That's Spilt Milk (addendum)
by Bryce Martin
Randolph gathered songs, poems, tales, anything he could capture regarding the culture of the people. His range was fairly narrow, primarily southeast Kansas, northeast Oklahoma, southwest Missouri and a corresponding part of Arkansas.
Big Jim Denoon. He was just Jim Denoon from Midco, Mo., being recorded by Randolph for his Ozark songs collection on such selections as "Root Hog or Die." Denoon moved to Salinas, Calif., and became Big Jim Denoon, "The Giant of Western Swing," recording for 4-Star and other record companies.
If you don't work, you don't eat. Hogs have to root to find food. In bad times, humans can find themselves in root hog or die situations.
Folklore? That is what folklore amounts to you ask. Imagine collecting some dirty jokes, some real crude ones, getting the person's name, their age and where they're from and then leaving a little explanation for each explaining what it means in a bigger, thematic context. Each entry fits into a numeric code system established by Kentucky folklorist Stith Thompson.
"What do you want to know for? Writin' a book?"
"As a matter of fact, I am."
"Then, kiss my ass and make it a love story."
Bryce Martin
Galena, Kansas
1958, overheard in a high school library
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Tell them how the weather was... -- Ernest Hemingway bryce_martin_1@Lycos.com
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Jimmy Jones And His Aerial Didoes
by Bryce Martin
You had to have been there when to know that no one burst onto the recording scene with more unbridled zeal than Jimmy Jones with a magic two discs back in 1959.
The first one, "Handy Man," would have been a great summer song but it came out when golden, autumn leaves were falling and was unlike anything I had heard. Jones was not only ear piercing loud, his voice didoed up and down during manic octave leaps. I knew loud. Little Richard had introduced me to loud (and raucous) with "Long Tall Sally." (Since the music business is a copycat industry, Larry Williams sought to emulate the style and ferocity of Richard's vocals with "Short Fat Fanny," with moderate and short-lived success.)
And Little Richard liked to drill his lyrical messages home. Who could ever forget "True Fine Mama," where he repeats the word "honey" twenty-five times in succession?
Jones had most of the country singing, "Come-a, come-a, come-a ..."
Little Richard, for all his vocal bluster, was monotone loud. Jones, on the other hand, varied in degrees. Richard came on like a Cape Canaveral rocket trying to free itself from gravity while Jones screamed in rising notes of stupendous layers of loud and from joyous levels one never imagined possible.
His high-note exercises were so great even falsetto-king Del Shannon recorded "Handy Man" a few years later. One had to reason, though, that Shannon recorded it not because it was such a great song but so he could imitate the falsetto styling imbued by Jones. The song itself did have merit, however, as evidenced by James Taylor's much-slowed version several years after Shannon. Who would have thought to slow down the song a la Taylor after hearing Jones ride it to such extreme heights?
The best place to hear the original, for me anyway, was from the clear and strong signal belonging to WHB radio out of Kansas City, Mo. It was AM radio at its best.
Then, just to prove that country music had no lock on dropping "g's" (the list includes darlin', drinkin', cheatin', and so on), Jones came out with an amazing followup -- "Good Timin'." After coming on like gangbusters with "Handy Man," here he was trying to outdo himself.
I was at first dazzled that Jones seemed to have pulled it off, then just as puzzled wondering if I had been duped. Was "Good Timin'" really an equal to "Handy Man"? Or was it just more of the same?
I decided it did not matter. "Handy Man" was a rare treat, and for Jones to nearly equal it on a second try was enough to validate the strident pleasure of the original, to sustain the foot-to-the-floor aerial word climbs only Jones could pilot.
Jones did not make a third attempt. If he did, it failed to find many radio turntables. I never heard from him again.
-30-
by Bryce Martin
You had to have been there when to know that no one burst onto the recording scene with more unbridled zeal than Jimmy Jones with a magic two discs back in 1959.
The first one, "Handy Man," would have been a great summer song but it came out when golden, autumn leaves were falling and was unlike anything I had heard. Jones was not only ear piercing loud, his voice didoed up and down during manic octave leaps. I knew loud. Little Richard had introduced me to loud (and raucous) with "Long Tall Sally." (Since the music business is a copycat industry, Larry Williams sought to emulate the style and ferocity of Richard's vocals with "Short Fat Fanny," with moderate and short-lived success.)
And Little Richard liked to drill his lyrical messages home. Who could ever forget "True Fine Mama," where he repeats the word "honey" twenty-five times in succession?
Jones had most of the country singing, "Come-a, come-a, come-a ..."
Little Richard, for all his vocal bluster, was monotone loud. Jones, on the other hand, varied in degrees. Richard came on like a Cape Canaveral rocket trying to free itself from gravity while Jones screamed in rising notes of stupendous layers of loud and from joyous levels one never imagined possible.
His high-note exercises were so great even falsetto-king Del Shannon recorded "Handy Man" a few years later. One had to reason, though, that Shannon recorded it not because it was such a great song but so he could imitate the falsetto styling imbued by Jones. The song itself did have merit, however, as evidenced by James Taylor's much-slowed version several years after Shannon. Who would have thought to slow down the song a la Taylor after hearing Jones ride it to such extreme heights?
