Vox Pop

Say it loud -- Black Music Month is proud

2010-06-18T13:35:26Z

The lady of the house, my fiancee, threw down her trump card: "You've never done a column on Black Music Month. If you don't do one, I'm not marrying you!"

Then we proceeded with our annual debate, the one that occurs every June.

"It's not like Black History Month," I protested. I then went into my memorized spiel: Black History Month came about because so little black history was being taught in white-majority institutions and schools. Exhibit A: Myself. I was taught pitifully little African-American history during my high school years in Dothan, Ala., in the mid-1970s.

Even though the relevance of Black History Month is being debated these days, even by some black people, the idea served a useful purpose in the past.

"But every month of my life, and that of most Americans black or white or any race, has been a celebration of black music," I told Cheryl.

Thanks to the invention of portable transistor radios, what kid growing up in the 1960s wasn't listening to the Supremes, Stevie Wonder, James Brown, Marvin Gaye and all the Motown artists, and Jimi Hendrix along with the Beatles and the Byrds and other rock artists?

What '60s kid didn't later discover Earth, Wind and Fire, Billie Holiday, Miles Davis, Duke Ellington, the "American Idol" Pants-on-the-Ground Dude and yadda yadda yadda?

What is there for me to say about black music as a whole? What insightful analysis can I offer that isn't already burned into people's brains?"

Black Music Month carries the whiff of a music industry promotional campaign. I wasn't swayed from that opinion when Cheryl showed me an article in the June 7 issue of Jet magazine. Producer-songwriter Kenneth Gamble and radio personality Ed Wright founded the Black Music Association, which in turn created Black Music Month in 1979.

According to Jet, Gamble "says he hopes music lovers will especially celebrate the work of jazz legends like Duke Ellington and Billy Strayhorn and blues greats like B.B. King, Muddy Waters and Howlin' Wolf, whose contributions tend to 'get lost in the sauce when you start talking about contemporary music.' "

Lost in the sauce? Really?

The Tuskegee Airmen, the Rev. Fred Shuttlesworth, Medgar Evers and the white postman William Lewis Moore (who was shot and killed during a one-man march against segregation in Alabama in 1963) were almost lost from history -- white folks' history, that is. Black History Month helped rescue those people and their deeds from oblivion.

But most Americans know it don't mean a thing if it ain't got the Duke's swing. Most Americans have heard B.B.'s Lucille cry.

Still, I caved. So here's my Inaugural-But-Soon-to-Be-Annual Black Music Month Column:

Black music -- cool.

Black music -- hip!

Black music -- funky!

Black music -- the Supremes, Little Stevie, Jimi, EW&F, J.B., Billie, Miles, Duke, Pants-on-the-Ground, yadda yadda yadda.

However, echoing the purpose of Black History Month, I will offer a brief list of black music artists on the fringe of many Americans' psyches -- artists I believe should receive more due:

* The anonymous slaves who wailed field hollers in the mid-1800s and earlier -- the true roots of the blues and American music.

* Fela Kuti -- the late, flamboyant Nigerian musician and pioneer of "Afrobeat" music.

* Samite -- a Uganda-born musician who now lives in the U.S., but who still draws upon the folk instruments and music styles of his native land.

* Public Enemy -- Yes, Chuck D, Flava Flav and company have received much mainstream publicity and critical props. But few people realize how much such P.E. albums as "Fear of a Black Planet" and "It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back" encapsulated the zeitgeist of late 20th-century America.

Happy Black Music Month.

Rick de Yampert is The Daytona Beach News-Journal's entertainment writer. He can be reached at rick.deyampert@news-jrnl.com

Is it art? Sit down and think about it

2010-06-11T05:00:00Z

This column -- the one you are reading right now -- is a work of art.

No, I don't mean the writing is "artistic" and grand and eloquent. I'm not saying it's a master assemblage of prose.

What I mean is that I chose each word carefully and deliberately. Then I arranged these little black hieroglyphics that we call letters upon a computer screen's field of white newsprint just so, until . . . voila! It's a work of art . . . visual art . . . my visual art.

Yes, I heard what some of you contemplating my artwork just said: "Bullshoot!"

I wondered if I should call "bullshoot" on Marina Abramovic when I read in The New York Times about her latest performance art piece, "The Artist Is Present."

According to Times art critic Holland Cotter, Abramovic recently completed "one of the longest pieces of performance art on record, and certainly the one with the largest audience."

Her art? She sat. In a chair. Still. Silent. In the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. For seven hours a day, six days a week. From March 14 through May 31.

No, she wasn't naked. She wore a gown, alternating its solid color from day to day.

Meanwhile, museum visitors were invited to sit, face to face, in a chair about five feet from Abramovic -- and thus become part of the performance.

"Sitting with Ms. Abramovic has been the hot event of the spring art season," Cotter wrote. Some visitors faced the artist for only a few minutes. A few individuals hogged the chair for an entire day, backing up the long line that had formed for the privilege.

Cotter reported that some celebrities, including musicians Bjork, Lou Reed and Rufus Wainwright, and actresses Marisa Tomei and Isabella Rossellini, faced off with the artist.

Predictably, a few of Abramovic's fellow performance artists seized the moment -- and the chair -- to respond with their own various stunts . . . er, art.

So, your call: Is it art? Mere bullshoot? A stunt? A practical joke?

The 63-year-old Yugoslavia native isn't the first to play such a game. I recall one of my art history professors in college relating the tale about the gent who put a frame around an air vent in a museum. He then took credit for "creating" the "art" contained within the frame.

The dada movement, which shook up the art world from 1916 to 1922, reveled in various "anti-art" shenanigans, whether of the conceptual art or performance art variety. Their mission was to call "Bullshoot!" on any and all who presumed to dictate what was and was not art. (Meanwhile, some dadaists insisted it was against the spirit of dada to proclaim any sort of mission at all.)

In 1917, French-American dadaist Marcel Duchamp famously proclaimed a salvaged urinal was art and titled it "Fountain." The Society of Independent Artists, which included Duchamp, rejected the piece from its art show, even though the society had stated it would accept all submissions.

The original "Fountain" was lost, but Duchamp committed the very un-dadaist sin of authorizing a number of replicas in the 1950s and '60s, which are now on display in various museums. One reportedly sold at auction for $1.7 million in 1999.

Predictably, a number of artists have . . . er, committed performance art on various "Fountains," proclaiming that ol' Marcel would have approved using the urinals for their original intent. According to journalist Rob Sharp writing in Britain's Independent, Japanese performance artists Cai and Xi took that route at London's Tate Modern in 2000, with Cai proclaiming, "As Duchamp said himself, it's the artist's choice."

Back in dada's heyday, according to various websites including dadamuseum.com, "A reviewer from American Art News stated that 'the dada philosophy is the sickest, most paralyzing and most destructive thing that has ever originated from the brain of man.' "

The dadaists must have howled with mission-accomplished glee.

