Not a Dry Seat in the House

"Let me hear you say 'yeah!' darlin'!!!!"

From disc four of the just released deluxe special edition of The Rolling Stones' legendary concert film Charlie is My Darling, please enjoy the aforementioned Stones somewhere in England in early 1965...

...and the best fricking version ever heard by sentient mammalian ears of Bobby Troup's ode to cross country travel (and one of the greatest songs of all time) "Route 66."



Some of the tracks on this new set have either been released before or fairly widely bootlegged, but this is (as far as I can tell) the first time they've been made available from the original master tapes.

And as you can hear, the recording quality is quite surprisingly good. It's real stereo, too, albeit with a less than 180 degree soundstage. (I suspect genius engineer/producer Glyn Johns deserves some credit for this).

More to the point, this "Route 66" -- strictly as a performance -- is pretty much ground zero for the Big Beat.

I'll go out on a limb even further: When people talk about the Stones as the greatest rock-and-roll band in the world, this single recorded artifact is prima facie evidence.

Nobody -- before or since -- has ever rocked this hard or as wonderfully.

I should also add that as great as Mick's vocal is, and as devastating as the Richards/Jones guitar duo is, and of course Charlie's good tonight...

...the secret weapon of the band is Bill Wyman on bass.

Listen to what he's doing, for jeebus sake -- nobody else and I mean NOBODY ELSE has ever managed to rumble apocalyptically and swing at the same time like the old guy does here.

Your Thursday Moment of Shocking Blue

Woke up this morning and for some reason my first thought was -- hey, you haven't posted anything about Shocking Blue in years.

So -- from 1970, please enjoy my bizarre obsession/greatest Dutch rock band of all time (yeah, yeah, I know about The Outsiders) the aforementioned Shocking Blue and their utterly magnificent "Never Marry a Railroad Man."

Featuring haunting vocals by the unfortunately late Mariska Veres and the song's composer Robbie Van Leeuwen doing a pretty funny impression of a guy playing an acoustic guitar on a Telecaster.



This is their best song, in my book, and they had a lot of hot ones, not just the ubiquitous "Venus." Of course, "Venus," which has been running continually as the soundtrack to some TV commercial somewhere since, oh, the late 80s, has ensured that the aforementioned Robbie Van Leeuwen never had to work a day in his life since then, so I won't dispute you if you prefer it. I should also mention that the equally late Kurt Cobain probably favored" Love Buzz," if Nirvana's cover of same is any indication.

In any event, there are quite a lot of Shocking Blue best-of CDs out there, and if you don't own one your life is the poorer for it, trust me.

Annals of Assholishness (An Occasional Series)

So the other day I was, as is often my wont, immersed in the great comforting warm bath that is the New York Times Arts & Leisure section, when the following interesting and alarming item caught my eye.

Chevy Chase Leaves Cast of ‘Community’
By JAMES C. MCKINLEY JR.

Chevy Chase is leaving the NBC sitcom Community under a mutual agreement with the producers and will not appear in the final episodes of the season, Sony Pictures Television said on Wednesday.

Mr. Chase had expressed his unhappiness with the low-rated show’s storylines and had clashed with Dan Harmon, the creator and former executive producer of the series. The show returns for a fourth season on Feb. 7 and is still in production...Mr. Chase played Pierce Hawthorne, a bored, wealthy, older man who goes back to school.

And immediately I thought -- ah yes, Chevy Chase. Boy, that brings back memories.

And now a seemingly tangential digression whose rationale will become obvious in a paragraph.

Attentive readers with long memories may recall that back in March of 2009, when both this blog and the world were young, I wrote about a 1989 article I had done for Rolling Stone, one which ultimately did not run (for reasons I won't get into, except that Jann Wenner is an asshole) but for which I was nonetheless lucratively paid. The premise of the piece was that most celebrities, in all fields of endeavor, now tended to have rock bands in their pre-celebrity pasts. In pursuit of this thesis, I interviewed a bunch of interesting people, including pre-rehab Insider host Pat O'Brien, Marvel Comics auteur Roy Thomas, vice-presidential spousal scold Tipper Gore and the late Republican strategist/devil incarnate Lee Atwater.

One of the other celebs I interviewed for the piece was (you guessed this, of course) Chase. I did this because I was a fan, obviously, but also because he'd been a member of a band called The Chameleon Church, who made one LP as part of the ill-fated "Bosstown Sound" hype that MGM Records attempted to foist on an unwilling world in 1968.