The best place to hear the original, for me anyway, was from the clear and strong signal belonging to WHB radio out of Kansas City, Mo. It was AM radio at its best.
Then, just to prove that country music had no lock on dropping "g's" (the list includes darlin', drinkin', cheatin', and so on), Jones came out with an amazing followup -- "Good Timin'." After coming on like gangbusters with "Handy Man," here he was trying to outdo himself.
I was at first dazzled that Jones seemed to have pulled it off, then just as puzzled wondering if I had been duped. Was "Good Timin'" really an equal to "Handy Man"? Or was it just more of the same?
I decided it did not matter. "Handy Man" was a rare treat, and for Jones to nearly equal it on a second try was enough to validate the strident pleasure of the original, to sustain the foot-to-the-floor aerial word climbs only Jones could pilot.
Jones did not make a third attempt. If he did, it failed to find many radio turntables. I never heard from him again.
-30-
Monday, February 19, 2007
Visiting Sunset Strip, 1963
by Bryce Martin
The route I chose on beautiful Southern California sunny days would take me down Santa Monica Boulevard to Sunset Boulevard. The area called Sunset Strip took up maybe a dozen blocks between Doheny and La Cienega. To heighten the excitement I felt coming, sometimes I would drive around before settling in on Sunset. Nearby was Beverly Hills. Just being in Beverly Hills was like a dream. The area street names, too, were magical, especially Hollywood and Vine. Once, I made it a special occasion to park my car and walk to the corner of Hollywood and Vine, just to know for myself I had stood there with my own two feet. Another time I drove to the end of the Strip and beyond and breathed in the lusty breeze coming from the direction of the Pacific Ocean. I drove way up into the Hollywood Hills, on winding, steep roads and past big iron gates that framed elaborate estates, where I knew had to be hidden movie stars and famous film directors.
Clubs on the Strip showcased on their marquees go-go girls and rock bands such as local favorite Pacific Gas & Electric Co., and teenage girls hung around outside on the sidewalks, wearing long dresses and waiting around as if this was the place to wait around for whatever it was they were waiting around for. An exchange of pleasantries, a light if they asked. They were there to hustle up some drug money, to feed their addictions. The idea of having sex with any of them was a turn-off. I thought of drug addicts as being scabby and having who knows what kind of diseases. True or not, it was not an image I could shake.
The Whiskey A-Go-Go was fairly small inside, the band's music painfully noisy. Regularly, I went outside for a cigarette just to see if my ears still worked. When the lingering girls accepted I was not a recruit they spoke openly among themselves. They talked of needing a "spoon" in hopeful and optimistic tones.
In one of the lounges I looked around from my bar seat and spotted Sal Mineo. His gaze caught mine about the same time. I was a rebel in a pause. It would be like this every night, I thought, if I lived around here. It would be expensive, too. The draft beer I was drinking from a tall, tapered glass held less than the contents of a regular beer bottle, and I paid a dollar. In Tijuana, a bottle of Carta Blanca was a quarter. But, sure, that was Tijuana. This is Hollywood, Sunset Strip and it's all one big dreamland, or "Gollywood" as I remembered how columnist Walter Winchell described it.
Some of the clubs on the Strip I had never entered, and some I was sure I never would. The Playboy Club. Can you spell r-i-p-o-f-f? Playing big shot, or watching others in the role, is a sad waste. Dino’s, I liked the arty Dino's sign, but I was sure Dean Martin could survive without my help. Shelly’s Manne Hole sounded way too corny. After I found out Shelly Manne was a jazz drummer I knew it was not for me. If it had been Sandy Nelson's Teen Beat, that would have been a different story. Nelson had the hit instrumental "Teen Beat" during my not to distant high school days.
I was mostly an observer. That kept me plenty busy, even if it might not have looked so sometimes from the viewpoint of observers watching me. There had to have been some. Watching as if you're not watching is difficult to pull off. I felt I had mastered the form. Girls I attempted conversations with in the clubs were way beyond my maturity level. Neither did any of them seem sweet. It was as if each had their own particular hustle, and they could write a textbook on it.
I frequented the corner where the Whiskey A-Go-Go stood. Sneaky Pete’s was next door. Sneaky Pete’s was a dump. That is what I told myself each time I went inside. I drove all the way down here from my lost-city apartment out on the Mojave Desert for this? The few people milling around inside would fidget and fumble around with items drawn from their pockets, open up folded squares of paper and study them and then be off on their way to their real destinations. Around the corner was PJ's. It was a club with peppermint-striped awnings, like what you might see on a pair of pajamas. On the marquee was the name Joanne Worley. She would be a name I recognized later on the TV show Laugh-In.
A nice stretch of the legs involved walking up the street to Pandora’s Box, a club building situated smack dab in the middle of the split intersection. It was painted an outlandish purple color and located where the Strip began. The club's black drummer wore a mop hairdo and shot everyone the bird as they entered. With his hair he looked like Larry of the Three Stooges. I thought it brazen, his mannerisms, and his appearance was outrageous. Wild it was, this area. I'd be back.
