Nobody Reads This Page – “Wild Weekend”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-24)

 

 

For this writer and so many others, music often carries a whisper of memories that linger in defiance of chronological order. Tuneful compositions may evoke the spirit of an earlier age, from which they first emerged. But when filtered through the complexities of individual experiences, these nuggets can also glisten with the glow of misaligned stars, set in place on a personal canvas.

 

A recent trip into such thoughts of altered yesterdays came as I sat on my front porch here in Thompson Township, enjoying a cool beverage. I punched up the Spotify app on my cell phone, and started a playlist of guitar instrumentals from the classic, postwar era. A cultural interlude between the rise of Rock icons like Elvis Presley, Jerry Lee Lewis, or Little Richard, and the eventual dominance of Beatlemania. The intention was to immerse myself in vintage recordings by Link Wray, Dick Dale, and other artists who plucked out danceable ditties on their plectrum poles. Lots of twang and reverb soon filled my ears. But then, a vinyl 45 by the Rockin’ Rebels spun via my streaming connection. A song originally penned by radio host Tom Shannon, and Phil Todaro. Intended to be a promotional theme for broadcasts in Buffalo, New York. First released locally in 1961, and later finding national acclaim on another label.

 

Yet instead of traveling to that distant moment, which was around the time I was busy being born in Ohio, I time-slipped to 1979.

 

While studying television broadcasting through a program sponsored by Cornell University, I had encountered an older, seasoned veteran of the music scene around Corning. His name was Paul Race. Someone who looked to me like a reincarnation of MAD Magazine publisher William M. Gaines. He was shaggy, stocky, tall, and had the casual manner of a day-laborer. Not at all what I expected after hearing that he was highly educated and had amassed an incredible collection of books, historical artifacts, and audio recordings. Along with many musical instruments of all sorts.

 

Paul’s axe of choice was a blonde, Fender Telecaster with a white pickguard. He had huge paws, not unlike a grizzly bear. Thus, the girth in his hands made for a unique performing style. One that projected solid, choppy tones resulting from brisk strumming, and a technique of palm muting, over the bridge of his guitar. More than just hearing each note he played, I could actually feel them, as rendered by his vacuum-tube amplifier.

 

I was a teenager at that time, so he immediately became a hero and mentor. He dazzled me with tales of having been a member of many local groups. The first of these was a combo styled in the vein of native son Duane Eddy, the Ventures, and other such memorable figures. Later came an experimental confabulation, that was called Oliver Court Delivery. This moniker struck me as quirky, perhaps a nod to the Kinks and their Village Green Preservation Society. Maybe an ironic twist on a common theme of social habits from older generations. But his response set me straight. I had gotten it completely wrong.

 

“Nah, it was the only thing we could agree upon. You know, one of the best ways to lose friends is to start a band with them. Trust me, I know! I lost a lot of friends over the years!”

 

Paul would revisit all kinds of material in our practice sessions that still reverberated in his head. Like Malaguena or the William Tell Overture. But when he banged out the infectious lines of Wild Weekend, I snapped to attention. The single was one I had heard frequently on station WKPA, while living outside of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. That tiny outpost had programmed lots of oldies fare in the 1970’s, which I received with youthful zeal. It expanded my horizons as a high school kid. And kept me tuning in on Saturdays, when leisure hours appeared.

 

My adoptive older brother had been around so long that he remembered being a child in the Beatnik era. Going forward, he progressed through each stage that followed with gusto. First as a lightning rod for raucous, six-string sonatas, then the Beatles and Stones winning over fans on this side of the big pond. The Hippie explosion, 70’s malaise and Punk Rock anarchy, all in seamless transitions. And eventually even Heavy Metal and Hip Hop. He had an open mind toward every wrinkle in the artistic tapestry.

 

Our pickup band and frequent guest at Channel 13 was called the Embarrassing Pinworms. A sort of underground twist on the Grateful Dead, with inflections of Iggy Pop, Lou Reed, and Johnny Rotten included. Once, while jamming at his house outside of the city, I wondered aloud about including this weekend anthem in our repertoire. He was stung by this suggestion. It made him clear-eyed and lucid, despite willfully existing in pervasive clouds of marijuana smoke.

 

“Yeah! I’ll write down the lyrics for you, man! That’s a great idea! People will love it!”

 

As I had not quite reached the age of 18, his declaration left me completely in the dark.

 

“LYRICS? THERE ARE LYRICS TO WILD WEEKEND?”

 

I was nakedly naïve, and did not know the history involved at that time. It took years to realize that he had decided to play a trick on all of us, and prospective audiences that might get to hear our band, in concert.

 

He scribbled out the fabricated verses in longhand, on the backs of forms pilfered from his employer. A cheese producer in the Corning area.

 

“Hey, hey, it’s the end of the week

I’m gonna drink till I can’t even speak

I’m dressed up and my shoes are shiny

I’ll be hungover by the time it is Monday

But it’s so good

Just to dance with you!

Hey, hey it’s a wild weekend

Gonna hang out with all of my friends

Get juiced, jump and jive

I’ll drink and dip all through the night

It’s so good

Just to dance with you!”

 

We actually used his fugazi stanzas at the TV station, in Ithaca. I sang with the conviction of a fledgling rocker, courting favor from the fans. None of us got the joke. Nor did any of our viewers. But it didn’t matter.

 

Paul was a merry prankster and a Svengali. In his orbit, we were able to spend a moment in the spotlight. And savor that blessing afterward, as adults lost in personal reflection.