By the time I had finished my morning reading, two cups of coffee, and taken a shower, the sun had disappeared and given way to ominous gray clouds and a stiff breeze. It wasn’t freezing, but it sure wasn’t t-shirt weather either, as The Lucksmiths would say. As I walked Bolt, his ears flapping in the wind like a tell-tale attached to a sail, I thought to myself: “This is May weather on Shelter Island… damnit, another place I won’t be going this year!” Shelter Island is situated all the way at the end of Long Island between its far-eastern forks. A house full of magnificent memories on the island has been the basecamp for our Memorial Day Weekend adventures with a close group of friends for over 35 years. This time of year the weather on S.I. can be a mixed bag that tries, but has never succeeded to deter our annual festivities. If I closed my eyes this blustery morning while walking the dog I could almost hear the whitecaps breaking on the bulkhead six and a half hours northeast of Kensington. Listening closer I could just make out the sound of sails snapping in the breeze, sea birds calling, and the faint toll of a harbor bell. It’s the kind of May weather that serious sailors in our group would brave in wet suits while the rest of us would curl up in pools of magnified sunlight by an upstairs window to read or nap or chat. Not this year. It’s the kind of weather that would prompt an expedition to the Greenport Harbor Brewery on the mainland; leaving some poor, beer-averse suckers— I mean saints, stranded back at the house with a tribe of teens and toddlers wondering when the hell dinner preparation was gonna commence. It’s the kind of weather that might instigate an early start on cocktail hour and a long dinner over many bottles of wine while the dining room picture window flexes and bows; giving the cheery room reflected in the glass a distorted funhouse-like appearance. Not this year. While Bolt pole-danced around yet another tree, I rubbed my hands together in an effort to warm them—not apply hand sanitizer—and thought about the perfect segue for today’s Happy Medium Song of the Day…
Before there was The Raspberries there was The Mods: four guys from Mentor—an east suburb of Cleveland—who were infatuated with British Invasion bands like The Who, The Beatles, The Zombies, and The Troggs. In the summer of ’66 the band was in Chicago to record their first single when they discovered a local band had just shortened their name from The Modernaires to The Mods. So, one band member short of the original Raspberries lineup, they became The Choir and “It’s Cold Outside” became a huge hit for them in 1967; peaking at No. 68 on the Billboard Charts and at No. 55 on the Cash Box charts. Of course in rock n’ roll, success is often the opening chord progression to a band’s demise. Ironically, when a big fan of The Choir named Eric Carmen auditioned for the band after guitarist Dann Klawon and bassist Dave Burke left, the remaining band members offered the job to someone else. Eventually The Choir would lose the popularity contest in Cleveland to Cyrus Erie—the band Carmen did join—and break up. In turn, Cyrus Erie would release a couple of singles and then disband, leading to the convoluted circumstances that would pave the way for the formation of The Raspberries with musicians from both bands. Phew!
Adding further irony to today’s installment is my complete ignorance of The Choir’s Cleveland roots, despite my familiarity with their hit single. I knew the band responsible for the song was more or less a one-hit-wonder, but I did not know they were a legendary Cleveland garage band until I started researching musicians for this month’s tribute. Oh the things you hear and learn on the Happy Medium Song of the Day.
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