-30-
by Bryce Martin
The route I chose on beautiful Southern California sunny days would take me down Santa Monica Boulevard to Sunset Boulevard. The area called Sunset Strip took up maybe a dozen blocks between Doheny and La Cienega. To heighten the excitement I felt coming, sometimes I would drive around before settling in on Sunset. Nearby was Beverly Hills. Just being in Beverly Hills was like a dream. The area street names, too, were magical, especially Hollywood and Vine. Once, I made it a special occasion to park my car and walk to the corner of Hollywood and Vine, just to know for myself I had stood there with my own two feet. Another time I drove to the end of the Strip and beyond and breathed in the lusty breeze coming from the direction of the Pacific Ocean. I drove way up into the Hollywood Hills, on winding, steep roads and past big iron gates that framed elaborate estates, where I knew had to be hidden movie stars and famous film directors.
Clubs on the Strip showcased on their marquees go-go girls and rock bands such as local favorite Pacific Gas & Electric Co., and teenage girls hung around outside on the sidewalks, wearing long dresses and waiting around as if this was the place to wait around for whatever it was they were waiting around for. An exchange of pleasantries, a light if they asked. They were there to hustle up some drug money, to feed their addictions. The idea of having sex with any of them was a turn-off. I thought of drug addicts as being scabby and having who knows what kind of diseases. True or not, it was not an image I could shake.
The Whiskey A-Go-Go was fairly small inside, the band's music painfully noisy. Regularly, I went outside for a cigarette just to see if my ears still worked. When the lingering girls accepted I was not a recruit they spoke openly among themselves. They talked of needing a "spoon" in hopeful and optimistic tones.
In one of the lounges I looked around from my bar seat and spotted Sal Mineo. His gaze caught mine about the same time. I was a rebel in a pause. It would be like this every night, I thought, if I lived around here. It would be expensive, too. The draft beer I was drinking from a tall, tapered glass held less than the contents of a regular beer bottle, and I paid a dollar. In Tijuana, a bottle of Carta Blanca was a quarter. But, sure, that was Tijuana. This is Hollywood, Sunset Strip and it's all one big dreamland, or "Gollywood" as I remembered how columnist Walter Winchell described it.
Some of the clubs on the Strip I had never entered, and some I was sure I never would. The Playboy Club. Can you spell r-i-p-o-f-f? Playing big shot, or watching others in the role, is a sad waste. Dino’s, I liked the arty Dino's sign, but I was sure Dean Martin could survive without my help. Shelly’s Manne Hole sounded way too corny. After I found out Shelly Manne was a jazz drummer I knew it was not for me. If it had been Sandy Nelson's Teen Beat, that would have been a different story. Nelson had the hit instrumental "Teen Beat" during my not to distant high school days.
I was mostly an observer. That kept me plenty busy, even if it might not have looked so sometimes from the viewpoint of observers watching me. There had to have been some. Watching as if you're not watching is difficult to pull off. I felt I had mastered the form. Girls I attempted conversations with in the clubs were way beyond my maturity level. Neither did any of them seem sweet. It was as if each had their own particular hustle, and they could write a textbook on it.
I frequented the corner where the Whiskey A-Go-Go stood. Sneaky Pete’s was next door. Sneaky Pete’s was a dump. That is what I told myself each time I went inside. I drove all the way down here from my lost-city apartment out on the Mojave Desert for this? The few people milling around inside would fidget and fumble around with items drawn from their pockets, open up folded squares of paper and study them and then be off on their way to their real destinations. Around the corner was PJ's. It was a club with peppermint-striped awnings, like what you might see on a pair of pajamas. On the marquee was the name Joanne Worley. She would be a name I recognized later on the TV show Laugh-In.
A nice stretch of the legs involved walking up the street to Pandora’s Box, a club building situated smack dab in the middle of the split intersection. It was painted an outlandish purple color and located where the Strip began. The club's black drummer wore a mop hairdo and shot everyone the bird as they entered. With his hair he looked like Larry of the Three Stooges. I thought it brazen, his mannerisms, and his appearance was outrageous. Wild it was, this area. I'd be back.
-30-
Friday, January 19, 2007
BOXING IN SOUTHEAST KANSAS AT TURN OF CENTURY
by Bryce Martin
On April 1, 1898, James “Rube” Ferns, a future world welterweight boxing champion, knocked out Frank “Dutch” Neal in the sixth round in a match held in Galena, Kansas. Ferns fought twice more in Galena before the year was out. The “Kansas Rube,” who was born 25 miles from Galena in Pittsburg in 1874, again knocked out Neal, this time in seven rounds, on June 8, and on November 9 he floored Paddy Purtell.
Ferns won the world welterweight title in 1900, lost it and won it again in 1901.
In a manner of speaking, the first Ferns-Neal encounter in Galena was barely legal.
New York in 1896 was the first state to make professional boxing legal. Most all other states fell in line shortly thereafter, freeing the sport from the primarily free-for-all, no-holds barred spectacle it was, although on occasion bouts were fought as close as possible under the Marquess of Queensbury Rules established in 1867.