I had heard the album, which while not terribly memorable was at the least pleasant by the standards of its day, and I also knew that Chase was a really good Jimmy Smith-inspired Hammond B-3 guy. More important, as the only writer on the planet who had said nice things about his 1980 solo album (this in the pages of the Magazine Formerly Known as Stereo Review), I thought we might have an interesting conversation about his musical career.

The shorter version of what happened is that we didn't. When I talked to him, by phone from the set of whatever bad movie he was making at the time, he was a thoroughgoing shit who could barely conceal his annoyance at having been tasked for the interview by whoever his long-suffering publicist was. It was a profoundly unpleasant experience, and the thing that particularly appalled me was what he said when I asked if he'd ever been in touch with his former bandmates. "No," he replied. "They wore faggy little suits, they wrote faggy little songs, and they were all junkies and they're probably dead."

Chevy Chase: A real asshole, in other words.

In any case, when I read that squib in the Times last week, it brought back, as I mentioned, a lot of memories. But it also moved me to revisit that 1980 solo album -- of which I alone, amongst those who walk upright, had said nice things in public -- after lo these many years.

Having now listened to it again, I must confess to you guys that I couldn't bring myself to actually download mp3s to share with you.

You can, however, stream the complete album, track by track, over here.

I suggest you start with the just barely amusing Chipmunks version of "Let It Be," due to the fact that the other cuts range from mildly unfunny to staggeringly unfunny to really fucking offensive and what the hell was anybody connected with this thinking?

Hell is Windows 7

Still having computer problems, but they will definitely be resolved -- one way or another -- by days end.

Regular, and extremely amusing -- trust me! -- posting will resume on the morrow.

Things That Blow Up Real Good (An Occasional Series)

Saw the new James Bond movie over the weekend.

Okay, that's actually a parody from a 70s National Lampoon; in reality, I saw THIS one over the weekend.

Which is somewhat less, er, phallo-centric. Heh.

Anyway, the short version of my Skyfall review is that it's not just by far the best of the Daniel Craig Bonds, it's pretty much the best Bond flick since Sean Connery hung up his hairpiece. Tons of fun, from jump, as they say.

Of course, I did think that Adele's title song was pretty much of a snoozer, although admittedly it was less ZZZZzzzzz-inducing than the 2008 Alica Keys/Jack White "Another Way to Die," a composition whose title described itself far too accurately. In any event, it remains a major cultural tragedy that Amy Winehouse didn't live to warble a Bond theme, given that she'd been genetically bred for just that task.

I will also stipulate that Skyfall gets mad props from me if only because of the coolest use of The Animals' "Boom Boom" in all of history. Let's just say that Javier Bardem's villain character has very interesting taste in music, somewhat along the lines of Robert Duvall blasting "Ride of the Valkyries" from his helicopter gunship in Apocalypse Now.

Found at Beemp3.com

Fun fact: Bardem's actually blasting the album version of the song, with the guitar solo excised from the more familiar hit 45. I was so stoked by this I actually got a little verklempt when his character got knifed in the back at the finale.

Portrait of the Critic as a Snot-Nosed Self-Important Little Shit

Still in computer/Windows 7 hell, but -- via a certain Shady Dame's Mac in one of the outer boroughs -- I simply had to share this with you guys.

So. Just before my entry into computer/Windows 7 hell, I got the following e-mail from a fine fellow named Steve Korte, who -- incidentally -- seems to have one of the coolest jobs in the world.

Dear Steve,

I enjoyed your reviews over the years in so many magazines. I’m the librarian at DC Comics and was doing some research on Justice League of America comics from the 1960s. Much to my surprise in JLA no. 63 (June 1968) was a letter from Steve Simels of Teaneck, New Jersey. I’m guessing that’s you.

If you would like a copy of the page from that comic, please let me know and I’ll be happy to send it to you.

All the best,
Steve

I remembered having written the letter, actually. As a matter of fact, back in the day, before I figured out that reviewing rock music was a great scam to get free albums, I was already aware that belittling the work of people far more talented than myself might be a viable career move. That missive to the editor at DC was one of my earliest and most embarrassing efforts along those lines.

In any event, thanks to Steve, you can now read the screed in question. Double click the graphic directly below that fabulous JLA cover and then prepare to have a good cheap laugh at my expense.

I can't tell you how sophomoric I find this blast from my past, but given that I actually was a sophomore at the time that I wrote it, I have decided to cut myself some slack after all these years.