And now, right in your own computer screen, you are gazing at an original Rick de Yampert. If my "Arrangement of Letters on Field of White" ever sells at auction for $1.7 million -- or $1.70 -- remember that I want my cut . . . and may the anti-establishment ethic of dada be damned.

Diplo's 'Paper Planes' glides into top 500 songs

2010-06-04T14:18:13Z

Diplo, the music producer, club deejay and former Daytona-area resident also known as Wes Pentz (Mainland High, class of '97), co-wrote the 236th greatest song of all time.

That's according to the new Rolling Stone special edition, "The 500 Greatest Songs of All Time." "Paper Planes," which Diplo co-wrote with his frequent collaborator and co-conspirator, pop/hip-hop artist M.I.A., landed midway in a list packed with immortal works.

These days Rolling Stone produces almost as many lists as VH-1, with its shows counting down the "100 Most Shocking Music Moments," the "40 Hottest Rock Star Girlfriends . . . and Wives" and . . . you get the picture.

The new Rolling Stone list is . . . well, sort of new. In the back of the special edition, the RS gang confess that they took their 2004 poll of the greatest songs of all time, which was voted on by 162 artists, producers and music biz types. The Stoners then combined that list with their 2009 poll of the best songs of the 2000s, as voted on by 100 music folks.

Voila -- a new list (available at news stands for $9.99 a pop).

"Paper Planes" is classic Diplo -- with its every-sonic-thing-AND-the-kitchen-sink production. The song mixes M.I.A.'s sing-song rap, a credited sample of the Clash's "Straight to Hell," a chorus of child-like voices, the pop of gunfire and the clatter of a cash register.

At the 51st Grammy Awards in 2009, the song was nominated for Record of the Year, which goes to the performer and producers of a single song. (The award was won by bluegrass queen Alison Krauss and former Led Zeppelin singer Robert Plant for their duet on "Please Read the Letter.")

M.I.A.'s record label "didn't even want to put it ('Paper Planes') on the record, " Diplo said in an interview with The News-Journal before the 2009 Grammys. "They thought, 'What the hell does this mean? It's too weird.' "

Weird didn't make the cut throughout much of the 500 list. I'll save you from having to fork over more cash for a semi-retread list and give you the top 10 here:

1. "Like a Rolling Stone, Bob Dylan

2. "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction," the Rolling Stones

3. "Imagine," John Lennon

4. "What's Going On," Marvin Gaye

5. "Respect," Aretha Franklin

6. "Good Vibrations," the Beach Boys

7. "Johnny B. Goode," Chuck Berry

8. "Hey Jude," the Beatles

9. "Smells Like Teen Spirit," Nirvana

10. "What'd I Say," Ray Charles

The back page of the special edition lists some intriguing numbers behind the 500:

The Beatles' 23 songs topped 14 by the Stones and 13 by Dylan.

The 1960s led all decades with 195 songs on the list. The often-slammed '80s clocked in with 55, more than the 1990s (with 21) and the 2000s (with 27) combined.

The year 1965 had the most songs (Rolling Stone curiously omits how many).

Some curiosities I noted:

In interviews over the past decade, Paul McCartney has candidly confessed that he feared his contributions to the Beatles were being eclipsed by Lennon's legacy and a revisionist tendency among music critics.

In the 500 list, three of the four Beatle songs in the top 20 are, according to Fab Four history and lore, unequivocally Paul's songs: "Hey Jude," "Yesterday" and "Let It Be."

M.I.A. was one of the voters. (Wonder if she would-did rank "Paper Planes" ahead of "Like a Rolling Stone"?)

With "Whipping Post" by the Allman Brothers coming in at 393, Daytona artists scored two hits on the 500 list. The blurb accompanying "Whipping Post" says, "This anthem was written on an ironing board in a darkened Florida bedroom by (Gregg) Allman."

And, since you asked, here's my top 10 greatest songs of all time (which may be somewhat different from the list I whipped out in response to Rolling Stone's poll back in 2004):

1. "I Am the Walrus," the Beatles

2. "One," U2

3. "The Rain Song," Led Zeppelin

4. "Theme From Harry's Game," Clannad

5. "Tomorrow Never Knows," the Beatles

6. "Sowing the Seeds of Love," Tears For Fears

7. "The Fly," U2

8. "Fight the Power," Public Enemy

9. "The Wind Cries Mary," Jimi Hendrix

10. "Kashmir," Led Zeppelin

Rick de Yampert is The Daytona Beach News-Journal's entertainment writer. He can be reached at rick.deyampert@news-jrnl.com

In time of 'Exile,' Stones were everybody's Lucifer

2010-05-28T13:28:16Z

When Don McLean released his song "American Pie," a few rock 'n' roll cryptologists shivered with dread over one of the troubadour's lines: "And as I watched him on the stage, my hands were clenched in fists of rage. No angel born in Hell could break that Satan's spell!"

The year was 1971, and some folks feared, as McLean so slyly portrayed, that Mr. D -- the devil himself -- was stalking stages across the land .¤.¤. in the guise of the Rolling Stones!

With the Stones' "Exile on Main Street" getting the remastered treatment and unleashed on the world again last week, not many rock fans may recall that, during the time of "Exile's" original release in 1972, Mick Jagger and the lads were regarded as the most satanic rock band ever.

OK, they were held (hailed?) as the only satanic rock band ever.

In the early half of the 1960s, as the media embraced the Beatles as lovable mop tops, the Stones' were branded by some in the press as the anti-Beatles, as the bad boys of rock 'n' roll.

Jagger and Keith Richards ran with it. As the Summer of Love approached, the Stones began playing devil games. "Paint It Black," the band's 1966 single, was a far cry from the Beatles' "Got to Get You Into My Life."

The band seemed to embrace the occult more overtly with the release of their 1967 album, "Their Satanic Majesties Request," which depicted the lads in Merlin-like wizard's garb.

"Beggars Banquet," the band's 1968 album, opened with "Sympathy For the Devil." Just as some fans dissected the covers of Beatles albums for Paul-is-dead clues, others began to detect satanic intent in the band's music. "Paint It Black" was now seen in a new light. Some fans whispered that the Stones' 1970 live album, "Get Yer Ya-Yas Out," took its name from a voodoo chant.

The 1973 album "Goats Head Soup" featured a poster with, well, a goat's head boiling in tomato-y soup. Some fans realized that many ancient legends and myths depicted the devil in the guise of a goat (check out the paintings of Goya, including "Witches' Sabbath" at right).

The Beatles had made parents, barbers and the establishment uneasy because of the mass, Svengali- like adoration they inspired. The Stones were unnerving picket-fence America because Mick and the boys hinted at sinister forces unleashed.