Boxing matches, though considered low-brow on the meager entertainment scale of the times, was welcome entertainment to the working men of southeast Kansas and nearby environs. Ferns came from the coal camps of Crawford County. Galena was more noted for its lead and zinc industry. As rough as it was in the boxing ring, life in the numerous mining camps in Cherokee and Crawford counties was even rougher. Brawls were a dime a dozen and killings were commonplace. When the official name for the city street with the most activity is dubbed Red Hot Street, as it was in Galena, the word is out.
It may even have been safer in the ring.
Ferns died in 1952 in his hometown of Pittsburg at the ripe old age of 78. His brother, Owen, however, was shot and killed in 1905 in Harry Wilson’s chili parlor near Galena in Scammon over an argument. He was 24 years of age. He was shot by a coal boss who had received a black eye in a skirmish the night before. When Owen Ferns remarked that another black eye would constitute a match, the coal man took extreme exception.
A look at history reveals that the first true sports star in America was John L. Sullivan, the great bare-knuckle blaster who blazed his way to a heavyweight title in 1888 and nationwide and even international glory. Old-timers in the 1950s still talked glowingly of Sullivan. My Cherokee County Kansas lead-mining grandfather knew the story well and related it fondly in his latter years how Sullivan offered anyone – anyone at all -- $500 if they could stay on their feet against him for just one round. That was in 1879, the year my grandfather was born. Sullivan was still repeating the offer nine years later when my grandfather was a tad, and at a time when $500 was still a good amount of money, and tempting to the tough of mind and body who inhabited the various mining camps and towns.
Note: Purtell, who was once based in Kansas City, Kansas, fought regularly in Leadville, Colorado. He died there at age 30 on June 9, 1901, after being thrown to the floor in an altercation.
-30-
…
by Bryce Martin
On April 1, 1898, James “Rube” Ferns, a future world welterweight boxing champion, knocked out Frank “Dutch” Neal in the sixth round in a match held in Galena, Kansas. Ferns fought twice more in Galena before the year was out. The “Kansas Rube,” who was born 25 miles from Galena in Pittsburg in 1874, again knocked out Neal, this time in seven rounds, on June 8, and on November 9 he floored Paddy Purtell.
Ferns won the world welterweight title in 1900, lost it and won it again in 1901.
In a manner of speaking, the first Ferns-Neal encounter in Galena was barely legal.
New York in 1896 was the first state to make professional boxing legal. Most all other states fell in line shortly thereafter, freeing the sport from the primarily free-for-all, no-holds barred spectacle it was, although on occasion bouts were fought as close as possible under the Marquess of Queensbury Rules established in 1867.
Boxing matches, though considered low-brow on the meager entertainment scale of the times, was welcome entertainment to the working men of southeast Kansas and nearby environs. Ferns came from the coal camps of Crawford County. Galena was more noted for its lead and zinc industry. As rough as it was in the boxing ring, life in the numerous mining camps in Cherokee and Crawford counties was even rougher. Brawls were a dime a dozen and killings were commonplace. When the official name for the city street with the most activity is dubbed Red Hot Street, as it was in Galena, the word is out.
It may even have been safer in the ring.
Ferns died in 1952 in his hometown of Pittsburg at the ripe old age of 78. His brother, Owen, however, was shot and killed in 1905 in Harry Wilson’s chili parlor near Galena in Scammon over an argument. He was 24 years of age. He was shot by a coal boss who had received a black eye in a skirmish the night before. When Owen Ferns remarked that another black eye would constitute a match, the coal man took extreme exception.
A look at history reveals that the first true sports star in America was John L. Sullivan, the great bare-knuckle blaster who blazed his way to a heavyweight title in 1888 and nationwide and even international glory. Old-timers in the 1950s still talked glowingly of Sullivan. My Cherokee County Kansas lead-mining grandfather knew the story well and related it fondly in his latter years how Sullivan offered anyone – anyone at all -- $500 if they could stay on their feet against him for just one round. That was in 1879, the year my grandfather was born. Sullivan was still repeating the offer nine years later when my grandfather was a tad, and at a time when $500 was still a good amount of money, and tempting to the tough of mind and body who inhabited the various mining camps and towns.
Note: Purtell, who was once based in Kansas City, Kansas, fought regularly in Leadville, Colorado. He died there at age 30 on June 9, 1901, after being thrown to the floor in an altercation.
-30-
…
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Baseball in an older, closer world
by Bryce Martin
When your small hometown in Kansas has a national baseball hero, and you have relatives who played professionally and who may have crossed baseball paths with this person, you wonder: Did they know each other?
The clues and particulars:
My hometown: Galena, Kansas.
Best Major League baseball player born in my hometown: George Grantham.
Best professional baseball player I am related to: Jess Brice Martin.
Best professional baseball player who is my in-law relative: Yank Davis.
Three teams in 1922 Western League: Des Moines, Tulsa, Omaha.
Three teams in 1923 Western Association: Ardmore, Springfield, Henryetta.
Now, it's just a matter of following the bouncing ball.
George Grantham was one of pro baseball's first 20-20 players. For Omaha in 1922 he batted .359, hit 22 homers stole 33 bases and scored 157 runs. The Chicago Cubs were so impressed they called him up for a September peek. As the season winded down, he debuted with the Cubs September 20, 1922, and played in seven games, which was the start of a stellar 13-year major league career with the Cubs, Pirates, Reds and Giants.