That said, I would also like to take this opportunity to publicly apologize to the late Gardner Fox. Sorry, Gardner -- I was just an asshole kid.

The Machine Stops Part II: Electric Boogaloo

Still without a working computer at home; I am currently catching up on the Mac of a certain Shady Dame of my acquaintance.

Hopeful my PC issues will be resolved by the weekend.

In the meantime, I have something ready for Friday, so enjoy your Turkey Day until then.

And, also again -- pray for me.

Plus: Mumford & Sons totally suck.

The Machine Stops

My computer died suddenly and/or I'm in Windows 7 hell.

Back when or if this gets resolved short of suicide.

Pray for me.

Also: Mumford & Sons suck.

The. Greatest. Thing. Ever.

And speaking as we were last Tuesday -- on an episode of my chum Allan Rosenberg's Lost at Sea intertube radio show, which may be listened to at the vault link here (scroll down to the episode for 11.13.12, and trust me, I'm really hilarious) -- please enjoy brilliant beyond words satirical singer/songwriter Gregory Fleeman (doing business here with The Fleewomen) and the story of the epochal meeting of two guys with "Dead Twin Brothers."

The two guys, of course, would be all-time pop culture icons Elvis Presley and Liberace.



From the album The Right Tool for the Job, which can be obtained at Amazon over here.

I've written about Greg before, and I've loved this song since forever. But until last week I had no idea that this video for it existed, let alone that it was so...

Well. Let's just say, as is often my wont around here, that words fail me.

Mystery Cover Version of the Week: Special "If You Get This One, You're Good!" Edition

And speaking, as we were last week, of the recently nominated to the Rock N Roll Hall of Fame Procol Harum, please enjoy "Boredom," one of the lesser known -- but nonetheless beloved of moi -- tracks from their 1969 album masterpiece A Salty Dog.

And from later that same year, please enjoy a relatively faithful cover of said song, albeit one that sounds rather a little too much like something you might have heard over a fruity rum drink at Trader Vic's...

...and I positively guarantee that you'll never in a million years guess who's the singer or the band.

Seriously -- it blew my tiny mind, and I'm not a young woman.

In any case, a coveted PowerPop No-Prize etc. etc. etc....



[h/t Sal Nunziato]

No Concert Hall For Old Men

Well, I had tickets to see Pete Townshend and Roger Daltry -- i.e., 50 percent of The Who -- perform 100 percent of Quadrophenia last night, at the fabulous new Barclays Center in Brooklyn.

Unfortunately, a last minute crisis (don't ask) intervened and I had to take a pass on the evening. I have mixed feelings about this, if truth be told, but that's sort of appropriate since I've had mixed (although mostly positive) feelings about Quadrophenia since the day it came out in 1973. For what it's worth, however, I will say that I would have liked to see the show. I mean fifty percent of The Who is still better than a lot of other bands I could mention. Oh well, maybe next time.

I should also add that if you've never read the little sort-of short story that Pete penned for the original LP, than your life is the poorer for it.

Brighton is a fantastic place. The sea is so gorgeous you want to jump into it and sink. When I was there last time there were about two thousand mods driving up and down the promenade on scooters. My scooter's seen the last of Brighton bloody promenade now, I know that. I felt really anonymous then, sort of like I was in an army. But everyone was a mod. Wherever you looked there were mods. Some of them were so well dressed it was sickening. Levi's had only come into fashion about a month before and some people had jeans on that looked like they'd been born wearing them. There was this bloke there that seemed to be the ace face. He was dancing one night in the Aquarium ballroom and everyone was copying him. He kept doing different dances, but everyone would copy it and the whole place would be dancing a dance that he'd only just made up. That's power for you, he was really heavy too, though. When the mods collected in Brighton, the Rockers would turn up too. There were never as many of them, but this geezer once took two of them at once and beat them. That didn't usually happen I can tell you.

I was in a crowd of kids once chasing three Rockers down Brighton Pier. As it seemed they were going to get caught anyway they stopped and turned to meet their fate. All hundred of these kids I was with stopped dead. I was the first to stop, but the rest ran, so I had to follow. There's nothing uglier than a Rocker. This ace face geezer wouldn't have run. He smashed the glass doors of this hotel too. He was terrific. He had a sawn-off shotgun under his jacket and he'd be kicking at plate-glass and he still looked like he was Fred Astaire reborn. Quite funny, I met him earlier today. He ended up working at the same hotel. But he wasn't the manager.