According to Richards confidante Tony Sanchez in his 1979 book, "Up and Down With the Rolling Stones," Mick and Keith wavered between milking their satanic image for all the delicious, scandalous publicity it generated, and genuinely dabbling in occult rituals (shades of Robert Johnson!).

When the band played Altamont in 1969 and a gun-toting man was stabbed to death by Hell's Angels, legend quickly spread that the Stones had been performing "Sympathy For the Devil" at the time of the murder. The documentary film "Gimme Shelter," which captured the murder on celluloid, proved otherwise (the Stones in fact were performing "Under My Thumb").

No matter. According to "The Rolling Stone Encyclopedia of Rock & Roll," a spooked Jagger and company stopped performing "Sympathy" for the next six years.

(Rock music detectives would claim that the passage from "American Pie" cited above was McLean's cryptic dig at the Stones for the Altamont debacle.)

In the wake of Altamont, Richards famously told Rolling Stone magazine in 1971: "What is evil? Half of it, I don't know how much people think of Mick as the devil or as just a good rock performer or what? There are black magicians who think we are acting as unknown agents of Lucifer and others who think we are Lucifer. Everybody's Lucifer."

Sanchez seems to have accurately pegged the situation when he observed that, after the shock of Altamont wore off several years later, "Mick rapidly became bored with the mumbo jumbo of satanism."

By the time the Stones released their single "Start Me Up" in 1981, with a cover depicting a furry goat's hoof morphed into a high heel shoe, I (and, I imagine, many other fans) realized Mick was having a good time parodying the devil games the band members played in their rebellious younger days.

Of course, by the time satanic death metal reared its black, necrophilia-cloaked head in the late 1980s and early '90s, the Stones' ancient occult dabblings seemed as harmless as a Christopher Lee Dracula film.

Still, for a time in the 1960s, it really did seem that Lucifer had the World's Greatest Rock 'n' Roll Band under his cloven thumb.

Rick de Yampert is The Daytona Beach News-Journal's entertainment writer. He can be reached at rick.deyampert@news-jrnl.com

Lads, here's your guide to 'Sex and the City 2'

2010-05-21T05:00:00Z

Listen up, lads: Next week will see the release of the Scariest. Movie. Ever.

Yes, "Sex and the City 2" opens on May 27. If you happen to be in a relationship with a female, or you live on the same planet as one of them, you should be aware that the very existence of this movie threatens the cosmic harmonic balance of the man-woman thing.

That is, if you were to dismiss this flick, make light of it or totally ignore it, women everywhere will brand you a Neanderthal and, in this Facebook/Twitter age, your future relations with the fairer (fairer?) sex could be warped permanently.

We guys must draw upon all our knowledge of the Don Juan arts to survive these treacherous waters. To that end, I hereby answer your questions in this handy-dandy Male Viewers' Guide to "Sex and the City 2":

You say we guys should not ignore this chick flick. So, you're advising us to go see "Sex in the City 2" with our wives or girlfriends?

Whoa, whoa, whoooooa!

First, it's titled "Sex AND the City 2" -- not "Sex IN the City 2." Mistakenly use that two-letter preposition and your woman will suspect (know) that you are exploiting the occasion of this cinematic marvel merely to, ahem, be rewarded later.

Second, don't call SATC2 a chick flick.

It's not a chick flick?

Of course it is. Just don't call it that. For Carrie-philes, such movies as "Nights in Rodanthe" and "The Notebook" are mere chick flicks -- Harlequin romances of the silver screen in which a woman is a mere electron revolving around some Prince Charming's heart.

For Carrie-philes, SATC the TV series, SATC1 (the first movie) and SATC2 (the new sequel movie) are epics of the I-am-woman-hear-me-roar-over-a-cosmo-with-my-girlfriends variety .¤.¤. sort of a gal version (my term, not theirs) of "Citizen Kane."

Carrie-philes?

Fans of Carrie Bradshaw, the shoe-loving, sex columnist lead chick of SATC, who's portrayed by Sarah Jessica Parker. I'm getting the impression you're not a metrosexual or a SNAG.

Metro-SNAG?

Sensitive New Age Guy or . . . never mind.

I caught my lady watching the TV series one time, and Carrie called her boyfriend Mr. Big!

No need to feel intimidated. He didn't get his nickname from what you're assuming.

And, for skinny chicks, they talked a lot about food and drinks -- donut glaze and bags of tea.

Er, OK. And I guess you think a woman's place is in the kitchen?

And Carrie loves Manolo Blahnik -- wasn't he a goalie for the Philadelphia Flyers? Who would have thought she'd be a hockey fan?

You're going to spend the next five years in Manolo's penalty box.

So, do I dare go see "Sex" with my lady or not?

Of course you do!

Of course you don't!

Make overtures about taking her to see the beast and she'll sniff out that you're running a con, pretending to be a SNAG.

Act like this cinematic masterpiece doesn't exist, or diss it, and you're pegged as a brute who thinks Dick Butkus' autographed jockstrap would make a great Valentine's Day gift.

Bottom line: You're on your own with this one, buddy.

Rick de Yampert is The Daytona Beach News-Journal's entertainment writer. He can be reached at rick.deyampert@news-jrnl.com

Michael Bolton readies for return bout with critic

2010-05-14T05:00:00Z

Dear Michael Bolton,

So, you finally got up the nerve to return to Daytona Beach after all these years? You're going to perform Jan. 23 at Peabody Auditorium.

Well, bring it on, Buddy Rough!

Guess you thought I had forgotten the insult you hurled at me all those years ago. You said I was a "chimpanzee" eager to "spoil a Picasso."

OK, so maybe I started our war of words. As The News-Journal's entertainment writer, I was assigned to review your concert in Daytona Beach in the early 1990s. I went in with an open mind but I -- ahem -- quickly found your musical talents lacking, so I said so. I wrote about your "tortured, I-gargle-with-sand voice," and I noted that your "between-song charisma was as stiff and distant as a Vladimir Lenin statue."

OK, so maybe your "chimp" remark wasn't aimed directly at me and me alone.

But it was only a few months after my review of your Daytona concert appeared that you won a Grammy Award for your cover of "When a Man Loves a Woman" and, during the resultant press conference, you laid into us critics. You compared us to monkeys mindlessly, shamelessly defecating on the finer things in life . . . the Picasso-like things in life. Which, following the geometry of your metaphor, would land you in the Picasso camp . . . .

Did you really compare yourself to Picasso? Really?

Yes, your chimp-Picasso barb stung a bit, but I confess that I secretly applauded your critique of us critics. For one thing, I admired the imagery of your metaphor, and the cheekiness of comparing yourself to an artist whose works will be remembered three centuries from now. (Did you really compare yourself to Picasso? Really?)

