Nobody Reads This Page – ‘Have You Dug His Scene?’

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-23)

 

 

As a kid some of the most random gifts I received had the greatest importance, later in life. One might expect that a bicycle, or musical instrument, or favorite book might offer lasting inspiration. Yet sometimes, I was greatly moved by unpredictable forces that were unleashed through connecting with an artifact that was completely foreign.

 

One memorable experience for this writer came from a package of recycled, jukebox records sold at a local department store, in Virginia.

 

Each of these arbitrary packs contained ten different 45 rpm singles. They had been cleaned and shined up a bit, and perhaps inspected for visual quality beforehand. They were all issued in paper sleeves, some of which bore the corresponding label imprint. No order of any kind precipitated what was in these bundles. Though every record was a slab of popular music in some form. Rock, Country, Folk, Blues, and Soul were represented.

 

The turntable yield was one of blind exploration. I often had no familiarity with artists or their songs, beforehand. Each time I dropped the tonearm, my eyes would light up with amazement. Some were more impressive than others of course, but every disc found a place in my consciousness. I kept them all, in a box by my makeshift desk.

 

One particular release still reverberates in my head, even as I have reached a mature age. It is a spoken-word artifact made by the movie and television actor Yaphet Kotto. When I first spun this obscure creation, it nearly knocked me off my rollaway bed. The lyrics and delivery were of a sort I had never heard before. I would play the track over and over again, trying not only to catch each phrase, but also, the timbre and inflection he used.

 

My father must have winked with pride. It was a moment when I strained against the childish bonds of my developing intellect.

 

“Have you dug his scene, his jive, barefootin’ routine?

And pinned him at night, when no one can see

Crying ‘bout ‘Oh God, the weight of my gold is killing me!’

And here you are, nailed to your cross

Talking ‘bout to be like him must be boss

Have you dug his scene?

His most bad routine

And checked him at night when no one can see

Crying out, ‘Eli Eli, lama sabatchthani?’”

 

I had received a ukulele for Christmas, around 1970, and been composing my own tunes after the included songbook from Sears & Roebuck was exhausted. But this revelation-in-vinyl caused my head to explode, metaphorically. I was breathless when listening. The imagery was completely foreign, yet decidedly compelling. The cadence, the vitality, the urgency of his message blasted away all of the suburban cobwebs that had constrained my youthful consciousness.

 

“Have you dug his scene, his funky routine?

Have you checked him at night when no one can see

Crying out ‘What do those people want from me?’”

 

Backing music was provided by Hugh Masakela, the South African Jazz legend.

 

There were several other singles in the package that I enjoyed. One by notable actor Robert Mitchum made me smile and sing along cheerfully. I imagined him with a cold beer and friends, perhaps standing at a pool table or seated at a basement bar, as some of my neighbors possessed. Another by the band Redeye from California, was one I recognized because their hit ‘Games’ had received some rotation on radio stations around the country. One by Joe Simon had my head bopping in time, and my fingers snapping.

 

My father had a considerable record collection of his own, which varied from classic artists such as Chuck Berry, Fats Domino, and Little Richard, to T-Bone Walker and Jimmy Reed, to Pete Seeger, the Carter Family, Flatt & Scruggs, and Bill Monroe. So, I already had an open view of cultural varieties. My mind was like a sponge seeking to be soaked.

 

Mr. Kotto did more than just quench this thirst for knowledge, however. He left me pondering for years, even decades, after I first put his platter on our Silvertone hi-fi.

 

“Everywhere he goes is sunny, and he lives on milk and honey

Have you dug his scene, his wrecked machine?

You hear that siren coming this way?

That’s him coming to take me away

Now you might ask how I can dig him so well

You see I know him, and I know his story too

Because he’s the same as you!

Have you dug his scene?”

 

The only place I had ever heard such expressive, powerful wordplay before was in a church pew. The record permeated my cerebral synapses like a kind of psychotropic elixr. It remained long afterward. I could never forget having taken such a lyrical trip into the greater vastness of artistic creativity. In a sense, it was like having dropped a tab of LSD. I felt older and more engaged. When returning to my classes at elementary school, I struggled to reinsert myself into the confined space I had occupied, before.

 

Somehow, I did not quite belong anymore.

 

No one understood, except for my sire. He was a pastor and theologian, yet had an appetite for the curious nature of things outside of his own realm. He appreciated this diversity as a spectator, not a participant. It would take a long time for me to completely process that habit in personal terms.

 

Kotto eventually scored the role of a police lieutenant, Al Giardello, in the NBC show ‘Homicide: Life on the Street.’ Already known for his film performances, this recurring series brought him before the everyday public into a position of prominence. But I could not help harkening back to the dusty 45 of olden days. A smoky, café-rant offered with much passion and zeal.

 

For a time, we were Facebook friends as he maintained an account until his death in 2021. I had not known a lot about his heritage or education. Yet through this portal I read about his connection with Jewish traditions, and far-flung views on existing as a speck of dust in the cosmos. As before, he provoked me to think in ways not prodded into being by my own surroundings.

 

The man himself might be gone now, but that grooved glob of plastic is still in my collection, somewhere. More importantly, the courage of his defiant message remains in my psyche, as well.