Long versions

I heard the long version of "Suzie Q" by Creedence Clearwater Revival today. It had been so long since I had heard this version that I forgot that it even existed. Of all the long/short version songs that I grew up with, this is the only one that comes to mind that I like better in its shortened form.

Short versions were created for Top-40 or AM radio stations, trying to keep the song's length under what I'd presume was 3 minutes. Sometimes late at night, they would play the long version, preceded by a lot of hype.

Here are the long/short version songs that I can think of off the top of my head:
"Light My Fire" -- The Doors. It's the first one of this ilk as I remember it. The cutover to the short version is so abrupt. Our local oldies station, which plays almost all 70s music these days, still plays the short version. Grrr, I always feel cheated. Our Classic Rock station plays the long version.
"25 or 6 to 4" -- Chicago. Also played in truncated style on the oldies station and long version on the Classic Rock. By this time the engineers had figured out a much smoother transition in the short version.
"We Won't Get Fooled Again" -- The Who. Hard to believe? This version didn't last long on AM when it came out. It's been a really long time since I heard the short version. IIRC, it was a very abrupt cutover.
I may be misremembering, but I thought "Layla" came out in a short version. Even if it did, who would want to hear it? It was bad enough that Clapton did it "Unplugged". (Indulge me a little hyperbole, please.)

If anyone happens by and can comment on other songs, I'd appreciate it. I'm sure there are others -- candidates would have been "You Keep Me Hangin' On" by Vanilla Fudge and "In-a-gadda-da-vida" (sp?) by Iron Butterfly but I can't recall a short version of those.

Update 11-Nov-2008:
I recently heard 2 songs that had long and short versions but I only remember one of them. In this case, the long version is worse than the short version. It's Marvin Gaye's "What's Goin' On?".

Family Diner:Miriam

I was talking to Marian at work today and found out that she went to Norristown High. That got me thinking about the girls I knew from Norristown with whom I worked at the Family Diner. I worked at the Diner from 1966-1969 from my sophomore through senior years of high school. Other than Lorraine, the girl for whom I had big time crush, the Norristown High girls weren't as significant to me as the older waitresses and hostesses.

I didn't much get along with my folks at this stage of my life, especially my dad. I would go out of my way to avoid him so I didn't have to talk to him. I would hang around the Diner on Sunday nights after finishing my shift and cadge a dinner there rather than eat with my family.

I didn't get along so well at school, either. I went to Devon Prep, run by an order of priests whose ideas of education were 19th century at the latest. I was a wise-ass, late sixties style, and most of the priests had a low threshold of tolerance for that kind of silliness. I was also a duck out of water, as Devon was a prep school and the majority of the kids came from money. Our family was not poor but outside of food, clothing and shelter, there were precious few amenities. Up to age 18, we had 4 family vacations and two of those were spent visiting relatives. To further differentiate me from the well-off kids, I was paying my own tuition. I had won a half-scholarship but if I wanted to go to Devon, I had to pay the other half. Mom and Dad didn't have the dough. It seemed like the right idea at the time... I doubt there were many prep school kids paying their own way, even half.

So the Diner provided a family of sorts for me, it was my safe haven. I was generally well liked and felt respected by the older workers. Even Joe the owner treated me pretty well -- better than he treated his customers, that's for sure. The workers included some mother figures, as well as women of very dubious character, some mostly tough girls from Norristown, later a bunch of high school guys who became my running mates and a lot of negative adult male role models. As you might guess, I learned more about life at the Diner than at school.

The first woman I want to write about was a waitress named Miriam. She was my favorite of all the waitresses. She worked 7-3, M-F. That meant that I only worked with her in the summers. If I had a day off school, I would make sure that I would come in for a soda or a cup of coffee during the slow times so I could sit at her counter and talk to her.

Miriam must have been in her 50s, as crusty as anyone I've ever known. She was not married at the time and I think she had never married. She didn't take any crap from "Mothers", as she would call them. If some guy gave her some crap at the counter, she would walk away sing-songing "They're Mothers, they're all Mothers". Most of the teen-age guys I worked with were scared of her. But Miriam was my buddy and she would listen to my bitching about my family. I don't think she had much in advice to offer but she'd listen, and that was a big deal to me.