And, as Oscar Wilde said, "There is only one thing in life worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about."

But, unbeknownst to you, Michael, you have exacted a more subtle revenge upon me: You have become my bete noire.

As soon as news of your Daytona return broke in the newsroom, a number of my reporter colleagues impishly commented to me about "the Bolton review." Some, it must be said, are your admirers and are still rather piqued that I commented upon your Leninishness.

Others offered their condolences upon hearing that I may be reviewing your music again. Some smiled mischievously, anticipating another Bolton-critic dust-up.

But my well-meaning colleagues put me into a journalistic funk.

Back in the mid-1980s, when I was fresh out of college and working at the daily newspaper in Dothan, Alabama, I was a young-buck reporter who covered hard news and broke the story that the city manager was packing heat during city commission meetings. I also wrote what I thought was an insightful feature story on Vietnam vets dealing with post-traumatic stress disorder. I wrote commentary on race matters, hoping to wake up the white folks in my adopted hometown. I wrote many other issue-oriented articles.

Since taking the entertainment writer job here at The News-Journal in 1990, I've interviewed writers and poets and rock stars, and think-pieces on U2, Public Enemy, Bruce Springsteen and others. Some of that work was frivolous, transitory stuff, to be sure, but I like to think that some of those pieces helped readers gain a greater insight into how and why those life-affecting artists do what they do.

But it all comes down to this, Michael: My gravestone will say: "He wrote that Michael Bolton sang with a 'tortured, I-gargle-with-sand voice' and was 'as stiff and distant as a Vladimir Lenin statue.' "

Ouch.

Michael, I'm just a chimp living in your Picasso-sized shadow.

But I promise you this: If I review your upcoming concert in Daytona Beach, I will go in with an open mind . . . and no ear plugs. This chimp will be ready to bask in your Picassoness.

Rick de Yampert is The Daytona Beach News-Journal's entertainment writer. He can be reached at rick.deyampert@news-jrnl.com

Lonesome no more: Hank joins Pulitzer crowd

2010-04-23T05:00:00Z

Once my dad brought home an album by this new, scandalously haired rock group who looked like they were wearing black mops on top of their heads, my brothers and I didn't have much use for his record collection anymore.

Spurred by my dad's mysterious largess (did he have a clue what he had done?), my older brother began importing vinyl into our household almost weekly in the mid-1960s -- the Beatles, the Beach Boys, Paul Revere and the Raiders, the Troggs, Tommy James and the Shondells and many, many more.

Still, occasionally I would poke through my dad's stash: Louis Armstrong, Louis Prima, lots of Dean Martin, Wes Montgomery, Al Hirt, Jimmy Dean, Elvis (my mom's favorite), Roger Miller . . . and this cowboy in a sombrero-sized white hat that somehow gave him a faint Barney Fife look.

As all this wild-thing-Monkee music shoved aside the sounds of both my Alvin and the Chipmunks records and that chipmunk-cheeked trumpet player with the pop eyes, the cowboy dude refused to go. Even as Jimi Hendrix was asking "Are you experienced?," my pre-adolescent heart knew, in its own way, that this guy Hank Williams, this singing cowboy, certainly was experienced.

Hear that lonesome whippoorwill,

He sounds too blue to fly.

The midnight train is whining low,

I'm so lonesome I could cry.

If Hank Williams had never written another song except for "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry," he would have deserved the posthumous Pulitzer -- a "Special Citation" -- he was honored with last week.

Hank Williams -- a Pulitzer?! This from the same folks who honored the opera "The Saint of Bleecker Street" by Gian-Carlo Menotti in 1955, the ballet "Appalachian Spring" by Aaron Copland in 1945 and "Canti del Sole" for Tenor and Orchestra by Bernard Rands in 1984?

I would have been less shocked if the Pulitzer people had honored "Never Mind the Bollocks Here's the Sex Pistols."

According to a press release from the Pulitzer Prize Board, the award was made "after a confidential survey of experts in popular music."

"The citation, above all, recognizes the lasting impact of Williams as a creative force that influenced a wide range of other musicians and performers," said Sig Gissler, administrator of the Pulitzer Prizes. "At the same time, the award highlights the board's desire to broaden its music prize and recognize the full range of musical excellence that might not have been considered in the past."

Other "Special Citations" awarded in music include Scott Joplin, George Gershwin, Duke Ellington, Thelonious Monk, John Coltrane and Bob Dylan -- all in the last 12 years except for Joplin, who was honored posthumously in 1976. Hank is the first country guy.

The Pulitzer citation notes that Williams, who died in 1953 at age 29, "was noted for writing and singing songs that reflected the hopes and struggles of everyday Americans, and his compositional skill and fusion of genres, experts say, became the measure by which country music is judged. Among his most famous songs are the standards 'Your Cheatin' Heart,' 'Cold Cold Heart,' 'I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry' and 'Jambalaya.' "

Legend says Elvis Costello once lauded country crooner George Jones as the greatest soul singer of all time.

Sorry Elvis -- it's Hank (with his lone possible competitor being Aretha Franklin).

Sure, Hank's Pulitzer is a highfalutin honor. But my psyche long ago lauded Williams: He's the only cowboy who survived my rock 'n' roll-obsessed youth, the only country dude whose songs are permanently etched into my heart and gray matter along with those of John and Paul, Mick and Keith, and Bono and the Edge.

Like that midnight train, Hank's high lonesome voice keeps whining low.

Rick de Yampert is The Daytona Beach News-Journal's entertainment writer. He can be reached at rick.deyampert@news-jrnl.com

Sgt. Pepper wept -- album covers are lost art

2010-04-16T05:00:00Z

I'm staring at a guy the British press once dubbed "the Wickedest Man in the World." But Aleister Crowley -- the British occultist, practitioner of ceremonial magic and all-around strange dude -- doesn't look very scary. Instead, he looks like Uncle Fester (of "The Addams Family") with an upset stomach, rather than some wizard with arcane powers.

That's because, as I write this, I'm looking at Al as he appears on the CD cover of the Beatles' "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band," and he and the dozens of other pop culture icons and historical figures are no bigger than a gnat's butt.

Record Store Day will be celebrated April 17 across the nation, including at Atlantic Sounds in Daytona Beach. Though the idea is to celebrate the spirit and culture and hipness of independent record stores (as opposed to the antiseptic big-box chains that sell music), it's also a day when record labels flood indie stores with new but rare, limited-release, good old-fashioned slabs of music-inscribed vinyl.

Never mind that labels also will be issuing limited-release CDs to indies. It's the vinyl that gives Record Store Day its mojo.

However, I must make this sacrilegious true confession on the very eve of this vinyl frenzy: The day CDs were invented, I tap danced right on top of my ancient, pock-marked vinyl copy of Led Zep IV, which had scratches deeper than the furrows of Keith Richard's face. Ditto my scarred 8-track copy of Zep's masterpiece.

