So, what then do we make of Jews for Baby Jesus? You know — those members of the Tribe of Judah who have written and recorded some of the world’s most beloved songs celebrating the season of Christ’s birth. Irving Berlin composed “White Christmas.” Jews Ray Evans and Jay Livingston (born Jacob Harold Levison) wrote “Silver Bells.” Christmas-crazy Jew Johnny Marks penned such classics as “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree,” “A Holly Jolly Christmas,” and “Run Rudolph Run.” Let’s face it, Jews write some pretty catchy tunes. If George and Ira Gershwin can realistically portray a slice of African American life by writing “Porgy and Bess,” then Mel Tormé (surprise! a Jew!) can give us that somewhat unrealistic Ozzie and Harriet image of happy Christians “roasting chestnuts on an open fire.”
And admit it — how many times have you thrown a yule log on the fire, cranked up the Hi-Fi, and noshed on lox and cream cheese while enjoying a Christmas record by Barbra Steisand, Neil Diamond, Herb Alpert, Bette Midler or Barry Manilow? Even America’s most revered punk rocker, the late Joey Ramone (a Jew born Jeffrey Ross Hyman) – famous for his little ditties about sniffing glue and beating on brats with baseball bats – revealed his gentler side when he composed “Merry Christmas (I Don’t Want to Fight Tonight.)” Hey, Ho, Let’s Go – Ho, Ho, Ho!
But, in the words of Jewish vaudeville sensation Al Jolson, when it comes to Jews crooning carols, “You ain’t heard nothin’ yet!” The distinct nasal droning of rock’s premier poet, Bob (Zimmerman) Dylan, will be blowin’ in the Christmas wind when I crank up his 2009 album, “Christmas in the Heart.” Now I admit, I don’t listen to a single holiday song on any of my Apple devices, unless it’s one of those rare, reality-based gritty urban tunes like The Pogues’ “Fairytale of New York” (It was Christmas eve, babe / In the drunk tank / An old man said to me: won’t see another one…). I’ve even been known to cut short my visits to Macy’s shoe department when “sleigh bells jingling” start to ring-ting-tingle my brain.
But Bob Dylan singing Christmas carols? Lords a-leapin’ – that’s a whole ‘nother story! I mean, do you hear what I hear?
I think Jesus listens to Bob’s music all the time. Heck, their back pages are so similar. Bob, like Jesus, is a Jew. Like Jesus, he was considered by many to be the Messiah of their generation. They both spoke in mystical ways and were often misunderstood. Like Jesus, Bob toured the region and had groupies. Like Jesus, he was persecuted by his own people – in Bob’s case, by the folkies who felt he sold out by “going electric.” Of course, that’s where the similarities end. This is called satire, people. Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I am NOT implying that Bob Dylan is Christ-like, or even that he’s bigger than Christ. We all know how that remark almost cost John Lennon his life at the hands of those hatin’, cross-burning Christian KKK guys.
Unlike other Jews who write and sing about Christmas, however, Bob had at least some actual experience with the New Testament. I guess you don’t have to be born a Christian to become “born again.” And that’s exactly what Mr. Dylan did in the late 1970s. A messy divorce, coupled with the ill effects of non-stop touring, notorious womanizing and excessive drinking led him to seek shelter from the storm. And he found it, in the form of Jesus. He once said, “There was a presence in the room that couldn’t have been anybody but Jesus. I truly had a born-again experience, if you want to call it that…. It was a physical thing. I felt it all over me. I felt my whole body tremble.”
His conversion to Christianity outraged many, but Bob was never one to cater to the expectations of fans or peers. He released two Christian albums – “Slow Train Coming” in 1979 and “Saved” in 1980. While recording the former LP, he tried to convert record producer Jerry Wexler to Christianity, to which Jerry replied, “Bob, you’re dealing with a sixty-two-year old Jewish atheist. Let’s just make an album.” But Bob was truly on a mission. During his 1979 tour, he preached to the audience: “I told you the answer was ‘Blowin’ In The Wind’ and it was! And I’m saying to you now, Jesus is coming back and he is! There is no other way to salvation…Jesus is coming back to set up his kingdom in Jerusalem for a thousand years.” Wow, was Bobby still dropping acid at that time?
