Motorcycle Days, Circa 1958-The Search For The Great Working-Class Love Song - With Richard Thompson’s Vincent Black Lightning, 1952 In Mind –Take Two

Motorcycle Days, Circa 1958-The Search For The Great Working-Class Love Song - With Richard Thompson’s Vincent Black Lightning, 1952 In Mind –Take Two

 

From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin:

Several years ago, maybe about eight years now that I think about it, I did a series of sketches on guys, folk-singers, folk-rockers, rock-folkers or whatever you want to call those who weened us away from the stale pablum rock in the early 1960s (Bobby Vee, Rydell, Darin, et al, Sandra Dee, Brenda Lee, et al) after the gold rush dried up in what is now called the classic age of rock and roll in the mid to late 1950s when Elvis, Jerry Lee, Buddy, Chuck, Bo and their kindred made us jump. (There were gals too like Wanda Jackson but mainly it was guys in those days.) I am referring of course to the savior folk minute of the early 1960 when a lot of guys with acoustic guitars, some self-made lyrics, or stuff from old Harry Smith Anthology times gave us a reprieve. The series titled Not Bob Dylan centered on why those budding folkies like Tom Rush, Tom Paxton, Phil Ochs, Jesse Winchester and the man under review Richard Thompson to name a few did not make the leap to be the “king of folk” that had been ceded by the media to Bob Dylan and whatever happened to them once the folk minute went south after the combined assault of the British rock invasion (you know the Beatles, Stones, Kinks, hell, even Herman’s Hermits got play for a while),   and the rise of acid rock put folk in the shade (you know the Jefferson Airplane, the Dead, The Doors, The Who, hell, even the aforementioned Beatles and Stones got caught up in the fray although not to their eternal musical playlist benefit). I also did a series on Not Joan Baez, the “queen of the folk minute” asking that same question on the female side but here dealing with one Richard Thompson the male side of the question is what is of interest.

I did a couple of sketches on Richard Thompson back then, or rather sketches based on probably his most famous song, Vincent Black Lightning, 1952 which dove-tailed with some remembrances of my youth and my semi-outlaw front to the world and the role that motorcycles played in that world. Additionally, in light of the way that a number of people whom I knew back then, classmates whom I reconnected on a class reunion website responded when I posed the question of what they thought was the great working-class love song since North Adamsville was definitely a working class town driven by that self-same ethos I wrote some other sketches driving home my selection of Thompson’s song as my choice.

The latter sketches are what interest me here. See Thompson at various times packed it in, said he had no more spirit or some such and gave up the road, the music and the struggle to made that music, as least professionally. Took time to make a more religious bent to his life and other such doings. Not unlike a number of other performers from that period who tired of the road or got discourage with the small crowds, or lost the folk spirit. Probably as many reasons as individuals to give them. Then he, they had an epiphany or something, got the juices flowing again and came back on the road.  That fact is to the good for old time folk (and rock) aficionados like me.

What that fact of returning to the road by Thompson and a slew of others has meant is that my friend and I, (okay, okay my sweetie who prefers that I call her my soulmate but that is just between us so friend) now have many opportunities to see acts like Thompson’s Trio, his current band configuration, to see if we think they still “have it” (along with acts of those who never left the road like Bob Dylan who apparently is on an endless tour whether we want him to do so or not). That idea got started about a decade ago when we saw another come-back kid, Geoff Muldaur of the Jim Kweskin Jug Band, solo, who had taken something twenty years off. He had it. So we started looking for whoever was left of the old folks acts (rock and blues too) to check out that question-unfortunately the actuarial tables took their toll before we could see some of them at least one last time like Dave Von Ronk.