Grantham's manager for the Omaha Buffaloes was Barney Burch, who had replaced Jack Lelivelt in mid-year the year before in 1921. The informal nickname for the team was "Burch Rods." Besides Grantham, the team in 1922 had such future major league greats as Babe Herman and Heinie Manush.
Lelivelt went on in 1922 to manage the Tulsa Oilers, in the same Western League as Omaha. Tulsa won the '22 pennant and pressed on in early October to defeat the Dixie champion Mobile Bears of the Southern Association 4 games to 1 in claiming the Class A overall championship. Tulsa was led during the season and in the post-season series by outfielder Yank Davis and his league-leading 35 home runs, and the bat of player-manager Lelivelt, a Chicago native.
As a member of the Class A Tulsa Oilers in 1922, Davis was just two steps below the major leagues. My cousin, Barry Martin, from Joplin, Mo., and Yank's nephew, has a gem of a picture postcard of Yank in uniform with his Seneca Merchants (Mo.) baseball team brethren from 1908.
Now, to pitcher Jess Martin, born in the Joplin region of Missouri, a state line and scant miles from Galena, Kan., and the birthplace of Grantham. Martin's one-game fling with the Des Moines (Iowa) Boosters in 1923 missed, for him, by just one skinny year the opportunity of competing against Grantham in the same pro league. Grantham (Omaha) and Davis (Tulsa) did, of course, suit up against each other all during the 1922 campaign.
Martin was as busy as a bee in a bonnet during the '23 campaign, his only professional season. In addition to his cuppa at Des Moines, he flung the hosshide for three, count 'em, Western Association teams (not to be confused with Western League): Ardmore, Henryetta and Springfield.
Pro minor league ballplayers in bright, sunny summers during this era earned in the neighborhood of $60 per month. Pitchers commanded the most money. Teams often struggled to make payroll. Leagues imposed monthly salary limits for teams. Teams such as Tulsa and Omaha, for example, in 1925 each had a monthly salary cap of $5,500. Paying players under the table was a common practice.
After all these years, I have to wonder did Martin know Grantham? Did Martin, Grantham, Davis, any or all of them, personally know each other? From family records, I know that Jess Martin had a nephew (Byron) who married a relative of Davis (Catherine).
It is a mystery locked in the past. I am, however, unwaveringly certain I would have liked to have been there in the mix to see all that went on firsthand, and to have played a little baseball.
-30-
by Bryce Martin
When your small hometown in Kansas has a national baseball hero, and you have relatives who played professionally and who may have crossed baseball paths with this person, you wonder: Did they know each other?
The clues and particulars:
My hometown: Galena, Kansas.
Best Major League baseball player born in my hometown: George Grantham.
Best professional baseball player I am related to: Jess Brice Martin.
Best professional baseball player who is my in-law relative: Yank Davis.
Three teams in 1922 Western League: Des Moines, Tulsa, Omaha.
Three teams in 1923 Western Association: Ardmore, Springfield, Henryetta.
Now, it's just a matter of following the bouncing ball.
George Grantham was one of pro baseball's first 20-20 players. For Omaha in 1922 he batted .359, hit 22 homers stole 33 bases and scored 157 runs. The Chicago Cubs were so impressed they called him up for a September peek. As the season winded down, he debuted with the Cubs September 20, 1922, and played in seven games, which was the start of a stellar 13-year major league career with the Cubs, Pirates, Reds and Giants.
Grantham's manager for the Omaha Buffaloes was Barney Burch, who had replaced Jack Lelivelt in mid-year the year before in 1921. The informal nickname for the team was "Burch Rods." Besides Grantham, the team in 1922 had such future major league greats as Babe Herman and Heinie Manush.
Lelivelt went on in 1922 to manage the Tulsa Oilers, in the same Western League as Omaha. Tulsa won the '22 pennant and pressed on in early October to defeat the Dixie champion Mobile Bears of the Southern Association 4 games to 1 in claiming the Class A overall championship. Tulsa was led during the season and in the post-season series by outfielder Yank Davis and his league-leading 35 home runs, and the bat of player-manager Lelivelt, a Chicago native.
As a member of the Class A Tulsa Oilers in 1922, Davis was just two steps below the major leagues. My cousin, Barry Martin, from Joplin, Mo., and Yank's nephew, has a gem of a picture postcard of Yank in uniform with his Seneca Merchants (Mo.) baseball team brethren from 1908.
Now, to pitcher Jess Martin, born in the Joplin region of Missouri, a state line and scant miles from Galena, Kan., and the birthplace of Grantham. Martin's one-game fling with the Des Moines (Iowa) Boosters in 1923 missed, for him, by just one skinny year the opportunity of competing against Grantham in the same pro league. Grantham (Omaha) and Davis (Tulsa) did, of course, suit up against each other all during the 1922 campaign.
Martin was as busy as a bee in a bonnet during the '23 campaign, his only professional season. In addition to his cuppa at Des Moines, he flung the hosshide for three, count 'em, Western Association teams (not to be confused with Western League): Ardmore, Henryetta and Springfield.