I never ever felt like I blasphemed. You know, in an old fashioned sense. But I was in a pretty blasphemous mood when I left for Brighton. Brighton cheered me up. But then it let me down. Me folks had let me down, Rock had let me down, women had let me down, work wasn't worth the effort, school isn't even worth mentioning. But I never ever thought I'd feel let down by being a mod. I pinched this boat, first time I'd ever been on a boat at sea. I had another few leapers to keep from coming down and I felt a bit bravado. So I headed for this Rock out off the coast. It was sticking up very jagged, but very peaceful. I didn't know then what I was up to, but I know now.

Schizophrenia! What a laugh. It must be alright to be plain ordinary mad. About halfway over I took a swallow of this Gibneys gin I'd bought. Booze never did help me much though. On the boat it did me right in, specially on top of the pills and the come-down. Anyway, the sound of the engine turned into this drone, then the drone turned into a sound like pianos or something. Like heavenly choirs or orchestras tuning up. It was really an incredible sound. Like the sort of noise you'd expect to hear in heaven, if there is such a place. I pinched myself and I wasn't really drunk anymore. I was floating. I felt really happy. I must have looked bloody stupid as it happens. I was waving me Gibneys around in the air and singing in tune with the engine. The sound got better and better. I was nearly delirious when I got to the Rock. I switched off the engine and jumped onto it. When the engine stopped, so did the music. And when that beautiful music stopped, I remembered the come-down I had, I felt sick from the booze, the sea was splashing all over the place and there was thunder in the distance. I remembered why I had come to this bastard Rock.

So that's why I'm here, the bleeding boat drifted off and I'm stuck here in the pissing rain with my life flashing before me. Only it isn't flashing, it's crawling. Slowly. Now it's just the bare bones of what I am.

A tough guy, a helpless dancer.

A romantic, is it me for a moment?

A bloody lunatic, I'll even carry your bags.

A beggar, a hypocrite, love reign over me.

Schizophrenic? I'm Bleeding Quadrophenic.

[No one in this story is meant to represent anyone either living or dead, particularly not the Mum and Dad. Our Mums and Dads are all very nice and live in bungalows which we bought for them in the Outer Hebrides.]

Seriously -- if I live to be 200, I'll still never write anything as evocative and poetic as that.

Logrolling in Our Time

If you were listening to us on the intertube radio last night -- and if you weren't, don't worry, I'm gonna post a zip file link to the show this weekend, because it was a pretty damned amusing two hours of talk and music, if I'm any judge of horseflesh -- than you may have heard me carrying on about a band called The Mix.

The short version: They were friends of mine and they should have been huge.



Slightly longer version: They were managed by Leber & Krebs, who also handled some loser band called Aerosmith (the Mix's album -- American Glue -- came out on L&K's custom label aand has never been on CD), and they were a genuinely exciting live act. Frontman Stu Daye, in particular, was as annoyingly talented and natural a rocker as anybody I've ever seen -- think Steve Marriott with Pete Townshend's guitar moves. Still, although they were quite a big deal in the New York area for a while, they never broke through; if I had to guess why, I'd say it's because the record didn't really do them justice. For which I blame rather lackluster production by the late Felix Pappalardi.

That said, please enjoy my personal favorite track from the album (for reasons that will become apparent shortly), the sublimely Beatle-esque "Forever."



Incidentally, the band's drummer was the great Corky Laing, of Mountain fame. The bass player was David Grahame, an old bandmate of mine who I haven't heard from in a while but who's apparently become something of a powerpop cult figure over the years. It thus pains me to mention that to (perhaps) his eternal shame, his major credit remains co-writing the soul-destroying Mr. Big hit "To Be With You."

I should also add that the guitar riff that intros the tune was composed by yours truly, and I'm still waiting for my damned writers credit.

Left of the Dial

A brief programming note: I'm going to be on Lost at Sea, my old chum Allan Rosenberg's intertube radio show over at Area 24 tonight, between 5-7 pm...

...during which I will be, mostly, blathering about the release of Floor Your Love, the album I compiled for my early 80s twelve-string pop band.

Which has heretofore been available for download over at Amazon, iTunes and CD Baby, but which is now also available as a genuine, honest-to-Flying Spaghetti Monster compact disc.

In an effort to minimize the obvious self-indulgence of all this, however, we will also be playing selected tracks by a) bands that influenced us and b) our contemporaries and heroes on the Bleecker Street scene back in the day, i.e. The Smithereens and Willie Nile plus some other folks -- Gregory Fleeman, Mark Johnson -- who you may not have heard of but should have.