That brings us to Richard Thompson. Recently we got a chance to see him in a cabaret setting with tables and good views from every position, at least on in the orchestra section, at the Wilbur Theater in Boston with his trio, a big brush drummer and an all-around side guitar player (and other instruments like the mando). Thompson broke the performance up into two parts, a solo set of six or seven numbers high-lighted by Vincent Black Lightning, and Dimming Of The Day which was fine. The second part based on a new album and a bunch of his well-known rock standards left us shaking our heads. Maybe the room could not handle that much sound, although David Bromberg’s five piece band handled it well a couple of weeks before, or maybe it was the melodically sameness of the songs and the same delivery voice and style but we were frankly disappointed and not disappointed to leave at the encore.  Most tunes didn’t resonant although a few in all honesty did we walked out of the theater with our hands in our pockets. No thumbs up or down flat based on that first old time set otherwise down. However, damn it, Bob Dylan does not have to move over, now.  Our only consolation that great working-class love song, Vincent Black Lightning, still intact.

Which brings us to one of those sketches I did based on Brother Thompson’s glorious Vincent Black Lightning. When I got home I began to revise that piece which I have included below. Now on to the next act in the great quest- a reunion of the three remaining active members of the Jim Kweskin Jug Band, Jim Maria Muldaur, and of course Geoff at the Club Passim (which traces its genesis back to the folk minute’s iconic Club 47 over on Mount Auburn Street in Harvard Square. We’ll see if that gets the thumbs up.     

From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin-Motorcycle Days, Circa 1958

Yes, 1958 was a good time to be a motorcycle boy, A de facto, de jure wild boy who ate babies, gave old people heart attacks and spread murder and mayhem in their trail to speak nothing of what they were doing to property, private property on their treks through small civilized towns who stood defenseless against the biggest marauders since Genghis Klan hit Europe or wherever he waylaid whatever was in front of him just for kicks according to the chattering, clueless, disapproving parents of the time. Especially the parents of impressionable teenage girls who were starting to get out of hand anyway with that devil’s music rock and roll making them make all, well, all kind of sexy moves although they refused to use the “s” word, called it jitterbugging or something like that might they meant the “s” word when had their Mary Catherine or Beth on the carpet for whatever they had the girls on the carpet for so sleek grungy motorcycle boys with high-powered wheels making those girls a little itchy was  beyond  their comprehension.

And not just teenage girls either although what they, those dumfounded parents did not see (or hear about from some prim prudish roommate or schoolgirl friend) was just as well if they, the parents, had had a clue what was going on over at State U with the twenty some-things, including their Janie, when the music and liquor got going (and in some “hip” or badass locales the dreaded dope, marijuana or worse previously only hearsay or seen and read in Nelson Algren be-bop Man With A Golden Arm junkie sagas filled with cold turkey nightmares and back alley “shooting galleries, Jesus). Got going big time when the wild boys, who nobody invited but nobody was stupid enough to ask to leave beside among the young men there was certain sense of awe as well and those bikes sure beat the family car on date night, but all “dressed-up” in greasy work-on-the bike-all-day-damn that-cranky carburetor denim, tee-shirt, greasy or not, denim cut-off at the shoulders jacket, doo rag  handkerchief for the head and whatever magic number-word symbol represented their chapter existence patched somewhere on their person, showed up to get it on and a few girls, adventurous girls in those pre-pill sex times, got a little wet thinking about that possibility, took a flyer on that hot backseat just built to get their sweet thing humming and don’t kid yourself on that, to the everlasting chagrin of Joe College in his sports jacket and loafers who after six months on the chase got nothing but some midnight kiss. If that.

Of course parents didn’t count, count for much anyway, when trends, moods, and what was cool got discussed in front of night times mom and pop variety stores where corner boys of all descriptions and attitudes held forth. Or at Doc’s Drugstore in our town, North Adamsville, after school, high school, of course, lesser grades needed not to bother to show up within fifty yards of the place  except maybe in early morning to get some candy bar or other sweet to get them through until growing-up time lunch, where all manner of school boy and girl went for a soda and snack but mainly to hear some latest tune, maybe some hot Jerry Lee wild boy mad man thing, seventeen times in Doc’s amped up super juke box. In those quarters motorcycle wild boys were cool, if maybe just a little dangerous.

