Our lives come together and drift apart, come together and drift apart, and come together, again…
Reconnecting with someone after many years can be awkward, or it can feel like absolutely no time has passed, and you find yourself scratching your head and wondering “What happened to us?” I recently had the pleasure of renewing two old friendships and in both instances there was no discernible explanation for why either one had been discontinued. Time and distance had caused us to drift apart, but when we got together after more than 35 years, we picked up right where we left off as though it were yesterday. After a leisurely lunch and a lovely dinner, it was obvious that all the characteristics and idiosyncrasies that attracted us to each other and formed the basis of our friendship in grade school, high school and college, are still present today.
Reconnecting with someone after many years can be awkward, or it can feel like absolutely no time has passed, and you find yourself scratching your head and wondering “What happened to us?” I recently had the pleasure of renewing two old friendships and in both instances there was no discernible explanation for why either one had been discontinued. Time and distance had caused us to drift apart, but when we got together after more than 35 years, we picked up right where we left off as though it were yesterday. After a leisurely lunch and a lovely dinner, it was obvious that all the characteristics and idiosyncrasies that attracted us to each other and formed the basis of our friendship in grade school, high school and college, are still present today.
In high school, Chip was my main musical co-conspirator. Most of the concerts I attended, and record stores I frequented from ’74-’78 were in his company. We also spent many Saturday mornings riding downtown on the No. 9 RTA bus under the auspices of doing research at the Cleveland Public Library, but honestly, these academic expeditions were simply record shopping delivery systems; vinyl safaris of the highest caliber.
We would arrive downtown around 10am and spend a few hours in the dark old library, sometimes conducting honest-to-god research for our papers — other times just poking around the vast and curious collection of recordings that were available to listen to for free on headphones. Leaving the library around noon, we’d cut through the stunning Cleveland Arcade to get to Euclid Avenue, grab a couple of novel, square-shaped burgers from the Wendy’s near Public Square, and then hit the first record store of the day a few doors down. Feeling adventurous, we’d head over to the Record Rendezvous on Prospect next. There were several ways to do this safely; either by cutting through the Prospect Arcade or walking south on E. 3rd or E. 4th Street. A third (ill-advised) option involved a grimy, garbage strewn alley between Euclid and Prospect. The one time we chanced it, we were accosted by a guy who stepped out from behind a dumpster offering to sell us some fancy new watches. I think Chip’s response was “Do we look like we can afford to buy a Rolex?” For a split second I could see the headlines: “Gilmour Academy students found dead in downtown alley. What were they doing there?” Fortunately the watch salesman must have realized we really were unlikely candidates for new time pieces and he stepped aside to let us pass.
I know I’ve mentioned these Saturday morning excursions before—including the wonderous import bin in the back corner of the store full of treasures the regular clientele at Record Rendezvous left untouched—but I may have given the impression that I was flying solo, which was never the case. First, I don’t think I had the courage to venture onto Prospect by myself. In those days, just one block south of Euclid Avenue was a less than savory part of town. More importantly, I regarded record shopping as a communal endeavor, and no one but Chip shared my appreciation for the thrill of discovery derived from the import bin at Record Rendezvous.
Chip was always willing to make a day of it too. We'd hop off the No.9 bus a few minutes after departing Public Square, just to check out the latest inventory at Music Grotto—the dank, black light-lit record store across the street from Cleveland State University. Music Grotto was staffed by helpful hippies who eased me into the scary world of German experimental music and "Krautrock" with the first two Tangerine Dream albums; Electronic Meditation and Zeit, Landed by Can, Wolf City by Amon Düül II, and the debut by a band called Faust that was pressed on clear vinyl and came in a heavy clear plastic sleeve imprinted with what looked like an X-ray of a hand, and had a lyric sheet printed on clear plastic too. Back on another bus for a few blocks and then off again on the corner of Mayfield and Coventry to peruse the chaotic trove of used records hoarded at Mole’s Record Exchange, where $5 could buy you a serious stack of secondhand vinyl. Up the street from Moles was Record Revolution; another record store illuminated by black light and reeking of pachouli oil. The basement at RR was a real record hunter's paradise: wall-to-wall bins of completely non-alphabetized, uncatalogued vinyl. You could descend into the basement at Record Revolution clean shaven and emerge a few hours later, squinting into the sunlight and sporting a full beard. I still have several albums purchased from Moles bearing stickers that read 50¢ or $1, and to this day, when I open the flimsy gatefold cover of Kevin Ayers’ Joy of a Toy that I snagged at Record Revolution, a little cloud of incense wafts into the room conveying the scent of those Saturday excursions petrified in affectionate memory. We would arrive home late in the afternoon loaded with so many records, I had to hide them in the milk box outside the side door until my father was asleep, and I could sneak them into the house. It didn’t matter if the day’s acquisitions only added up to $25—the sheer size of the stack would have been enough to garner his disgruntlement and a sarcastic remark about the need to get rid of the milk box.