Yes, vinyl aficionados swore (and still do) that CDs reproduce crappier sound. But I was glad that never again would record company fat cats get rich off me and other music-loving rubes who had been forced to re-buy the same albums over and over and over because the record label's crappy technology couldn't hold up to 100 plays or more per day.

But my gleeful celebration of the death of vinyl came with a price: I missed the album covers.

I missed those big, bold, museum-quality (well, sort of), in-your-face artistic statements that, according to Creem magazine, had held up the release of the Splats' new album for five months because guitarist Turk Turtles didn't like the way the sun gleamed off the image of his face on the African obelisk.

I missed tacking up Elton John's "Capt. Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy," Yes' "Tales From Topographic Oceans" and Pink Floyd's "The Dark Side of the Moon" on my bedroom wall like they were lost Van Goghs.

I missed turning the wheel on Led Zeppelin III to see what visual surprises peaked out from the cut-out circles. And I missed scouring the inner vinyl plane of that album and others for cryptic inscriptions.

All those visual pleasures -- gone. Do you think the McCartney-is-dead urban legend ever would have gotten off the ground if obsessed Beatlemaniacs had to search for clues on tiny CD covers?

As CDs slowly but inexorably began to push vinyl albums off store shelves, I had this foolish notion that some record company suit would realize how much we rock fans missed those big covers. Then that same record guy would flash upon a brilliant money-making idea: "Let's package tiny CDs inside of big cardboard slabs! Music fans will go ape-gaga!"

What was I thinking? Now it's the age of the iPod, and I'm getting nostalgic over the CD covers of "Sgt. Pepper," Zep's "Physical Graffiti," the dark beauty of Badfinger's "No Dice" and the burning man of the Floyd's "Wish You Were Here."

Perhaps nobody else cares that the art of album covers is a lost art. Maybe album covers are my "Rosebud" (check out "Citizen Kane," you younger people).

Me, I'll be checking out the vinyl album covers on Record Store Day.

Rick de Yampert is The Daytona Beach News-Journal's entertainment writer. He can be reached at rick.deyampert@news-jrnl.com

Has Obama abandoned his poetic license?

2010-04-09T05:00:00Z

We the American people have been failed by President Barack Obama.

No, I'm not talking about health insurance reform, Afghanistan, offshore drilling or any of those sorts of hot-button issues. Rather, Obama has failed us in a much more critical area of policy: As the nation's Poetry Fan-in-Chief, he's let us poetry fans down.

Just three days after winning the election in November 2008, Obama sent a jolt through all readers and writers of poetry. The new prez was photographed in Chicago carrying a book of poems!

And we poetry fans knew the prez was serious. He wasn't toting some fluffy, pencil-thin volume of haiku, Rod McKuen's greatest hits or a collection of "America's Favorite Animal Poems."

Nope, Obama was caught lugging around a 516-page beast -- "Collected Poems 1948-1984" by Derek Walcott, the now 80-year-old, Nobel-winning West Indian writer.

And so we poetry fans looked forward to four years of a president peppering his speeches with heady allusions to William Butler Yeats' falcon turning and turning in a widening gyre . . . to a prez cajoling the Senate to sing America with Langston Hughes .¤.¤. to a commander-in-chief copping sound bites from Sonia Sanchez (perhaps some "Homegirls and Handgrenades," Mr. President?) whenever Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad began talking smack.

The Obama administration got off to a good poetic start on Jan. 20, 2009, when Elizabeth Alexander read her inaugural poem, crafted especially for the occasion.

OK, it was a bad poetic start. Her "Praise Song For the Day" admittedly came on little cat fur balls, sat looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moved on, never to be heard again, and deservedly so. But at least poetry was on an international stage that day.

However, we're now in the midst of another National Poetry Month, more than a year later, and as far as I can tell, our nation has not heard a poetic peep from our president since he took office.

When Obama arrived where two roads diverged in a yellow wood, he gunned the gas pedal of his limo and forsook the poetic road less traveled by.

(Because it's National Poetry Month, it's temporarily legal for newspaper columnists to use words such as "forsook" and to craft loopy metaphors that mangle the famous poems of Carl Sandburg and Robert Frost.)

And so, a year after my annual State of Poetry Address foresaw magnificent poetic moments on the horizon, led by the Leader of Poetry in the Free World, I have come crashing back down to earth like one of John Donne's leaden conceits.

What's the state of poetry in 2010? Pretty much the same as it's been ever since that Shakespeare dude hung up his quill: It's struggling. A few people write the stuff. Even fewer read it. And even fewer truly treasure it. When's the last time you heard anyone, even Allen Ginsberg, howl about poetry?

I saw the best poems of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix.

They ain't gonna find that fix. But at least we have National Poetry Month. It's a time for some of us to recall that, once upon a time, there was such a thing as poetry.

Rick de Yampert is The Daytona Beach News-Journal's entertainment writer. He can be reached at rick.deyampert@news-jrnl.com

AP Photo/Robert F. Bukaty

Mandala Books nears its final chapter

2010-04-02T05:00:00Z

The day I arrived in Daytona Beach in 1990, I felt at home when I walked into Mandala Books. This month I and other book lovers will walk through its doors for the last time.

Books are my barometer. When I visit someone's home, I furtively size that person up by checking out their book collection. Actually, "psychoanalyze" might be a better term.

It doesn't take a Columbo to figure out that someone in possession of, say, Toni Morrison's "The Bluest Eye" might see the world in a different way than a person reading "Are You There, Vodka? It's Me, Chelsea" or a biography of Winston Churchill or Matthew Fox's "The Hidden Spirituality of Men: Ten Metaphors to Awaken the Sacred Masculine." (And if a person's bookshelves sport all four volumes, then that's certainly someone I want to get to know.)

I'm the same with towns and cities. Whenever I visit a city for the first time, I size that place up by checking out its used bookstores.

If those surveys that index and rank the "livability" of cities don't consider used bookstores in their calculus, for me that's like rating a restaurant without eating its food. A metro area without a great used bookstore is a deal-breaker for me. I'm outta there.

The very day that I flew into Daytona Beach to interview for this job at The News-Journal, I scouted the city for used bookstores. I found Mandala.

The place was so steeped in the scent of old books -- that heady, musty-paper, thick-with-mystery smell that's ambrosia to us book lovers -- that I was certain it must contain some Rumi first editions signed by the Persian poet himself.

Like any worthy used bookstore, Mandala was filled with odd nooks, hidden corners and dusty, seemingly forgotten backroom shelves -- just the sort of place where a book collector's inner Indiana Jones might score a copy of the out-of-print version of W.B. Yeats' "A Vision" or a first edition of Kurt Vonnegut's "Slaughterhouse-Five."