And maybe just slightly illegal too as their parents’ cops (as part of that parent-police-teacher-priest-politician-hell-maybe even mom and pop variety store owner authority continuum) frowned, no more than frowned, got irate and even threatened to do something about it when some local detachment of the Devils’ Disciples roared through the Adamsville Beach boulevard night. The sight of flashing blue lights on the boulevard usually meant one thing. Some wild boy had his just juiced up after working on the damn thing all day exhaust system too loud, or he wasn’t wearing a helmet (not mandatory then but “suggested” that doo rag got its start as the “helmet” still does act so in places like Maine and New Hampshire), or he switched lanes without signaling (signaling “Jesus, give me a break, officer” I was trying roust those old biddies doing twenty in a fifty mile an hour zone in said wild boy’s head), or maybe for just being ugly, cop’s eyes ugly (he too worrying about that teenage daughter who was getting a little precocious and sassy about things as she grew into young womanhood), or some lame thing like that.

Those small civic sins only added to the mystique though. Especially on sultry summer nights when the colors (the Disciples had blue parallelogram patches with the number thirteen on them meaning you had to have carnally known at least thirteen women although contrary to rumor not all virgins or underage) passed turning every guy’s eyes, even mine, to listen to that power amped up on the asphalt and to set every girl, including guys I hung with sisters and mine too, impressionable or not, to thinking, thinking Wild Boy Marlon Brando thinking about what was behind that power.

See before Tom Wolfe (in the description of their partying down at Ken Kesey’s place in La Honda in his classic 1960s coming of socials age book The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test) and the late lamented Hunter Thompson ( a motorcycle aficionado himself who cruised plenty of midnight Pacific Coast Highway turns and who hung with the Oakland Hell’s Angels in the mid-1960s for a year or so and both lived to tell about it and wrote the classic pop sociological account of the group in his The Hell’s Angels) put  everybody straight about the seamy side of motorcycle life, life-style motorcycle life with its felonies and mayhem, Marlon and his wild boys (and maybe throw in James Dean and his “chicken run” cars although they were a little too tame to be as revered as the motorcycle boys were) had cleaned up the wild boy scene, made it okay to be an easy rider, made it sexy. Not the weekend warrior flip turns and wheelies and then Monday morning back to the bank stuff but real alienated Johnnies just like you and me. Old Marlon had made alienated wild boys cool. For a while in the early 1960s dead air small town night, no car, no girls, no dough and definitely no cool bike that would light up many a conversation.   

Yeah marlon, old sexy white tee-shirt, maybe a pack of Luckies rolled up one sleeve, a cap rakishly turn at an angle on his head, but mainly an attitude, an attitude of distain, hell, maybe hatred, toward that ever present authority that told every kid, every boy and girl that you had better take what you can when you can because it won’t be there long. And along with that attitude, call it fellahin philosophy if you like, that slight snarl that accompanied every word. Yah, cool, cool daddy cool.

And the girls, wells, they were doing that wondering, wondering about what was behind that power thrust, as those leather jackets and engineer boots roared by. To the detriment of their dates while sitting in the front seat of their, the date’s father’s borrowed plain vanilla boxed tail fin car that he had had to almost declare a civil war to get for the evening and promise to mow some future lawn as compensation. Jesus. Or worse, infinitely worse, seeing that metal, chrome and fire pass by after her date, her car-less date, had just walked her over to the beach to sit on that cold stony seawall. Her eyes flamed red, as she almost flagged down some local easy rider as he passed by just to get some kicks, and maybe freedom from squaresville town (and that square guy, who one time was me, as I will relate below, car-less sit by the seawall me).

