prefer the Emmylou Harris version, but I like this too.
30. Harvest – Harvest (H), 1972. The title of his commercial zenith. 29. Transformer Man – Trans (T), 1983. I have an irrational affection for this experiment, maybe because it was an experiment to try to communicate with his son, who has cerebral palsy. 28. Words – After the Gold Rush (ATGR), 1970. Subtitled between the lines of age. 27. Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere – EKTIN. I relate. 26. One of These Days – Harvest Moon (HM), 1992. What great message. “One of these days, I’m gonna sit down and write a long letter To all the good friends I’ve known…”
25. Change Your Mind – SWA. A song for Kurt Cobain. 24. Tonight’s the Night – Tonight’s the Night. A song about a roadie for CSNY who died of a heroin overdose 23. Winterlong – Decade (D). I’m particularly fond of the harmony vocal. 22. Walk On – On the Beach. “I hear some people been talkin’ me down, Bring up my name, pass it ’round…” A message that’d be perfect for the Internet age. Got to #69 on the charts. 21. From Hank to Hendrix – HM. Among other things, great harmonica.
20. Pocahontas – Rust Never Sleeps (RNS). “Aurora borealis, The icy sky at night.” Johnny Cash did a great version of this too. 19. Don’t Let It Bring You Down – ATGR. I thought I did a decent Neil imitation, and this was one of the songs easiest to replicate. Love the intro from a CSNY live album when Neil says the song starts off slow and fizzles out altogether. 18. Cowgirl in the Sand – EKTIN. Anthemic. 17. Only Love Can Break Your Heart – ATGR. A waltz. And very true. #33 on the charts. 16. Oh Lonesome Me – ATGR. This is one of the greatest covers, ever. Compare this to the jaunty Don Gibson hit from the 1950s.
15. Birds– ATGR. I find this terribly sad. 14. The Loner – Neil Young, 1968. I was unaware of the first, eponymous Neil album. But I heard a version of this song on the first Three Dog Night album. I figured it was an obscure Buffalo Springfield cut; nope. 13. Mr. Soul – T. Neil must really care about this song. He recorded it with Buffalo Springfield, and it was the beginning of their Broken Arrow. 12. Old Man – H. James Taylor played six-string banjo, and he and Linda Ronstadt contributed vocals. Got up to #31 on the charts. 11. The Needle and the Damage Done – H. About the heroin addiction of two friends, before they died. Recorded live at UCLA.
5. Long May You Run – Long May You Run (Stills-Young Band), 1976. There are several versions of this song, but this version, which I first heard on Decade, which I believe features the harmonies of the full Crosby Stills & Nash, is my favorite. It has to do with the verse citing Caroline, No. 4. Like a Hurricane – D. An electric masterpiece. 3. When You Dance, I Can Really Love – ATGR. I don’t remember if SHE thought so, but when I was in college, I always thought this was my girlfriend (the Okie) and my song. Love the fact that it starts off fairly slowly, but picks up greatly. This song soared all the way to #93 on the charts. 2. Cinnamon Girl – EKTIN. About the perfect pop song, complete with hand clapping. 1. Harvest Moon– HM. This song is personal, about love lost.
For DECADES, I misheard the line in Groovin’, “Life would be ecstasy, you and me endlessly.”
Top: Dino, Eddie. Bottom: Felix, Gene.
The day the Beatles broke up in 1970, my favorite active band became the Rascals, formerly the Young Rascals, out of Garfield, New Jersey.
Vocalist/tambourine player Eddie Brigati and his fellow Rascals Felix Cavaliere (organ/vocals) and Gene Cornish (guitar/vocals) were once part of Joey Dee and the Starliters of “Peppermint Twist” fame. (David Brigati, Eddie’s brother, was in an earlier incarnation of the Starliters, and sang occasionally with the Rascals.) The Rascals’ drummer was Dino Danelli.
Felix and Eddie were the primary songwriters. In 2009, Cavaliere and Eddie Brigati were inducted into the Songwriters Hall of Fame. I had, and have, all of their albums, save for the first one, on vinyl.
When the Rascals, proponents of what was dubbed “blue-eyed soul”, left Atlantic Records and signed with Columbia Records in the early 1970s, and segued into a jazzier mode, Eddie and Gene left the band.