Pro minor league ballplayers in bright, sunny summers during this era earned in the neighborhood of $60 per month. Pitchers commanded the most money. Teams often struggled to make payroll. Leagues imposed monthly salary limits for teams. Teams such as Tulsa and Omaha, for example, in 1925 each had a monthly salary cap of $5,500. Paying players under the table was a common practice.
After all these years, I have to wonder did Martin know Grantham? Did Martin, Grantham, Davis, any or all of them, personally know each other? From family records, I know that Jess Martin had a nephew (Byron) who married a relative of Davis (Catherine).
It is a mystery locked in the past. I am, however, unwaveringly certain I would have liked to have been there in the mix to see all that went on firsthand, and to have played a little baseball.
-30-
Sunday, November 12, 2006
A Man Known by His Books, George Barbarow
by Bryce Martin
George Barbarow had rows and rows of stacks of literary magazines in his house in East Bakersfield. The house behind him he owned as well as this one. The one behind him fronted the street, was much larger and he used it for rental income. He said he never made much money during his working years. He was retired, and in his latter years had worked with the state on road and highway projects.
Many of his cache of magazines dealt with the arts and were published in New York. For one, I don’t recall its name, he contributed regular movie reviews. He also wrote reviews on books and plays, and was considered an authority on renowned novelist James Agee, according to Barbarow and backed up by his numerous contributions on his favored subject in the major periodicals he held as witness.
It was a mini-library. I didn't think of him as being eccentric -- he was hoarding books, not cats -- since I knew many of the books bore a direct relation to him. I was careful, though, not to disturb the crawly things. The small house in the springtime was a haven for black widow spiders.
Most of his literary and film criticism and essays were published in the late 1940s and early 1950s and covered Hamlet to Hitchcock. He was one of the first regular contributors to Hudson Review (New York).
His family emigrated here from England and settled in the Brooklyn region of Greater New York. Born in 1915, he was nearing 66 years of age.
He had just recently taken to collecting ephemera. Little stacks of advertising for a Pepsi promotion that fit over the necks of the bottles, for example, rested on a corner table. He had begun to collect old cars. Not classic models, just old, big cars, the V-8s. They didn’t cost much and he felt they would appreciate in value fairly quickly. He had three in his backyard, and not much room for any more. He had baseball cards, rather recent ones 15 to 20 years old, such as Sandy Koufax, and some worth a little money. He didn’t know their value. I did and filled him in. That’s how I met him. He had run a newspaper ad offering his baseball cards for sale. He had several cards from the Wings Cigarette airplane set, trading cards from the 1940s I had seen a few of when I was a kid in the ‘50s and the memory of which brought on pleasant pangs of nostalgia. He had the first issue of Sports Illustrated.
With the old cars and the ephemera, he either expected to live a long time and cash in on his smartly amassed collection, or he anticipated his humble bounty to soar in value in short time. I didn’t buy any of the cards, just wrote down the dollar amounts for him on each one on a sheet of paper he could use as a guide, since he had received some calls and had set some appointments to show them.
I enjoyed visiting with him occasionally and a few times we’d go to the nearby Tam O’Shanter on Alta Vista Drive and down some suds. Having an interest in all facets of movie making myself, as well as of having a knowledgeable overview of its development over the years, I experienced a rush of emotions as I realized I had an expert in front of me who could tell me what he thought were the best movies ever made. He said he hadn’t been to a movie in years, and didn’t feel like he’d missed anything. “The last good movie was Intolerance,” he said. I knew of the film he referred to, though I had to look up the year it came out. I knew it was a silent film. It was from 1916 I discovered. It was his way of joking, I’m sure.
A few months later, he told me he had cable television installed and had watched a slough of movies. One he made a point of heaping praise on was Tilt. That kind of shocked me coming from him. I had seen it and remembered Brooke Shields and Charles Durning in it, but recalled nothing much about it memorable.
He had enjoyed studying economics over the years and prized a favored observation from economist Milton Friedman: “If you want to keep blacks down, raise the minimum wage.” It was Friedman's keen insight Barbarow found brilliant. Friedman was not advocating the oppression of blacks, stressing instead that minimum wage laws were anti-black.
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by Bryce Martin
George Barbarow had rows and rows of stacks of literary magazines in his house in East Bakersfield. The house behind him he owned as well as this one. The one behind him fronted the street, was much larger and he used it for rental income. He said he never made much money during his working years. He was retired, and in his latter years had worked with the state on road and highway projects.
Many of his cache of magazines dealt with the arts and were published in New York. For one, I don’t recall its name, he contributed regular movie reviews. He also wrote reviews on books and plays, and was considered an authority on renowned novelist James Agee, according to Barbarow and backed up by his numerous contributions on his favored subject in the major periodicals he held as witness.
It was a mini-library. I didn't think of him as being eccentric -- he was hoarding books, not cats -- since I knew many of the books bore a direct relation to him. I was careful, though, not to disturb the crawly things. The small house in the springtime was a haven for black widow spiders.
Most of his literary and film criticism and essays were published in the late 1940s and early 1950s and covered Hamlet to Hitchcock. He was one of the first regular contributors to Hudson Review (New York).