Well, thankfully, Mr. Dylan eventually tired of all this proselytizing, and became….well, one of his myriad “old selves” again (he’s a Gemini, you know). After many years, he reconnected with his Jewish roots, even visiting the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem on the day of his son’s bar mitzvah in 1983. He’s long been a supporter of the Chabad Lubavitch movement and once appeared on a Chabad telethon.
But even though he’s no longer a full-time Christian, he believes that Christmas tunes are an integral part of America’s rich folk song tradition. When former Musician magazine editor Bill Flanagan told Dylan during a November 2009 interview that he delivered “O Little Town of Bethlehem” like “a true believer,” Bobby replied, “Well, I am a true believer.”
So, if you’re a fan of Bob Dylan – no matter what your faith or lack thereof – give his “Christmas in the Heart” album a go. The record received favorable reviews, with many critics praising the sincerity with which he performs the songs. Royalties from the sale of the CD benefit a number of charities: Feeding America in the USA, Crisis in the UK, and the World Food Programme.
I only wish he had written one original holiday tune for his album. But since he didn’t, I’ve taken the liberty of penning Christmasy lyrics to one of Bob’s most interesting and acerbic songs: “Ballad of a Thin Man,” from the 1965 album that changed my life, “Highway 61 Revisited.”
“Ballad of a Fat Man”
You crawl out of the chimney
With a toy sack in your hand,
You see somebody passed out
And you say, “Who is that man?”
You try so hard
But you don’t understand,
Just what went on
In this guy’s home.
Because something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is.
Do you, Mr. Claus?
You shake off the soot,
And you ask, “Why did you drink?”
And the guy points to his wife and says,
“Whaddya think?”
And she sits on the couch and says,
“I poured the rest down the sink.”
And you say, “Oh my God,
Another reveler stoned!”
But you know something is happening here
But you just don’t know what it is.
Do you, Mr. Claus?
You hand out the presents,
And you sneer at the slob,
Who sobers up and realizes
You’re not there to rob.
And he says “How does it feel
To be such a blob?”
And you say, “Heathen!”
As you hand him some coal.
And something is happening here
But you just don’t know what it is.
Do you, Mr. Claus?
You have many contacts
Among the North Pole hacks
To get you facts
When some non-believer attacks your reputation.
But some people have little respect.
Anyway they still expect you
To give gifts to those who run despicable organizations.
You’ve been with the Easter Bunny.
And he’s laughed at your looks.
With great cherubim and seraphim
You’ve discussed atheists and kooks.
You’ve been through all of Dr. Stillman’s diet books,
You’ve very well read,
It’s quite known.
But something is happening here,
But you just don’t know what it is.
Do you, Mr. Claus?
Well, the reindeer, they come up to you
And they ask “How?”
They’ll haul your ass ’round the world
But you’re as big as a sow.
And you say, “Put these reins on,
or I’ll eat you as chow.”
And they say, “Drive that sleigh yourself,
We’re going home.”
And you know something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is.
Do you, Mr. Claus?
Now, here’s a rollicking version of Bob’s “Must Be Santa” – Klezmer style. It’s one of the most wonderfully wacky videos I’ve ever seen. Unlike the original, he inserts the names of eight U.S. presidents when he reads off the reindeer names: “Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen / Eisenhower, Kennedy, Johnson, Nixon / Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen / Carter, Reagan, Bush and Clinton.” The young man who jumps out the window at the end is rumored to be Bob’s son.