That first day I ventured into Mandala, the bald guy proprietor was holding court with some customer. Actually, the demeanor of the proprietor, Victor Newman (in photo above), was more like one of those archetypal Zen masters: He had the air of imparting casual yet lofty wisdom, even as he laced it with a touch of superiority -- and a hint of vinegary ridicule. As the conversation veered toward verbal jousting, he seemed to relish it all the more, confident that he was the victor.

Over the next 20 years of foraging amid the stacks of Mandala Books, I found many treasures -- not only in the store's volumes, but also in Victor's Johnsonian knowledge of literature, in the little Zen koans of insight he dropped into his conversations, and in his friendship.

As he talked about books, films or politics, Victor might mention in passing (yet totally relevant to the conversation) that, say, Yevtushenko was the Bob Dylan of Russia. And if someone boldly (or foolishly) picked up on that and dared to ask "Who?," they'd be rewarded with an impromptu Russian lit/history lesson, imparted in that engaging, slightly gruff, Zen master-ish style of his.

Ask for a book on the Black Arts Movement and he'd tell you about the times LeRoi Jones and Sonia Sanchez would come into the Jamaica (Queens), N.Y., bookstore he owned and ran with his late wife, Marilu, in the 1960s.

Mandala Books, which is now located at 127 W. International Speedway Blvd., is closing April 30, after operating here for 30 years. Victor is retiring and no buyer for the store could be found. Yes, the proverbial going-out-of-business sale is underway.

But I'm reminded of that series of television ads. A copy of "The Upanishads" translated by Eknath Easwaran: 40 percent off $4.95. The pleasure of doing business with an opinionated, New York-spawned book guy so passionate about the written word: priceless.

For us readers, Mandala's closing is akin to boarding up a Taj Mahal of bookdom.

Rick de Yampert is The Daytona Beach News-Journal's entertainment writer. He can be reached at rick.deyampert@news-jrnl.com

Photo: Jim Tiller

Vook can spook old-fashioned book lovers

2010-03-26T05:00:00Z

Two old radio dogs, former NPR "Morning Edition" host Bob Edwards and retired NPR newscaster Carl Kasell, were chatting on Edwards' Sirius XM radio show recently.

Both men chuckled as Kasell recalled the time British journalist and TV host Alistair Cooke quoted a young girl who said, "I like radio more than television because the pictures are better."

Watch out, little lady.

I don't consider myself a Luddite, even though I don't own an iPhone and don't plan on getting one until the next time Halley's Comet comes around. (Yeah, I know -- you iPhone/Blackberry folks can access that date instantly, while people like me will have to look it up in some musty, Gutenberg-spawned almanac.)

But I confess I cringed when, the same week I heard those radio elders reminiscing about the good ol' days, I read about the Vook.

The Vook?

It's an electronic, computer-generated video/book hybrid (produced in part by venerated, Gutenberg-style publisher Simon & Schuster).

Whether accessed by computer or mobile thingy, a Vook (and similar data globs that have been variously dubbed v-books, digibooks or multimedia books) come with links and embedded video so that you can, well, see a character or action instead of pestering that poor ol' overworked imagination of yours. True, current v-books also provide links to Wikipedia and other encyclopedic sources, thus backing up imaginative text with merely explanatory text.

In an article on the Vook by Monica Hesse of The Washington Post, the founder of the Institute for the Future of the Book was quoted (yes, there is such a thing).

"The age of pure linear content is going to pass with the rise of digital network content," said the institute's Bob Stein. "Things like the Vook are trivial. We're going to see an explosion of experimentation before we see a dominant new format. We're at the very, very beginning."

As for myself, I'm like that little girl: I'm going to like Gutenberg-ish books better than digibooks because I'm certain the pictures will be better.

In other Web 2.0 news . . .

Some of us Gutenbergs still enjoy browsing in old-fashioned, brick-and-mortar book and record stores because, while we may be scouting for a book on sitar player Ravi Shankar, we may stumble upon, say, "Karma Cola: Marketing the Mystic East" by Gita Mehta. Such an experience is only fleetingly replicated online by Amazon's "recommendations" and "customers who bought this item also bought . . ." features.

But stumbling through the Web does have its pleasures. When I was searching for the band Rock Sugar recently, Amazon mistakenly took me to "Sugar in My Bowl: Vintage Sex Songs 1923-1952," which in turn led to a whole slew of "rude blues" compilations in the "customers who bought this item also bought . . ." list.

On such albums as "Let Me Squeeze Your Lemon: The Ultimate Rude Blues Collection" and "Eat to the Beat -- The Dirtiest of Them Dirty Blues," the offerings range from the innuendo-drenched and merely naughty, such as Tampa Red's "She Want to Sell My Monkey," to slang-infested ditties that would make Richard Pryor blush.

Along with lesser-knowns such as Sippie Wallace and Boozoo Chavis, these sets also feature such name brands as Dinah Washington and Screamin' Jay Hawkins.

No, you likely won't find these collections in any big-box chain store.

Hey, maybe I can get used to a post-Gutenberg universe after all.

Rick de Yampert is The Daytona Beach News-Journal's entertainment writer. He can be reached at rick.deyampert@news-jrnl.com

Rockers stumble down stairway to mashups

2010-03-19T05:00:00Z

This mashup shtick has gotten out of hand.

When all those B-team bluegrass dudes began churning out those "Pickin' on the Beatles" and "Pickin' on Zeppelin" albums years ago, it was cute (if not thrilling) to hear high lonesome versions of "Strawberry Fields Forever" and "Kashmir."

Those bluegrass guys weren't the first. In 1978 a San Francisco rock band called Little Roger and the Goosebumps gleefully merged the lyrics of the "Gilligan's Island" theme with Led Zep's "Stairway to Heaven," creating the notorious, cheesy, cheeky "Stairway to Gilligan's Island." (Zep's management quickly trampled it underfoot, but you can find it on the Internet still.)

In 1989 on the soundtrack for his movie "UHF," Weird Al married Dire Straits' "Money For Nothing" with the theme from "The Beverly Hillbillies,"

The "mash-up" concept hit its peak a half-decade ago, first in 2004 when Danger Mouse (right) cleverly put a Vulcan mind-meld on the Beatles' "White Album" and Jay-Z's "The Black Album" and called it "The Grey Album." The mash-up went viral despite efforts to squash it by the Beatles' record company, and the set appeared on the top 10 lists of numerous critics that year.

A year later, Go Home Productions (the alter ego of English producer-deejay-remixer Mark Vidler) crafted "Rapture Riders," an exhilarating (and authorized) mash-up between the Doors' "Riders on the Storm" and Blondie's "Rapture." (Check out the worthy video mashup below.)