His family emigrated here from England and settled in the Brooklyn region of Greater New York. Born in 1915, he was nearing 66 years of age.
He had just recently taken to collecting ephemera. Little stacks of advertising for a Pepsi promotion that fit over the necks of the bottles, for example, rested on a corner table. He had begun to collect old cars. Not classic models, just old, big cars, the V-8s. They didn’t cost much and he felt they would appreciate in value fairly quickly. He had three in his backyard, and not much room for any more. He had baseball cards, rather recent ones 15 to 20 years old, such as Sandy Koufax, and some worth a little money. He didn’t know their value. I did and filled him in. That’s how I met him. He had run a newspaper ad offering his baseball cards for sale. He had several cards from the Wings Cigarette airplane set, trading cards from the 1940s I had seen a few of when I was a kid in the ‘50s and the memory of which brought on pleasant pangs of nostalgia. He had the first issue of Sports Illustrated.
With the old cars and the ephemera, he either expected to live a long time and cash in on his smartly amassed collection, or he anticipated his humble bounty to soar in value in short time. I didn’t buy any of the cards, just wrote down the dollar amounts for him on each one on a sheet of paper he could use as a guide, since he had received some calls and had set some appointments to show them.
I enjoyed visiting with him occasionally and a few times we’d go to the nearby Tam O’Shanter on Alta Vista Drive and down some suds. Having an interest in all facets of movie making myself, as well as of having a knowledgeable overview of its development over the years, I experienced a rush of emotions as I realized I had an expert in front of me who could tell me what he thought were the best movies ever made. He said he hadn’t been to a movie in years, and didn’t feel like he’d missed anything. “The last good movie was Intolerance,” he said. I knew of the film he referred to, though I had to look up the year it came out. I knew it was a silent film. It was from 1916 I discovered. It was his way of joking, I’m sure.
A few months later, he told me he had cable television installed and had watched a slough of movies. One he made a point of heaping praise on was Tilt. That kind of shocked me coming from him. I had seen it and remembered Brooke Shields and Charles Durning in it, but recalled nothing much about it memorable.
He had enjoyed studying economics over the years and prized a favored observation from economist Milton Friedman: “If you want to keep blacks down, raise the minimum wage.” It was Friedman's keen insight Barbarow found brilliant. Friedman was not advocating the oppression of blacks, stressing instead that minimum wage laws were anti-black.
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Monday, July 24, 2006
Sixties Surfin' on the High Desert
by Bryce Martin
A Ridgecrest Calif., band from the early 1960s helped pioneer a genre -- "surf music" -- on the desert, no less.
The Ramblers was the name of a rock band in Ridgecrest, the first prominent rock band in the area, if not the first one altogether.
A later incarnation of the band was The Hustlers.
The Hustlers' drummer had a day job, as all the members did. Gary Olinger chucked 100-pound bags, loading soda ash into boxcars and onto flatbeds for Stauffer Chemical Co. at Westend in Searles Valley.
It was 1965. The Hustlers played weekends at the lively and popular Pat and Charlie's in Ridgecrest. The band had previously performed at The Desert Playhouse on Balsam St. A handmade sign posted around town featured drawings of dice and playing cards to help brand the Hustlers image.
Besides Olinger, a 1958 Trona High School grad, David Wilkie (guitar) from Ridgecrest , Jim Shouse (bass guitar), and Mickey Meyers (lead guitar, vocals) formed the group. Meyers was the lead singer and guitarist. Tall, slender and with blonde, curly hair, he was the epitome of the California surfer. Olinger and Wilkie were the two civilians.
Meyers was the one common denominator for the Ramblers/Hustlers.
Olinger said Meyers was near deaf in one ear, and he drummed loud because of that, positioning his drums to the side of Meyers' good ear so he could catch the beat.
Prior to Pat and Charlies's, when the Meyers-fronted band was known as The Ramblers, they rocked at the Acey-Deucey Club at China Lake and in Ridgecrest, traveling as far as Lancaster. In addition to Meyers, the cast included John Schoellman, rhythm guitar, Curley Curry, drums, John Vanderbeck, tenor sax. All
but Vanderbeck, a civil service employee, wore Navy whites.
In 1963, The Ramblers had a single record released on Sidewinder Records, "Ticonderoga" b/w"Mozart Stomp" (Sidewinder 101), both instrumentals.
Vanderbeck, who lives now in Seattle, Wash., said he thinks Meyers named his composition after the aircraft carrier, the USS Ticonderoga.
Both songs have been reissued in recent years in a compilation package. The two instrumentals and some other songs were recorded in the Downey Records facility in Downey, Calif.
Downey Records was a small independent. It utilized a plain blue label with silver letters. On this label, the Chanteys released the anthem of all surf rock instumentals in 1963: "Pipeline." That song was recorded in a garage for a total cost of under a hundred dollars.
The Ramblers are known now as a "surf" group, a connotation Vanderbeck said he nor his bandmates even thought of at the time.
Although the two bands were just a couple of years apart, Olinger said he was not acquainted with the members of The Ramblers, other than Meyers.
"We started out at The Playhouse as The Hustlers," Olinger said. "Two guitars, bass and drums. Just like The Beatles."