By Dana Spiardi, Dec 19, 2013
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I watched with deep-green envy as those lucky girls stroked their soft, pink rabbit-hair rings with delicate fingers that had never touched dishwater. Once, during a particularly mind numbing film strip on the formation of Western Pennsylvania’s rich coal beds, Miss E.C. performed a sacred ritual rarely witnessed by those of us outside the secret society of pom-pom-and-baton sisters: she removed the worn, water-damaged fur from her ring – exposing its naked copper-plated body for all to see – and lovingly rewrapped it to full-fluff perfection! The process was done with such care and precision. Why, it was almost like watching a gifted surgeon graft skin.
Alas, I was to spend my middle school days with naked fingers, dreaming of the day my crush objects would know I existed. Dreaming of the day I’d be able to proudly scrawl D.S. + J.V. = Forever on the cover of my David Bowie notebook, instead of on the inside pages. I longed for the day when I, like the dating girls, would need to conceal my sucker-bites with Maybelline makeup.
Well, by my sophomore year, I decided that Dusty Springfield was right: You won’t get him, thinkin’ and a-prayin’, wishin’ and a-hopin. So, I decided to just give up. I vowed to heed the advice of the feminists – Eleanor Roosevelt, Gloria Steinem, Betty Friedan – and live my life as an independent lady. “A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle,” the Australian writer/activist Irina Dunn once said. And, by golly, that would be my new slogan. But, no sooner had I decided to live a life of total self-reliance, then something very unusual happened: I met a boy who liked me. And my new I Am Woman lifestyle would be put on hold – at least for a few months.
In January of 1975, I went with some friends to a basketball game at a rival high school. As I sat in the bleachers, wearing my widest-leg jeans and my cherished white leather jacket with blue stitching, a tall, handsome boy with ebony eyes, sleek dark hair and perfect posture began to talk to me. Dave knew absolutely nothing about my low popularity rating, my average socio-economic background, my shaky scholastic standing, my klutziness in gym class, or my non-involvement in extra-curricular activities like drinking and getting high. All of the make-or-break factors that mattered so much in my high school didn’t mean diddly to Dave. He liked me just as I was.
Now, at the age of 15 – for the first time in my life – a boy was asking me for my phone number. And he put it to good use, calling me every night around 7 pm from the privacy of the phone booth on main street of his tiny one-traffic-light town. Each time the operator said, “please deposit another quarter,” I held my breath, wondering if Dave would be able to squeeze out another coin. And he always did. This was his cigarette money, mind you, but he managed to hold on to just enough chump change to make his nightly calls to me. Now, instead of quoting Dusty Springfield, I was quoting the Shangri-Las: When I say I’m in love, you best believe I’m in love, L.U.V.
My grandmother lived in the same town as my new beau, which made for one sweet deal. On Fridays after school I would board the blue and white bus (which I called The Magic Bus) for a 30 minute ride – across the steel-decked “singing” bridge that spanned the sulfur creek, past the identical gray shingled company houses of old coal towns with names like Josephine – arriving eventually in a quiet village named for a Greek poet. Dave and I would spend as much time together as we could, and at 9 pm he would escort me to my grandmother’s house.
We walked the wintry streets hand-in-hand, necked in the icy bleachers of the deserted “Home of the Wildcats” football field, and hung out in the big drugstore, where he showed me magazines with pictures of body builders he hoped to emulate. When I blanched at the vein-popping muscles of his heroes, he assured me that “they look just like normal guys when they’re wearing shirts.”
We had so much in common, Dave and I. When I told him I was taking French in school, he excitedly told me that he, too, was a French student. He said he was inspired to learn the language after seeing a nudie magazine titled Oui. Wow, brawn and brains!
In 1975, Valentine’s Day fell a Friday, which was, of course, Magic Bus day. As I stepped off the ‘ol blue-and-white, Dave quickly approached and handed me a flat brown paper bag. “I think you’ll like this,” he said with a smile. I peered inside the bag and pulled out a record album by a group I had never heard of: Jo Jo Gunne. “My buddy turned me on to this group,” he said. “They’re really different – not like Kiss and Grand Funk Railroad.” What an endorsement! I studied the monochromatic front cover – four long-haired guys sitting cross-legged and contemplative (or stoned) under a stylized neon-tube looking logo.