Miriam was also Jewish, which made her an oddity at this Diner. She was the first Jewish person who I really knew. Our next door neighbors were Jewish but their kids were many years younger so we didn't interact.

The coolest thing about Miriam was that she smoked cigars. Not the big stogies, just Tiparillos. When I asked her why she smoked cigars, she said that it was because she didn't want to inhale. That made sense to me.

After I went away to school, and moved on to another summer job, I didn't see Miriam for a while. After a couple of years, I stopped in one morning and happened to catch Miriam on a break. Much to my surprise, she was smoking cigarettes. I immediately asked her why she was smoking cigarettes and she responded that she started inhaling the cigars, so she thought cigarettes would be better if she was going to inhale. That made sense to me.

Well, that turned out to be the last time I saw Miriam. Shortly after that, the owner bailed out and closed up shop. Years later, I looked in the phone book but it had no listing that could have been her. Since she'd be at least 90 at this point and maybe as much as 100, I doubt that I'm going to run into her again. So a belated thank you, Miriam, for befriending a dumb kid struggling to find his way.

Young@Heart

Sandie and I saw Young@Heart this weekend. It's a documentary about a chorus of senior citizens and their music director but it isn't really about that. It's about the human spirit, about people who have decided that they are going to live whatever life they have to the fullest. They are not trying to cheat death, unless it interferes with their next scheduled performance.
If you are not moved by this film, then you'd better go visit a shrink and find out why all your emotions are bottled up.

Stuck Inside Mom's Basement With the Spreadsheet Blues Again

Oh, the Budman talks in circles
Up and down the block.
I'd ask him what the matter was
But I know that he don't talk.
And the reporters treat him kindly
And blindly capture words on tape,
But deep inside my heart
I know I can't escape.
Oh, Mama, can this really be the end,
To be Stuck Inside Mom's Basement With the Spreadsheet Blues Again.

Well, Prospectus, it's out of the galleys
With its pointed barbs and its stats,
As confusing as some French girls,
Who wear those beret hats.
And some don't get the message
To find out how much he's walked,
Ignore the bases stolen
And the algorithm is locked.
Oh, Mama, can this really be the end,
To be Stuck Inside Mom's Basement With the Spreadsheet Blues Again.

Mona tried to tell me
Don't buy the public funding line.
She said that all the owner men
Just drink up your tax like wine.
An' I said, "Oh, I didn't know that,
But then again, there's only one I've met
He charged 10 bucks a beer
An' 5 for the toilet."
Oh, Mama, can this really be the end,
To be Stuck Inside Mom's Basement With the Spreadsheet Blues Again.

Selig died last week
And now he's buried in the rocks,
But everybody still talks about
How badly they were shocked.
But me, I expected it to happen,
I knew he'd lost control
When he built a fire for contraction
Til the plan was shot full of holes.
Oh, Mama, can this really be the end,
To be Stuck Inside Mom's Basement With the Spreadsheet Blues Again.

Now the senators grandstanded
Showing off their acumen,
Handing out free tickets
To the grilling of Clemens.
McNamee's already busted
Roger tapdanced through the fuss
Sidestepping the inquisition
Throwing his wife under the bus.
Oh, Mama, can this really be the end,
To be Stuck Inside Mom's Basement With the Spreadsheet Blues Again.

Now Plaschke looked so baffled
When I asked him why he dressed
With twenty pounds of headlines
Stapled to his chest.
But he cursed me when I proved to him,
Then I whispered, "Not even you can hide.
LoDuca was a bad guy,
I hope you're satisfied."
Oh, Mama, can this really be the end,
To be Stuck Inside Mom's Basement With the Spreadsheet Blues Again.