My personal favorite 20 Rascals songs in the Atlantic era, though only the top six are inflexible:
20. Away Away, from the See album (S). B-side of See, 1969. It’s the drum pattern in the verse, versus the harmony vocals on the chorus. It’s also the best song Gene Cornish wrote for the group; he’d get one song per album, rather like George Harrison with the Beatles. 19. Mustang Sally, from Young Rascals album (YR). B-side of Good Lovin’,1966. The Young Rascals performed a lot of covers, and this was my favorite. Well, except for the song I didn’t know was a cover. 18. A Beautiful Morning, from the Time/Peace album. #3, 36 rb in 1968. This is was the only new song on their greatest hits album, at the point they dropped the “Young” from the group name. 17. I’ve Been Lonely Too Long, from the Collections (C) album. #16, #33 rb in 1967. I loved the Collections, er collection, starting with the cover. 16. Come On Up, (C). #43 in 1966. The Rascals sound was heavily defined by that B-3 Hammond organ that Felix played, though this also has a nice guitar solo.
15. Find Somebody, from the Groovin’ album (G). The guitar line by Felix that bounces back and forth is hypnotic and vaguely psychedelic. 14. I Ain’t Gonna Eat Out My Heart Anymore, (YR). #52 in 1966. It was all there in the first single. Especially the great vocals, led by Eddie, and that organ. 13. What Is the Reason, (C). B-side of Come On Up, 1966. Especially like the little drum solo in the outro. 12. See, (S). #27 in 1969. The Rascals were deep in their love and peace mode. 11. Love Is A Beautiful Thing, (C). B-side of You Better Run, 1966. The shared vocal in some ways feels like the purest Rascals song.
10. It’s Wonderful, from the Once Upon a Dream album. #20 in 1968. For some reason, this became a song that my sister Leslie and I used to jog around the living room to. 9. People Got To Be Free, from the Freedom Suite album (FS). #1 for five weeks, #14 rb in 1968. One of its pluses: it starts right away, giving DJs of the day no opportunity to talk over an instrumental intro. It’s almost sappily optimistic. But is that so bad? Plus, I’m a sucker for train symbolism, e.g., the Impressions’ People Get Ready. 8. Sueno, (G). B-side of Groovin’, 1967. This is your basic psychedelic-pop-flamenco tune. 7. Ray of Hope, (FS). #24, #36 rb in 1969. Odd thing: for years, I thought this song was just OK. But, for some reason, around MLK Day 2015, it came to mind and stayed there. I hadn’t even heard it for quite a while. But I could hear in my head the wonderful detail of the vocal modulations, and I developed a newfound respect for the song. 6. A Girl Like You, (G). #10 in 1967. From the start, it brought me joy. The call and response vocals. The orchestration, with the horns; is that a harp?
5. You Better Run, (G). #20 in 1966. This is a song that was old enough to have appeared on the earlier Collections album in 1966 but did not. It occurred to me that the rhyme is extremely simple in the verse. Line, same line, a rhyming couplet, the first line. Yet powerful for that. 4. Groovin’, (G). #1 for four weeks, #3 rb in 1967. For DECADES, I thought the line, “Life would be ecstasy, you and me endlessly” ended as “you and me and LESLIE.” Since Leslie was my father’s name and is my sister’s name, I thought it was them picking a clever gender-non-specific name. But it’s a lovely song. 3. Good Lovin’, (YR). #1 in 1966. From Songfacts: “It was originally recorded in 1965 by The Olympics, a Novelty/Doo-Wop group…[The Young Rascals] recorded the song…, and although the group did not like the outcome, famed producer Tom Dowd loved the rawness of it, and that version was released, becoming a huge hit.” Yes, I love the garage-band vigor of the song. 2. How Can I Be Sure, (G). #4 in 1967. I mentioned earlier in the year that this was a waltz, which surprised some folks who obviously had never danced around the living room to this. Feel like I’m in Paris, with the accordion plus the trumpet and strings. 1. It’s Love, (G). B-side of A Girl Like You, 1967. Lives on the bass line and that Hubert Laws flute. Plus lyrics: “Oh, what a wild sensation, Multiple revelations.”
My love for the movie Annie Hall is well-documented. Diane Keaton is wonderful in it. I always appreciated the fact that Diane’s given last name was Hall, so all those references about Grammy Hall seemed more genuine. La-de-dah, la-de-dah. 