Just why did Dave buy me a record album as a Valentine’s Day gift? I never discussed my rock-n-roll mania with him; somehow it just didn’t seem feminine. Little did he know that records were my favorite gifts. So, the fact that he had taken the time to choose this rather obscure record just for me meant more than receiving any chintzy, soon-to-tarnish ring or pendant. He wanted to turn me on to a new sound! Now that’s what I call romantic.
The name of the album was “Bite Down Hard,” released in 1973 by a band that chose its name from the title of a 1958 Chuck Berry song: “Joe Joe Gun.” (Rockers are always stealing from Chuck.) Serious music fans will appreciate the fact that the two founding members of Jo Jo Gunne — singer, guitarist, keyboardist Jay Ferguson, and bassist Mark Andes — were once part of an interesting late ’60s band called Spirit. They’re best known for releasing “The Twelve Dreams of Dr. Sardonicus,” a well-regarded LP that blended rock, jazz and psychedelia. The album’s single, “Mr. Skin,” is an FM radio staple.
Unfortunately, my new Jo Jo Gunne LP was not held in such high esteem by critics. One reviewer said “‘Bite Down Hard'” doesn’t.” But what did it matter? Beauty is in the ear of the listener, and to my ears it was magnificent. From the hard rock opening song, “Reddy Freddy,” to the prog-rock closer, “Rhoda,” I loved them all. And I still play them all.
In the end, of course, the vinyl outlived the relationship. Four months later, on June 4th, Dave decided he could no longer abide by my wishes to remain chaste, and wandered off to seek such services elsewhere. My heart was broken. Now, instead of singing Dusty Springfield or Shangi-La songs, I was singing Peggy Lee’s classic Leiber-Stoller tune: Is that all there is, is that all there is? If that’s all there is to love, then let’s keep dancing.
My first taste of teenage love and heartbreak taught me a valuable lesson: having a boyfriend wasn’t all it was cracked up to be (is anything, really?) I’d have to find other ways to feel a sense of self-worth. When I entered my junior year of high school – free from romantic distractions – I applied myself like never before. I was even chosen as editor of high school newspaper! And, for the first time ever, I took pride in my work. This fish didn’t need a bicycle. Sure, my heart would be broken a few more times. But I’d learned the value of self-reliance. And, as Peggy Lee advised, I kept on dancing – even when I had no partner.
Dave, if you’re out there somewhere reading this, I want you to know that I always give thanks to you on Valentine’s Day: for giving me my first kiss, for the cool album that no one else owns, and most of all, FOR DUMPING ME!!
Here’s a song from “Bite Down Hard,” titled “Take Me Down Easy.” Pretty prophetic, huh?
© Dana Spiardi, Feb 14, 2012
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That 1,000-watt snout of yours was a real gift. How lucky you were to be able to read books under the covers without a flashlight! As a horny teen deer, you could have experienced paradise without a dashboard light. Heck, you probably could have lit a joint with that shiner. These are all talents that I find much more desirable than being able to guide a sleigh driven by a hairy, 300-pound butterball with bad fashion sense. You should have left the Claus in the lurch on that foggy night. That hack Blitzen could have strapped on a floodlight or two and managed to schlepp the old man as far as Ottowa, at least.
I cringe every time I hear the line, then all the reindeer loved him. One minute they’re sticking “kick me” signs on your tail, and the next they’re fighting over who gets to stand next to you at the feeding trough? Get real. Rudolph, they only wanted to hang with you because you got that one lucky break with the big man. Those parasites were too shallow to appreciate you for your uniqueness. I only wish you would have had the guts to say, “Bugger off, you hypocrites. Love me for who I am, or don’t love me at all.”