Once we both could drive, riding the bus downtown became passé. We still went to Coventry from time to time, but we also ventured far and wide to the uncharted West Side to explore a record mega-store so mega, practically every artist had their own dedicated slot in the bins, and really well known artists had an entire slot in the bin for every album in their catalog! What Peaches lacked in imported obscurities it more than made up for in volume and depth of any one artist’s library. All the older records we had only ever heard name-checked in reviews were on display and available for purchase to fill all those trademark wooden crates. Imagine having so many records you needed a crate to store them all in...or three crates...or five... When Record Theatre opened in the shopping plaza less than half a mile from our high school, lunch was just an excuse to sneak off campus and pick up the latest album by Roxy Music or Todd Rundgren’s Utopia. Before we started spending all our money on refreshments, we spent it on records, things to store our records in, tapes to put our records on, and tape decks to play our dubbed records in the car. I must have installed close to 15 cassette decks and the odd 8-track player in classmates' cars my senior year.
Music and beer was a significant component of the glue that held our friendship together for four years. If we weren’t going to school, working at my father’s gas station, or shooting pool in Chip's basement, we were going to concerts, parties or record stores. When we both chose Kenyon for college I think we agreed to “see other people” in an effort to make our college experiences more diverse. In hindsight I still think that was a healthy choice, but perhaps we could have done a better job of maintaining the friendship that had served us so well the previous four years too. I completely understand how life goes on, things change, people move and grow apart. That is why I’m so grateful for two old friends who took a chance to reach out to me, welcomed a reunion, and have made a concerted effort ever since to sustain that new connection through the wonders of modern technology and, of course, the Happy Medium Song of the Day.
In a recent correspondence, Chip told me about one of his favorite cover songs by a highly respected musician I knew by name only. As I read the e-mail, I had an idea: what if someone else "covered" the Happy Medium Song of the Day? What if Chip wrote about his favorite cover so I could share it like a “special edition?” Moving beyond the limitations of the comments box, and expanding the parameters of the conversation to accommodate other voices, feels like a potent way to promote potentially propitious participation… or at the very least, present a different point of view, right? So without further pre(r)amble, here’s Chip's "cover" of the Happy Medium Song of the Day.
In a recent correspondence, Chip told me about one of his favorite cover songs by a highly respected musician I knew by name only. As I read the e-mail, I had an idea: what if someone else "covered" the Happy Medium Song of the Day? What if Chip wrote about his favorite cover so I could share it like a “special edition?” Moving beyond the limitations of the comments box, and expanding the parameters of the conversation to accommodate other voices, feels like a potent way to promote potentially propitious participation… or at the very least, present a different point of view, right? So without further pre(r)amble, here’s Chip's "cover" of the Happy Medium Song of the Day.
I have been enjoying John’s selection of cover songs this month and mentioned to him that one of my favorite covers was “Stop” from the 1968 Super Session album released by Mike Bloomfield, Al Kooper and Stephen Stills. John suggested that I consider a guest appearance on the HMSOD, and I will do my best not to wear out my welcome.
I had long heard about Michael Bloomfield without actually having heard anything played by Michael Bloomfield, or so I thought. In fact, probably all of us have heard his work as Bloomfield played guitar on Bob Dylan’s “Like a Rolling Stone” and his album, Highway 61 Revisited. Legend has it that Al Kooper thought he would be playing guitar on the Highway 61 Revisited sessions but, once he saw Bloomfield was there, did not even take his guitar out of the case. Of course, Kooper ended up playing the iconic organ on “Like a Rolling Stone” and the rest is history. Kooper and Bloomfield were also part of Dylan’s band when he “went electric” in 1965 at Newport.