It wasn’t always low-down grunges with no style, Neanderthals with bad breathe and stinking body odor, who occupied the flamed night either. Every town probably had it story, many more that one, of some wild boy motorcycle boy who ruled the roost, who took what he needed, or better, wanted and said the hell with civilization. Yeah, a real outlaw, an outlaw way outside the system like North Adamsville wild boy James Preston, a guy they still talk about, although not when tender ears are around (you know those impressionable teenage girls, star-dust boys thinking about that bike and those impressionable girls). Back in 1957, maybe 1958 that was all the talk, all the talk that counted among anguished and alienated teen like I said when Pretty James Preston got his chopper. Damn, I can still hear that explosion when he gunned that pedal even now.

See, Pretty James Preston (and nobody called him, as far as I know, anything else except that exact designation, not “Pretty” which would probably have gotten you chain-whipped, not Pretty James which probably would have put you in the hospital) had Elvis-like looks to go with his outlaw snarl. Dark hair combed back like Elvis (but never ever use that comparison then, not if you don’t want to fight, fight whip chains fight or cut-up knives just so you know), black kind of Spanish eyes, long and tall, wiry some would say, but tough as a kid from the wrong side of the tracks could be. Nobody messed with Pretty James Preston (see, hell, even fifty years or more later I still call him that just in case, just in case his chain-wielding ghost is still around). So tough that he, around ordinary citizens, was almost civilized. He could afford to be and because it cost him nothing in his world calculus that was that.

So naturally every high school girl, and you would have been surprised how many and who, even women since at that time Pretty James Preston was about twenty-one, had some tough nights up in their lonely rooms thinking about that wild boy. Now maybe not everyone, okay, North Adamsville was not that small a town but let’s say any girl (or young woman) who thought she had a shot, or maybe half a shot, at his favors was having sweaty summer nights. Even Mimi Murphy, my girlfriend, my faithless girlfriend. Now Mimi was maybe not the dish of the town, with her flaming red hair and her slender, maybe skinny is a better way to describe it, body but she had a certain something, a certain, smile, a certain style about her that made some guys who you would never ever think would give her a second look (like I had to my delight) were intrigued by her. Including one Pretty James Preston.

So one summer night after I walked Mimi, yes, car-less walked, Mimi over to the seawall down at the Seal Rock end of old Adamsville Beach I (we) heard that roar, that roar that meant only one thing- Pretty James Preston was coming down the boulevard full throttle. I turned around and before I knew it there he was stopped in front of us as we sat on the seawall. I swear I don’t remember him saying word one to Mimi (or me). Maybe a nod, maybe they had some secret karmic thing, I don’t know. All I know is that the queen of Sacred Heart Church (Roman Catholic) for the number of novenas said in the old days, some white veil Madonna aura always present, one of the smartest girl in our class and, also probably the closest thing we had to a quirky girl in our class walked over to Pretty James Preston and his strange and powerful Vincent Black Lighting and straddled her long legs on the back saddle of the bike. And into the night they roared.

But see that strange bike, that British-made exotic Vincent Black Lightning (which later proved to have been stolen, not by Pretty James but by someone else, and then ferreted over from England to take its place in North Adamsville lore) was the undoing of Pretty James Preston (although not to hold you in suspense not of Mimi Murphy, not officially). Pretty James was leading kind of a double life. Let me explain, or try to, the way I heard it from some sources that I trusted (not Mimi, for I never really saw her to speak to after that fateful roar off into the Pretty James night).

In order to keep up his bike, his chopper Pretty James Preston robbed, robbed persons, places and things if you like. Not around North Adamsville since he was too well known (although after it was all over a few people around town admitted that he had robbed them, robbed them at gun-point and they were too scared to say anything. Maybe true, maybe not.). But around, a gas station here, a mom and pop variety store there, a couple of department stores, a few wealthy homes over in Millsville, maybe jack-roll a drunk if things got desperate. Not much dough but steady.

Then one day we heard that Pretty James Preston had stepped up his act. Banks, or rather a bank, the Granite City National Bank branch over in Braintree. And that was his downfall. Somehow he bungled the job, or some alarm went off, or some rum brave cop got religion and before he could get out the door Pretty James was shot, shot six ways to Sunday. Dead, DOA, done. The only thing left to say is that somebody thought they saw a skinny, long-legged, long- haired, red-headed girl in a leather jacket and dungarees standing across the street from the bank and when they turned around after looking away upon hearing the shots the girl were gone. They later found the Vincent Black Lightning over in the Adamsville projects kind of mashed up.