This little song of yours sprang from a story written in 1939 by Robert L. May, a copywriter for the Montgomery Ward department stores. May claims to have based your story on his own experience as a scrawny, taunted misfit. A few years later, May’s brother-in-law Johnny Marks turned the tale into a song, which was made famous by that crooning cowboy Gene Autry in 1949. It remains one of the biggest-selling Christmas tunes of all time. Rudy, those capitalist bums made a fortune off you!
Well, all I can say is this: When I win the Norman Mailer Prize for my memoir, as my dreamboat Keith Richards did, and those nasty high school girls who once ignored me come bowing down at my feet muttering, “I’m not worthy,” I’m gonna say, “Damn right you’re not! Now piss off.”
Now, if you absolutely have to watch a Rudolph video, I recommend this one:
© Dana Spiardi, Dec 10, 2014
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I had already been wowed by the film’s predecessor: the 1931 thriller about a doctor named Frankenstein who assembles a man from the body parts of the dead, using safe, clean, affordable electricity to bring him to life. At first the bolt-necked patchwork creation appears docile — like a frightened stray dog, able to obey simple commands. But soon he’s spooked by the sight of a torch, and all hell breaks loose. Branded a monster, he’s chained to dungeon walls, taunted with fire, hunted down by thick-witted peasants, forced to wear drab, ill-fitting clothes, and denied even the most rudimentary instruction in diction, decorum, and the dangers of tossing one’s playmates into the pond. No wonder he was grumpy.
Flash forward to the monster’s second feature film. Despite his expanding vocabulary, he’s as lonely and misunderstood as ever. He demands his now-estranged creator build him a friend — better yet, a bride!
Soon, the laboratory is once again abuzz with activity, as Dr. Frankenstein and his mad mentor Dr. Pretorius giddily rev up the machinery. Bones and organs arrive by FedEx. Fashion designers line up at the door, all vying to be the bride’s official dressmaker. Tabloid photographers position their cameras at filthy windows. (Well, that’s how it would play out today, you know.)
At last the scientists unveil their new creation: a willowy femme fatale in a makeshift Grecian gown, her head design inspired by Nefertiti, her hair embellished with fabulous lightening bolt streaks. I couldn’t take my eyes off her! And neither could the monster, as he descends the stairs to the eerie lab, cautiously optimistic.
“Friend?” he pleads tenderly, as he staggers toward her with outstretched hands. In robotic motion, she cranes her cross-stitched neck, swivels her prominent head, fixes her frozen doll-eyes upon him, and lets out a shriek that could wake the…whatever. Undeterred, he follows her across the room to a bench. Smiling timidly, he lifts her thin gauze-wrapped arm and gently pats her long withered fingers. She drops her jaw, screams into his face, and recoils. The monster is devastated. His facial expression dissolves from joy to sadness to rage in the course of 5 seconds. “She hate me…like others,” he grunts, and proceeds to blow up the laboratory, taking the snooty bride and crazy Dr. Pretorius along with him as he returns to the dead. What a grand way to end the worst first date in history. Such unbridled, passionate vengeance! A true existentialist’s delight!
I was terribly moved by this scene. In fact, I was completely verklempt by the entire production, even noting it in my diary, January 4, 1969 (“Chiller Theater” was my midnight catechism). At age 9, already a night owl…an only-child feeling isolated and misunderstood…I strongly identified with the monster’s emotions.
This cinematic masterpiece introduced me to societal rejection, unrequited love, mob mentality, and the tortured soul of the outcast. The monster was to spend his days friendless, sexless, and reviled — simply because no one cared or dared to see past his rough features and undeveloped communication skills.
In fact, this film launched my lifelong love of antihero movies: “Cool Hand Luke,” “Midnight Cowboy,” “Dog Day Afternoon,” “Edward Scissorhands” — all films that end with the sad death or defeat of a misfit, a scapegoat, a would-be contender, a beautiful loser.