Pat and Charlie's was started by Pat Burke and Charlie Brown. The building had been a meat market operated by Brown. Burke was a milkman who later went to work at
the meat market and married Brown's daughter. Brown bought the building next to the meat market and combined it into one large building.
"Pat came by one day and said he'd like to have us at Pat and Charlie's," said Olinger. "It had been a go-go joint."
The Hustlers stayed on when Pat and Charlie's was sold and it became J.D.'s.
Olinger said The Hustlers tried spreading out some. Efforts to branch out were not shared by all the band members, which led to the group's demise, according to
Olinger.
"We wanted to travel. But when Shouse left we had to get another guitar player. Wilkie went to playing bass, but the new guitar player had a great job at the base and didn't want to travel. That was it for us."
Olinger lives in the state of Washington. After leaving Ridgecrest he worked with Bay Area bands in San Francisco for several years. Wilkie is in the construction business in San Diego, it is unknown by Olinger where Shouse is, and Meyers has an executive postion with IBM Corp. in Southern California.
Lew Talley and the Whackers, a country music group, was another notable house band at the club. Once the club changed ownership to J.D.'s, it wasn't long after that The Hustlers departed. Country music would become the main musical bill of fare.
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by Bryce Martin
A Ridgecrest Calif., band from the early 1960s helped pioneer a genre -- "surf music" -- on the desert, no less.
The Ramblers was the name of a rock band in Ridgecrest, the first prominent rock band in the area, if not the first one altogether.
A later incarnation of the band was The Hustlers.
The Hustlers' drummer had a day job, as all the members did. Gary Olinger chucked 100-pound bags, loading soda ash into boxcars and onto flatbeds for Stauffer Chemical Co. at Westend in Searles Valley.
It was 1965. The Hustlers played weekends at the lively and popular Pat and Charlie's in Ridgecrest. The band had previously performed at The Desert Playhouse on Balsam St. A handmade sign posted around town featured drawings of dice and playing cards to help brand the Hustlers image.
Besides Olinger, a 1958 Trona High School grad, David Wilkie (guitar) from Ridgecrest , Jim Shouse (bass guitar), and Mickey Meyers (lead guitar, vocals) formed the group. Meyers was the lead singer and guitarist. Tall, slender and with blonde, curly hair, he was the epitome of the California surfer. Olinger and Wilkie were the two civilians.
Meyers was the one common denominator for the Ramblers/Hustlers.
Olinger said Meyers was near deaf in one ear, and he drummed loud because of that, positioning his drums to the side of Meyers' good ear so he could catch the beat.
Prior to Pat and Charlies's, when the Meyers-fronted band was known as The Ramblers, they rocked at the Acey-Deucey Club at China Lake and in Ridgecrest, traveling as far as Lancaster. In addition to Meyers, the cast included John Schoellman, rhythm guitar, Curley Curry, drums, John Vanderbeck, tenor sax. All
but Vanderbeck, a civil service employee, wore Navy whites.
In 1963, The Ramblers had a single record released on Sidewinder Records, "Ticonderoga" b/w"Mozart Stomp" (Sidewinder 101), both instrumentals.
Vanderbeck, who lives now in Seattle, Wash., said he thinks Meyers named his composition after the aircraft carrier, the USS Ticonderoga.
Both songs have been reissued in recent years in a compilation package. The two instrumentals and some other songs were recorded in the Downey Records facility in Downey, Calif.
Downey Records was a small independent. It utilized a plain blue label with silver letters. On this label, the Chanteys released the anthem of all surf rock instumentals in 1963: "Pipeline." That song was recorded in a garage for a total cost of under a hundred dollars.
The Ramblers are known now as a "surf" group, a connotation Vanderbeck said he nor his bandmates even thought of at the time.
Although the two bands were just a couple of years apart, Olinger said he was not acquainted with the members of The Ramblers, other than Meyers.
"We started out at The Playhouse as The Hustlers," Olinger said. "Two guitars, bass and drums. Just like The Beatles."
Pat and Charlie's was started by Pat Burke and Charlie Brown. The building had been a meat market operated by Brown. Burke was a milkman who later went to work at
the meat market and married Brown's daughter. Brown bought the building next to the meat market and combined it into one large building.
"Pat came by one day and said he'd like to have us at Pat and Charlie's," said Olinger. "It had been a go-go joint."
The Hustlers stayed on when Pat and Charlie's was sold and it became J.D.'s.
Olinger said The Hustlers tried spreading out some. Efforts to branch out were not shared by all the band members, which led to the group's demise, according to
Olinger.
"We wanted to travel. But when Shouse left we had to get another guitar player. Wilkie went to playing bass, but the new guitar player had a great job at the base and didn't want to travel. That was it for us."
Olinger lives in the state of Washington. After leaving Ridgecrest he worked with Bay Area bands in San Francisco for several years. Wilkie is in the construction business in San Diego, it is unknown by Olinger where Shouse is, and Meyers has an executive postion with IBM Corp. in Southern California.
Lew Talley and the Whackers, a country music group, was another notable house band at the club. Once the club changed ownership to J.D.'s, it wasn't long after that The Hustlers departed. Country music would become the main musical bill of fare.
-30-