The red-headed girl, my Mimi, was not seen around town again. (Rumors, small rumors swirled for a few months about her fate, some reported that she was in a convent up North, others that she was holed up doing tricks in some high –end whorehouse in Boston but I never got very far with the few leads I had and soon gave it up.) Yes, Pretty James Preston was an outlaw from his first to last breath. And you wonder why they still talk about him with hushed breath.

The music too befit the motorcycle wild boy time of end of time times, the times when it seemed every little mishap in some godforsaken corner of this wicked old world turned into a major crisis causing everybody at some invisible authority’s urging to head for the air-raid shelters and keep their heads down. And their butts up. Jerry Lee wild man piano stuff, always ready to break out, jail break out ever since he popped the question in high school confidential, Chuck leering at sweet little sixteens and you know what I mean, Eddie Cochran giving us a summer time blues anthem to hang our hopes on, and all kinds of one hit wonders trying to put a dent in our angst, our special teen angst that was ready to boil over, to break out and be free. Free from that invisible hand authority.

No wonder the wild boys had a field day. Those impressionable girls, maybe Mimi too although we never talked about such things, Jesus no, worried they would never get to “do it” but were fearful to “do it” nevertheless in that Pill-less world. And guys hoping that the girls were worrying about not “doing it” before the world exploded egged them on although not with as much concern as necessary about consequences. The wild boys, those easy riders, though said “take no prisoners” and that was attractive, that and that promise of power that had many a girl restless late at night.

So no wonder too some young thing in the Jody Reynolds’ song “Endless Sleep”, maybe worried about getting pregnant after she let lover boy go further than she (and he) expected decided to go down to that sunless beach and let old Neptune have his way with her. And he, lover boy, maybe with a wild boy sensibility on the surface but more the weekend warrior when the deal went down, went looking for the dizzy dame, his dizzy dame and left old Neptune in the lurch. And many years later, maybe in some dream remembrance, they would throw the old records on the turntable, amp up the teen angst, the teen alienation, then sit back and listen to maybe the last minute in the 1950s when free-wheeling rock and roll blasted the night away. And the motorcycle boys held forth in the thundering night.

ARTIST: Richard Thompson
TITLE: 1952 Vincent Black Lightning
Lyrics and Chords

Said Red Molly to James that's a fine motorbike

A girl could feel special on any such like

Said James to Red Molly, well my hat's off to you

It's a Vincent Black Lightning, 1952

And I've seen you at the corners and cafes it seems

Red hair and black leather, my favorite color scheme

And he pulled her on behind

And down to Box Hill they did ride

/ A - - - D - / - - - - A - / : / E - D A /

/ E - D A - / Bm - D - / - - - - A - - - /

Said James to Red Molly, here's a ring for your right hand

But I'll tell you in earnest I'm a dangerous man

I've fought with the law since I was seventeen

I robbed many a man to get my Vincent machine

Now I'm 21 years, I might make 22

And I don't mind dying, but for the love of you

And if fate should break my stride

Then I'll give you my Vincent to ride

Come down, come down, Red Molly, called Sergeant McRae

For they've taken young James Adie for armed robbery

Shotgun blast hit his chest, left nothing inside

Oh, come down, Red Molly to his dying bedside

When she came to the hospital, there wasn't much left

He was running out of road, he was running out of breath

But he smiled to see her cry

And said I'll give you my Vincent to ride

Says James, in my opinion, there's nothing in this world

Beats a 52 Vincent and a red headed girl

Now Nortons and Indians and Greeveses won't do

They don't have a soul like a Vincent 52

He reached for her hand and he slipped her the keys

He said I've got no further use for these

I see angels on Ariels in leather and chrome

Swooping down from heaven to carry me home

And he gave her one last kiss and died