It's been downhill ever since. A Beatles/Wu-Tang Clan mashup, "Enter the Magical Mystery Chambers," appeared a few months ago and just as suddenly disappeared from the Internet (given the tepid results, shout "Goo-goo-ga-joob" that it's gone).

And the band Beatallica, a Metallica-Beatles "bash-up," is currently touring behind their second and latest album, "Masterful Mystery Tour." (Are you beginning to notice a trend with these leech-the-Beatles projects?)

Beatallica features the predictable choking-Rottweiler vocals and Beavis-and-Butt-headian guitars as the lads cough up such fare as "The Battery of Jaymz and Yoko," "Everybody's Got a Ticket to Ride Except For Me and My Lightning," "I Want to Choke Your Band" and "Fuel on the Hill" (the latter is available on YouTube, if you must).

Now comes the band Rock Sugar with their debut CD, "Reimaginator," which, according to the band's PR, "combines the best-loved heavy metal riffs of the '80s with the melodies of the world's favorite '80s pop classics."

Thus Rock Sugar delivers such mashups as "Don't Stop the Sandman" (Journey's "Don't Stop Believin' " mixed with Metallica's "Enter Sandman"), "We Will Kickstart Your Rhapsody" (Motley Crue's "Kickstart My Heart" merged with Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody" and "We Will Rock You"), "Crazy Girl" (Ozzy Osbourne's "Crazy Train" and Rick Springfield's "Jessie's Girl") and "Shook Me Like a Prayer" (AC/DC's "You Shook Me All Night Long" chained to Madonna's "Like a Prayer").

Though Rock Sugar's Web site wasn't offering sound samples when I checked, there is evidence that the band is taking a refreshing, Spinal Tap-ish approach to the mashup game. Check out Rock Sugar's tongue-in-cheeky bio at rocksugarband.com . . . something about a hair metal band being shipwrecked on an island in the 1980s with the record collection of a 13-year-old girl.

But how long will it be before some remixer does a mashup of Beatallica and Rock Sugar, or "Stairway to Gilligan's Island" and "I Want to Choke Your Band"?

Somewhere John Lennon is crying -- or maybe laughing his arse off.

Rick de Yampert is The Daytona Beach News-Journal's entertainment writer. He can be reached at rick.deyampert@news-jrnl.com

Rude yahoos leave fan moody blue over concert

2010-03-12T06:00:00Z

I go to concerts to hear the music.

I have a few friends and family who feel the same. Yes, I know -- that's not exactly a news flash . . . or maybe it is.

When a friend mentioned she went to hear the Moody Blues in concert March 6 at the St. Augustine Amphitheatre, I was anxious to hear her verbal review. It's not often that one of rock's most venerated -- dare I say elegant? -- bands visits this area of the universe.

And so she told me about one of the most memorable moments of her date with the Moodys -- the drunk "whackos," a middle-aged husband and wife, who proceeded to yell and stand and flail wildly during the entire show.

The low-light, my friend said, came when the man yelled "F******** yoooouuuuuuuuu!" over and over to the band. No, this "fan" didn't seem angry or disappointed with the performance. Rather, she surmised, such a verbal salutation seemed to be this drunken yahoo's way of showing affection for the Moodys.

When my friend confronted the mega-rude couple, their reaction -- yep, you guessed it -- was to amp up their obnoxious behavior. The ushers were no help: They merely advised my friend this couple weren't worse than the projectile-vomiting patron at a previous show.

Why is it that purchasing a ticket to a rock concert makes some people feel they've also purchased a license to get drunk and act like a Neanderthal with a lobotomy?

Of the 500 or so concerts I've attended in my lifetime (many as a critic, some as just a fan), about 300 of them were rock concerts. At about half of those, there was a chimpanzee or two (they usually travel in pairs) within earshot, who decided they couldn't have a good time unless they danced with their beers over their heads and splashed their brew on their neighbors, or yelped and whooped from start to encore, or shouted to their fellow chimp -- during the ballads, of course -- about the time they got "@*&#-faced" at the last concert they attended.

The low-light of my concert-going times came about eight years ago when I saw Paul McCartney in Sunrise while two women seated to my immediate left talked to each other during the ENTIRE show -- even when a quivering-voiced Paul was eulogizing his deceased friend John.

These "fans" didn't appear drunk. They just seemed strangely oblivious to the fact that one of the musical geniuses of the 20th century was performing in their presence.

When I finally addressed their rudeness, the two squawking parrots responded by -- yep, you guessed it -- sneering at me and amping up their chatter.

I'm not alone. As the entertainment writer and pop music critic here at The News-Journal, I constantly hear from fans who have similar experiences.

A colleague of my Moody Blues-loving friend e-mailed me this week: "Every concert I've been to lately, and the ones I hear about from others, are full of inconsiderate people who want to talk or text or watch TV on their phones, or out-of-control drunks. I've had to say nasty things to at least one person at each one. If I'm going to drink until I pass out, I'll do it at home, not at a show I paid a lot of money to see. I just don't get it."

Me neither. I'd rather hear McCartney perform than chat with a friend at a McCartney concert. I'd rather hear the Moody Blues perform their celestial rock than shout cuss words at the band.

I'm not against having crazy fun at concerts -- at the appropriate times.

If I don't get at least one beer spilled on me while Lynyrd Skynyrd is performing "Sweet Home Alabama" . . . hell, I ask for my money back. If I don't hear at least 20 Dukes-of-Hazzard rebel yells and see at least three people upchucking (I'm hoping not on anyone else) at a Hank Williams Jr. concert, I know it wasn't a good show.

For certain artists in certain settings, I would expect no less.

But here's a warning to all you chimpanzees determined to ruin more civilized shows in the future: I will fight back against excessive chatter with excessive chatter, spilled beer with spilled beer and, if need be, vomit with vomit.

Please just shut your mouths and your beer taps and listen to the music.

Rick de Yampert is The Daytona Beach News-Journal's entertainment writer. He can be reached at rick.deyampert@news-jrnl.com

Bikers face tough times in pop culture

2010-03-05T06:00:00Z

My earliest motorcycle dream came when I was a grade-schooler reading Beverly Cleary's excellent novel "The Mouse and the Motorcycle."

If Ralph the mouse can ride a motorcycle, I can too!

It was all downhill from there.

While I was still in elementary school, my parents bought my teenaged older brother a motorcycle, then a bigger one and yet another, even bigger one, so that he was tooling around Los Alamos, N.M., on his Harley-Davidson 900 Sportster during his senior year in high school.

I had inherited a few sweat shirts and a baseball mitt from my older brother, so I looked forward to inheriting his motorcycle, too.

Around the time of my brother's Sportster glory, however, my mom inexplicably got the idea to ban motorcycles from the family (with my brother's bike grandfathered in). All my grand motorcycle dreams, first conjured by Cleary's biker mouse, were squashed.