You can stream the show at the link above, obviously. I should also add that if I've previously promised anybody a copy of the CD, be sure to e-mail me, as my memory is even worse than it was when I promised you.

The Present Day Rickenbacker 12-String Refuses to Die!

Nice cover stories in the November issue of UNCUT on the original -- pre-Gram Parsons -- Byrds, including a Making-Of feature on Notorious Byrd Brothers, the album many people feel is the band's masterpiece (I am not one of them, incidentally; I prefer Fifth Dimension, if only by a chinchilla).

UNCUT, of course, is to MOJO what CRACKED is to MAD, so don't expect anything overtly unfamiliar or unexpected (like, say, Roger McGuinn announcing that yes, "Eight Miles High" was totally completely about drugs for heaven's sake) in the Notorious piece; still, it's a nice job all in all, and of course any issue of any magazine that puts The Byrds on the cover for any reason is, by definition, a good thing.

As is their wont, incidentally, UNCUT thoughtfully includes a bonus CD featuring cover versions of Byrds songs and tributes to same by various alt-rock worthies...

...some of which -- like the Flamin' Groovies cover of the un-fuckup-able "Feel A Whole Lot Better" -- you may already be familiar with.

Here's one that I had not heard before -- Canadian folk-rockers The Sadies (who I am informed do duty these days as the backing band for the divine Neko Case) with a thoroughly lovely take on Goffin and King's "Wasn't Born to Follow," one of my favorite tracks from Notorious.

From their 2001 album Tremendous Effort, for those of you keeping score at home.



In any case, I have loved -- nay lurved -- the Byrds version of this song since the very first moment I heard it (through a cannabis haze, doubtless) in my college dorm room in 1968, and if memory serves it was one of the first covers I suggested that my early 80s twelve-string pop band The Floor Models work up back in the day. My favorite of our performances of it took place at one of those Other End gigs I've documented earlier; my long time pal and bandmate Tony Forte used to drop by occasionally to play it with us, thus giving us two Rickenbacker 12-string guitars on one cramped stage. Alas, no tape of one of those renditions has surfaced, but trust me -- it was one of the most glorious noises imaginable.

Clothes Make the (Vertically Challenged) Man

So last week, during our day trip to London -- a town that actually DOES swing like a pendulum do, as it turns out -- we were at the Victoria and Albert Museum, which is not at all as stuffy as it sounds, taking in (among other delights) a recent exhibition on the early days of British Rock titled Halfway to Paradise, which was quite fab. If it reaches these shores, I highly recommend it.

But as we were wandering around, we came across some other rock exhibits, including a little display case housing the following items.

Mick Jagger's jumpsuit from the 1972 Rolling Stones tour.

And this custom designed little outfit worn by Jimmy Page on the Led Zeppelin tour the next year.

Apart from the fact that, with the benefit of hindsight, they're both pretty heinous in that hideous early 70s way-- and to be brutally honest, I absolutely HATED that outfit of Mick's at the time -- the thing that struck me most about the two costumes is -- jeebus christ, but those dudes are shrimps.

Seriously, I'm barely 5'8" and I'm Andre the Giant by comparison with Jagger and Page.

Randy Newman was right; apparently, you gotta pick those two up just to say hello.

Last Tango in Dayton, Ohio. Seriously -- I Really Mean It. No More Frenchie Posts Until This Time Next Year. Scout's Honor!

Okay, and speaking of my fourth favorite Gay Paree themed rock song, here's John Cale's utterly gorgeous "Paris 1919."

From the album of the same name.

Seriously -- I can't believe nobody guessed this one in advance.

I should add that Cale is doing the entire album, complete with orchestra, at a show at BAM next January, and a certain shady dame got me tickets for my birthday.

Sometimes, as the Ignoble Frogs say, la vie truly est belle.

Egad -- Yet Another Paris-Themed Post!!!

Okay, partly because I'm still decompressing from our recent Gallic vacation, and partly because the election is kicking my ass, here's my third favorite rock record ever that references Gay Paree.

From 1980, live in Central Park, please enjoy the incredibly great Willie Nile and his utterly infectious tribute to "Les Champs Elysees."

I went to Versailles
I went to Verdun
I climbed the Eiffel Tower in the midday sun
I saw Notre Dame
I went to the Louvre
Couldn't find nobody there who wanted to groove

Heh.