I had long heard about Michael Bloomfield without actually having heard anything played by Michael Bloomfield, or so I thought. In fact, probably all of us have heard his work as Bloomfield played guitar on Bob Dylan’s “Like a Rolling Stone” and his album, Highway 61 Revisited. Legend has it that Al Kooper thought he would be playing guitar on the Highway 61 Revisited sessions but, once he saw Bloomfield was there, did not even take his guitar out of the case. Of course, Kooper ended up playing the iconic organ on “Like a Rolling Stone” and the rest is history. Kooper and Bloomfield were also part of Dylan’s band when he “went electric” in 1965 at Newport.
Wanting to learn more about Bloomfield, I purchased his CD, Don’t Say That I Ain’t Your Man! – Essential Blues 1964-1969. That compilation provides a nice overview of Bloomfield’s work, including songs from his time with The Paul Butterfield Blues Band, Electric Flag and the Super Session album on which “Stop” can be found. “Stop” was written by Jerry Ragovoy and Mort Shuman and was first recorded by Howard Tate in 1967. Truth be told, I have never heard Tate’s version of the song, but I think I can nevertheless call Bloomfield and Kooper’s version a cover. Judges?
Although the title could be interpreted otherwise, Bloomfield and Stills did not play on the Super Session album together. Bloomfield failed to show up for the second day of recording and Kooper called on Stills to play guitar on the tracks that make up side two. Ironically, Bloomfield later pulled the same trick after the second night of some concert appearances that followed, requiring Kooper to find replacement guitarists for The Live Adventures of Mike Bloomfield and Al Kooper (which guitarists included Carlos Santana and Elvin Bishop, Bloomfield’s bandmate in The Paul Butterfield Blues Band).
Should you decide to dive into Super Session further (and if you do, be sure to get the 2003 reissue that features four bonus tracks that did not appear on the album in 1968), you will find the Bloomfield side and the Stills side are quite different. Although I prefer the more “bluesy” former, the latter certainly has merit. Sadly, Bloomfield would refer to both Super Session and The Live Adventures of Mike Bloomfield and Al Kooper as “scams,” which Kooper attributed to Bloomfield’s unease with being a success.
Should you decide to dive into Super Session further (and if you do, be sure to get the 2003 reissue that features four bonus tracks that did not appear on the album in 1968), you will find the Bloomfield side and the Stills side are quite different. Although I prefer the more “bluesy” former, the latter certainly has merit. Sadly, Bloomfield would refer to both Super Session and The Live Adventures of Mike Bloomfield and Al Kooper as “scams,” which Kooper attributed to Bloomfield’s unease with being a success.
After hearing the Super Session and The Live Adventures… albums and the two Paul Butterfield Blues Band albums on which he appeared, I purchased a number of subsequent Bloomfield releases. For the most part, these are hit-or-miss efforts. For those who are interested, I recommend strongly Bloomfield’s Live at Bill Graham’s Fillmore West 1969, which was released in 2009. Some of the same performances that make up that album, plus an additional track, can also be found on Electric Flag singer Nick Gravenites’ solo album, My Labors. In addition, Fillmore East: The Lost Concert Tapes 12/13/68 by Al Kooper and Mike Bloomfield is quite good, particularly if you are interested in hearing a largely then-unknown Johnny Winter join in the fun.
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Although Bloomfield was not much in the way of a singer, he was a great guitarist. In 2003, Rolling Stone ranked him as Number 22 on that year’s list of “The 100 Greatest Guitarists of All Time.” I have often wondered how he would have been considered had his drug addiction not diminished his skills so greatly during the last decade of his life. In any event, I hope there is a special place in Hell for the person or persons who drove him, either dead or dying, to a side street in San Francisco and left him there to be found as a John Doe on February 15, 1981.
I hope I did not overstay my welcome as there is at least one other “cover” that I would not mind covering. Thanks, John! (Please use the comments box below to share your thoughts.)
I hope I did not overstay my welcome as there is at least one other “cover” that I would not mind covering. Thanks, John! (Please use the comments box below to share your thoughts.)