Only this week, during the 69th annual Bike Week here in Daytona Beach, did I finally figure out why my mom turned anti-bike: pop culture.

As the entertainment writer here at The News-Journal, I decided to mark this Bike Week by picking my list of the 10 greatest biker moments in pop culture, whether on film, in music, in novels, etc.

And so I began churning over possible nominees. It got ugly -- quick.

When it comes to motorcyclists portrayed in pop culture, the basic formula is: Bikers = hooligans/squared X rebel foolhardiness divided by disaster = Death.

Yeah, I know. That bikers have a bad rep in movies and TV shows and other pop-culti stuff isn't a news flash. But, in concocting my list, I was struck by the amount of downer stuff.

The first biker moment that popped into my mind: Altamont.

Sorry about that, bikers. As a journalist, I have to report the truth. If a psychiatrist plays word association with me and tosses out the word "biker," I will reply with "Altamont," that infamous, chaotic, violence-plagued 1969 concert headlined by the Rolling Stones.

Altamont forever became connected to biker lore when an 18-year-old man, brandishing a pistol near the stage and later determined to be high on meth, was stabbed to death by a member of the Hells Angels motorcycle gang.

The killing was captured in the documentary film "Gimme Shelter," released a year later. (A still from the movie is shown above.)

Also in 1969, my mom and dad loaded up my two brothers and me in the station wagon and we went to see "Easy Rider" at a drive-in in Albuquerque.

My 11-year-old mind was blissfully digging on these hippie biker dudes -- Capt. America, cool! -- until (spoiler alert!) George got whacked (which was a bit of a bummer, kind of like Bambi's mom), and then (mega-spoiler alert!) -- BOOM!

Big bummer.

My family also had seen daredevil Evel Knievel perform at a raceway in Albuquerque in summer 1968. Unfortunately, Evel had broken a leg during a jump a few weeks before his appearance, so all he did was pop a few wheelies around the track.

But Evel's broken leg, coupled with his notorious, horrific crash at Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas just six months earlier, must have given my mom major willies.

And my mom's psyche also was pounded by Altamont, "Easy Rider," Marlon Brando's "The Wild One" from the 1950s and Roger Corman's "The Wild Angels" from 1966 (with a soundtrack album that spent a lot of time on the stereo we brothers shared). Throw in any number of outlaw biker B-movies from the 1960s, Steppenwolf's brain-bruising, proto-metal biker anthem "Born to be Wild" (quite scary at the time), the goofy simpleton Eric Von Zipper from those Frankie Avalon beach flicks, and the Zen-infested title character of the short-lived 1969 TV series "Then Came Bronson" (who was a good guy, but he seemed awfully lonely).

No wonder my mom decided to outlaw motorcycles and their insidious, Svengali-like influence.

And now I'm wondering if my mom, the better to protect my young mind and heart, ripped out the concluding pages of "The Mouse and the Motorcycle."

Given the dire fate of Capt. America and other bikers, I wonder if Ralph the mouse got his head blown off as he was gleefully riding across America in search of himself. In pop culture, that just seems to be the biker way.

Rick de Yampert is The Daytona Beach News-Journal's entertainment writer. He can be reached at rick.deyampert@news-jrnl.com

Fame game has Tiger by the tail

2010-02-26T06:00:00Z

Apology not accepted.

Sorry, Tiger, but I don't want to be part of your uber-calculated plan to restore your reputation -- and your riches.

When you, or your doppelganger, buffaloed your way into the media spotlight last week to say "I had affairs. I cheated," I not only didn't care -- I was offended that your megalomania thought I cared.

(Yes, my colleagues of the media, including this paper, willfully and gleefully followed you to that bizarre podium like you were some head of state addressing nuclear disarmament. And yes, I ended up watching bits of your performance in later "news" bites, even though I avoided your live confessional).

Tiger, when you admitted to your infidelities, you might as well have been a stranger who approached me at the mall and confessed "I had affairs. I cheated." Tiger, you are a stranger to me -- always have been, always will be, although you are a famous stranger. And yet you chose to drag me and the rest of the public through your slime.

You don't owe me an apology or a confession. As you yourself have stated, that's between you and your wife. But the fact that you fobbed an apology-confession on we the public showed how much you've bought into the fame game -- how much you've bought into the very tabloid mentality that you condemned (which, ironically, was the one moment during your supposed self-flagellation that you seemed to abandon robot mode and display some true emotion).

By thinking I give a damn about your private life (apparently sordid, but who am I to judge), you acted just like the paparazzi and sleaze tabloids you (rightfully) scolded for hounding you, your wife and child. You chose to turn what should have been a private matter into a public spectacle.

News flash, Tiger: I. Don't. Care.

But yes, this celebrity thing makes us little people and you Very Famous People do strange things.

About the most insightful comments I've ever encountered on the fame game came when I interviewed famous rock star Peter Frampton in the late 1990s (well, by then he was a formerly famous rock star). In the wake of the tragic death of Princess Diana, I was working on a story about how celebrities deal with that bitch goddess known as success -- how celebs deal with issues of fame, their fans, the media and privacy.

While Frampton observed that the paparazzi's hounding of Princess Di was often egregiously, horrifically out of bounds, he confessed that for himself and other celebrities: "We wanted fame."

Yes, he said, he missed being able to browse in bookstores without being pestered. No, he insisted, fans or media did not have the right to peek into his bathroom window.

But Frampton admitted he willingly had struck a bargain with the devil. Accepting the bad (to an extent) with the good was part of the deal.

(A press colleague of mine had a testy fame-vs.-privacy encounter with Frampton in 1986, when the rock star was holding a publicly advertised bankruptcy sale at his home in New York state. As Frampton was leaving his gated mansion, he told this reporter not to come onto his estate. An organizer of the sale later invited the reporter to drive his car inside the estate and up to the home. Upon returning, a distraught, irate Frampton chased the reporter away.)

Of course, as Wu-Tang Clan said in song many years ago, the Tiger case ultimately is "C.R.E.A.M." -- "Cash rules everything around me."

Tiger's confessional dog-and-pony show wasn't about apologizing to his wife, family, fans or me and you. It was damage control to begin repairing the Tiger brand and to assuage the corporations who have signed him to mega-lucrative endorsement deals.

Much as we have witnessed paparazzi chasing Tiger, Frampton, Michael Jackson, Brangelina, Mr. Squiggles, Mr. Ed, Jack Nicholson, Scooby-Doo, Britney Spears and every other famous being, we now will witness Tiger scrambling down a crowded avenue, hovering in a helicopter, pathetically chasing after his badly bruised reputation . . . Tiger chasing his own tail.

Stay tuned -- or not. It won't be pretty.

Rick de Yampert is The Daytona Beach News-Journal's entertainment writer. He can be reached at rick.deyampert@news-jrnl.com