I should add there's an earlier studio version of this song -- on Willie's deeply disappointing second Arista album -- that is completely sabotaged, as I said in my review in The Magazine Formerly Known as Stereo Review at the time, by an astoundingly gutless piano solo by the usually estimable Paul Shaffer.

This take, however, is all punk energy and endearing sloppiness.

Rock 'n' roll, in other words.

Incidentally, a coveted PowerPop No-Prize will be awarded to the first reader who guesses the identity of my fourth favorite rock song referencing Gay Paree, which I'll be posting tomorrow.

Last Exit From Paris Dayton

Still sort of decompressing from our return from the land of the Ignoble Frog. So while we flush the heavy sauces and elitist chardonnay out of our system, please enjoy -- from 1984 and the soundtrack to Top Secret! -- the very young and callow Val Kilmer(!) and my second all-time favorite rock song referencing the City of Light..."How Silly Can You Get?"

I went to Paris in France
I found a little romance
She was a-walkin’ down the boulevard
I know I should’ve been good
I never thought that I would
Be double-crossin’, baby, cross my heart!
But a little rockin’ and a little wine
Got me thinkin’ ‘bout a little valentine.
What’s a lonely boy to do? She looked so fine.

How silly can you get? Yeah! Yeah!
How silly can you get? Ooh, Yeah!
I never ever meant to stray
But when she looked at me that way
The night was young and gay Paree made me forget
How silly can you get? Yeah! Yeah!
How silly can you get? Ooh, Yeah!
I didn’t mean to hold her tight
Another fool turned out the light
I only know she’s in my arms to hold tonight.

Seriously, that's one of the best damn fake early 60s Elvis pop tunes ever; if I was still in a band I'd cover it in a heartbeat,

And I'm left with just one question.

Where the hell is Val Kilmer these days?

Deep in the Heart of Jersey

Well, we're back -- a tad fatigued but otherwise alive and well -- from the land of the Ignoble Frog at last.

And here in Hackensack N.J. (the Paris of the Tri-State Metro Area) our power has been fully restored.

Jersey Pride, bitches!!!!



Regular non-storm related music postings will resume tomorrow.

Fermé pour le week-end

An update for those of you scoring at home: A certain Shady Dame and I will be winging our way back to Brooklyn -- 4th largest city in America, as viewers of Welcome Back, Kotter will recall -- on Sunday.

Brooklyn, fortunately, was spared The Wrath of Sandy; my beloved Hackensack, NJ (Paris of the Tri-State Metro Area) was not so lucky; it is, along with the rest of Bergen County, officially a disaster area. No electricity at the moment, although I'm keeping my fingers crossed that it will have been restored by the time I get back.

My younger brother has been taking care of our Mom in my absence,and although they're shivering in the cold, they are otherwise well, and I will be taking over his duties on Monday.

If we don't have power, of course, I won't be posting until it comes back on.

Until we meet again, then -- in the immortal words of Casey Kasem, Keep your feet on the ground and keep reaching for the stars.

Also -- fuck every Republican/climate change denialist who voted to slash funding for FEMA.

With a rusty chainsaw.

A Legend That Will Last a Lunchtime

So earlier today a certain Shady Dame and I went for lunch at a delightful little tea shop down the street from our hotel in Paris Dayton, Ohio.

The proprietor/chef remembered us from our last visit -- 2008, if you can believe it; we had a long discussion of the lunacies of the American healthcare system -- and he immediately asked us if we were stranded due to the recent atmospheric unpleasantness on the East Coast. We allowed as how we were.

"Well," he said, "there are worse towns to be stranded in than Paris Dayton, Ohio."

We agreed, of course. I mean -- what's lovelier than Paris Dayton, Ohio in the Fall?

And in that spirit, please enjoy perhaps the ultimate tribute to that fair city -- Screamin' Jay Hawkins and his sui generis rendition of the classic "I Love Paris Dayton."

Incidentally, the 1958 album that's from -- At Home With Screamin' Jay Hawkins -- is one of the first (from the concept on down) rock album masterpieces, and behooves behearing. "I saw a Mau-Mau kissing Santa Claus" indeed

And if I may be serious for just a moment, I should also add that said charming tea shop -- Flirt Thé -- is located at 3 Avenue Duquesne, in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower in the beautiful 7th arrondissement. I had one of the most amazing roast chickens of my adult life there, along with a piece of chocolate cake that was world class as well. If you happen to be in Paris any time soon, be sure to stop by and say "Bonjour!"