Much has been written about the monster first introduced on the pages of Mary Shelley’s 1818 novel Frankenstein. The creature has been the subject of more than 70 films since 1910. Cinema buffs and sociologists have long analyzed the biblical, homosexual, and megalomaniacal subtexts of many of these movies.
And while the casual viewer might dismiss the 1931 “Frankenstein” and its “Bride” sequel as nothing more than campy entertainment, serious lovers of the art of film all agree that when it comes to the archetypical monster movie, nothing compares to the visual, soul-stirring spectacle of those two magnificent thrillers. (Not to mention the bride’s hairdo, which yer blogger will be dreaming about forever.)
Here’s the famous scene of the monster couple’s first and last date. Both “Frankenstein” and “Bride of Frankenstein” were directed by the great James Whale, Hollywood’s first openly gay director. Boris Karloff (born William Henry Pratt) plays the monster. Elsa Lanchester, as the bride, wore stilts to appear 7 feet tall. Colin Clive, who succumbed to alcoholism at age 37, plays the manic Henry Frankenstein. But the actor who steals the show and adds a dose of comic relief is Ernest Thesinger as Dr. Pretorius. Pay attention to the superb editing (by Ted J. Kent) in the final moments before the teary-eyed monster “blows them all to atoms.” The bride bids farewell with one final hiss. This is one of my favorite movie scenes of all time.
© Dana Spiardi, Nov 1, 2013
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I’ll bet nobody had to ask these guys to get the burner going. What a sight: two of my favorite menfolk slaving over a hot stove, just the way god would want it. Are they barefoot, by any chance?
Ladies, come on! Who WOULDN’T want a shirtless Keith Richards in their kitchen, up bright and early, frying eggs (and maybe serving breakfast in bed, hee, hee)? And everyone used to say that Keef was only alive between 4 pm and 4 am and spent the daylight hours getting blood transfusions! You see the sun shining through that window in the top photo? Ha! Another Keith myth busted. Thanks to some morning coke and coffee he’s no doubt feeling bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, composing riffs in his head.
It turns out these kitchen photos were taken at Andy Warhol’s Montauk, NY, home, where the Stones were rehearsing for their 1975 world tour. (I think Andy liked his eggs silver.)
Keith is known to make some mighty mean ‘bangers and mash’ (we Yanks call it sausage and mashed potatoes). He kindly shared the recipe in his memoir “Life.” Click here to see it.
As for Jimi, I’d love to think he was whipping up some voodoo chili, adding a pinch of his special herb for just the right smokey flavor, but he’s probably only posing. Pose away! I’d rather watch him walk around Chez Blogger modeling that BEE-U-tiful teal suit than have him cook for me.
Jimi may have fancied himself the lord of that manor, but he was actually subletting the ground-floor apartment at 34 Montagu Square in Marylebone, London, from Ringo Starr for £30 a month. The guitarist lived there with his paramour Kathy Etchingham, his manager Chas Chandler, and Chas’s girlfriend Lotta Null.
It was there in late 1966 or early 1967 that Jimi wrote his classic tune “The Wind Cries Mary.” Interestingly, kitchen duty – or lack thereof – purportedly inspired the song’s creation. Kathy (middle name Mary) had stormed out of the house after Jimi berated her for not cooking. The argument got his creative juices flowing. He sat right down and wrote a real beauty. (And not one word of the song has anything to do with culinary matters.) Alas, the apartment hijinks came to an end some time in ’67, when Ringo evicted Jimi for throwing whitewash all over the walls during an acid trip.
Okay, my musician friends: I shan’t cook for as long as I can get away with it. Who’s going to write a song inspired by ME?
And the wind cries….gravy.
© Dana Spiardi, Nov 6, 2015
Images of Jimi by Petera Niemeier.
Images of Keith by Ken Regan.
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