Now the trainer gave me two cures,
Then he said, "Jump right in."
The one was lidocaine,
The other was just a vitamin.
An' like a fool I mixed them
The swelling was not sublime,
My butt's just getting uglier
An' I may have to do some time.
Oh, Mama, can this really be the end,
To be Stuck Inside Mom's Basement With the Spreadsheet Blues Again.

When Babe Ruth says come see him
In his Field of Dreams lagoon,
Where I can watch him play for free
'Neath a daydream moon.
An' I say, "Aw come on now,
You must know about the drag bunt."
An' he says, "Your drag bunt shows off your speed
But homers are what you want."
Oh, Mama, can this really be the end,
To be Stuck Inside Mom's Basement With the Spreadsheet Blues Again.

Now the bricks stand at Wrigley
Where the neon madmen climb.
They all fall there so perfectly,
It all seems so well timed.
An' here I sit so patiently
Waiting to find out what price
You have to pay to get out of
Going through all these things twice.
Oh, Mama, can this really be the end,
To be Stuck Inside Mom's Basement With the Spreadsheet Blues Again.

You Never Can Tell About a Song

Time to shift gears and write about an old song that I never thought about much until the last couple of years. Chuck Berry wrote a number of fabulous story songs, absolute gems that I have always admired such as Johnny B. Goode, School Days and Sweet Little Sixteen. These are wonderfully crafted works, creating characters whom we care about.

You Never Can Tell was released in 1964 during the height of the British Invasion. I certainly remember it from those days. But being a full-fledged 13 year old Beatle and British Invasion fanatic, I paid little attention to the song at the time. As time passed, I gained a greater appreciation of Berry's songwriting in general but You Never Can Tell hid in the bulrushes from me.

I was reintroduced to You Never Can Tell during one of the coolest scenes in American movies, the dance contest in Pulp Fiction. While I didn’t take any special note of the song at the time, it stuck in my consciousness and I found myself occasionally singing the song to myself. At some point I downloaded it and began playing it often. One night I played it over and over, listening carefully to the words and the story contained therein. I came to the realization that You Never Can Tell is one of the great rock'n'roll story songs.

Enough background already, eh? Let’s look at those words.

Verse 1
It was a teenage wedding, and the old folks wished them well
Chuck, you have me at this first line. What an evocative scene setter. Those old folks wished them well, knowing full well how poorly teenage weddings work out. But being teenagers…

You could see that Pierre did truly love the mademoiselle
So they were kids in love…

And now the young monsieur and madame have rung the chapel bell
C`est la vie, say the old folks, it goes to show you never can tell
And did the deed and maybe it will work out; let's give 'em a chance.

Verse 2

They furnished off an apartment with a two room Roebuck sale
You can picture the furniture and that tiny apartment, can’t you?

The coolerator was crammed with TV dinners and ginger ale
Okay, so the diet wasn’t so good but you sure can picture what that fridge looked like.

But when Pierre found work, the little money comin` worked out well
C`est la vie, say the old folks, it goes to show you never can tell
You want those kids to have a chance and they can’t live forever on love alone.

Verse 3

They had a hi-fi phono, boy, did they let it blast
Seven hundred little records, all rock, rhythm and jazz
That’s a lot of records. Presumably 45 RPM ones. Half that apartment was filled with those records. For you young’uns out there, you can stack about 2 CDs in the space of 1 45 RPM record.

But when the sun went down the rapid tempo of the music fell
And we all know why that is. In this one little line, he tells you the story of the couple’s romantic nights -- and there were lots of those nights.

C`est la vie, say the old folks, it goes to show you never can tell

Verse 4

They bought a souped-up jitney,`twas a cherry red `53
They drove it down New Orleans to celebrate their anniversary
It was there that Pierre was married to the lovely mademoiselle
C`est la vie, say the old folks, it goes to show you never can tell

And, in a nice little wrap-up verse, he gives us hope that Pierre and the mademoiselle are going to make it after all.

There it is, four little verses that tell you a rich story about some characters whom you can't help but root for. And it sat there for 40 years before I understood its greatness.

Don't be afraid to give an old song a fresh listen. You might find out that there has been a gem sitting right under your nose, unappreciated.