Happy Birthday Keith Richards- *The “Sunshine Superman” At Work- The Music of Donovan

DVD REVIEW

Donovan; Live In L.A., Donovan, his daughter, Mike Love, other artists and director David Lynch, PBS Production, 2007

Hope, dope, running down the slippery slope. Reds, pinks, lavenders and all the colors of the progressive political and social rainbow. Mini skirts, maxi skirts, jeans, denim jackets, floppy hats and make your own wardrobe from the Salvation Army remnants. Do your own things, chill out, make up your own identity (or identities). Try scream therapy, water therapy, thermal therapy, transcendental mediation, floatation mediation. You name it somebody tried it. Okay, enough of the memories. Of course from some of the previous writings of this reviewer in this space the descriptions above could only describe the 1960’s, the time of his youth- the time of the “Generation of ‘68”. And the artist under review, my contemporary, the singing/songwriter Donovan was in the thick of it. In those days he threw his hat in the ring as one of the talented musicians who was trying to find a “different way”, musically and spiritually, from that of our parent’ generation. In those days he traveled in some fast musical company, including the Beatles, Bob Dylan and Joni Mitchell.

But that was then and now the 60-something is playing the old favorites, in the documentary under review, in Los Angeles in a benefit concert for movie director David Lynch’s meditation center. That purpose is somewhat symbolic because the performance here, while adequate, gave me the impression that he was meditating in public. Although the audience, when scanned, seemed to like his performance there was something missing that could not be salvaged even with cameo appearances by his daughter and the Beach Boys Mike Love (on the encore “Mellow Yellow”). I saw Donovan live in Boston, as he started to tour again, a couple of years or so before this filming and he was on fire then. So, maybe it is the hardships of touring that has taken its toll. Let’s put it this way, this performance rates three stars. I am also reviewing a CD compilation of Donovan’s early work, something of a greatest hits production, entitled “Sunshine Superman”. That collection rates five stars. Something about the vagaries and ravages of aging is definitely at play here. Oh well. If you have only one choice get the CD.

That said, those who choose the film will get a full cycle of Donovan’s early work, including “Colors” and “Catch The Wind” (recently used in an automobile commercial- not good) that first brought Donovan’s work to my attention. “Jennifer Juniper”, “Mellow Yellow” (as an encore), “The Universal Soldier” and “Sunshine Superman” are also included. Just listing his songs here evokes a whole youth of color, change, causes and clashes. Ah, those were the days.


"Catch The Wind"

In the chilly hours and minutes,
Of uncertainty, I want to be,
In the warm hold of your loving mind.

To feel you all around me,
And to take your hand, along the sand,
Ah, but I may as well try and catch the wind.

When sundown pales the sky,
I wanna hide a while, behind your smile,
And everywhere I'd look, your eyes I'd find.

For me to love you now,
Would be the sweetest thing, 'twould make me sing,
Ah, but I may as well, try and catch the wind.

When rain has hung the leaves with tears,
I want you near, to kill my fears
To help me to leave all my blues behind.

For standin' in your heart,
Is where I want to be, and I long to be,
Ah, but I may as well, try and catch the wind.


"Colours"

Yellow is the colour of my true love's hair,
In the morning, when we rise,
In the morning, when we rise.
That's the time, that's the time,
I love the best.

Blue's the colour of the sky-y,
In the morning, when we rise,
In the morning, when we rise.
That's the time, that's the time,
I love the best.

Green's the colour of the sparklin' corn,
In the morning, when we rise,
In the morning, when we rise.
That's the time, that's the time,
I love the best.

Mellow is the feeling that I get,
When I see her, m-hmm,
When I see her, oh yeah.
That's the time, that's the time,
I love the best.

Freedom is a word I rarely use,
Without thinking, m-hmm,
Without thinking, oh yeah.
Of the time, of the time,
When I've been loved.

"JENNIFER JUNIPER"

Jennifer, Juniper, lives upon the hill.
Jennifer, Juniper, sitting very still.
Is she sleeping? I don't think so.
Is she breathing? Yes, very low.
Watcha doung Fennifer my love?

Jennifer, Juniper, rides a dappled mare.
Jennifer, Juniper lilacs in her hair.
Is she dreaming? Yes I think so.
Is she pretty? Yes ever so.
Watcha doing, Jennifer my love?

I'm thinking of || what would it be like if she loved me.
You know just lately
this happy song, it came along and I had || to somehow try and tell you

Jennifer, Juniper, hair of golden flax
Jennifer, Juniper longs for what she lacks.
Do you like her? Yes I do, Sir!
Would you love her? Yes I would, Sir!
Watcha doing Jennifer my love?


Donovan

Hurdy Gurdy Man

Thrown like a star in my vast sleep
I'm opening my eyes to take a peep
To find that I was by the sea
Gazing with tranquility

'Twas then when the hurdy gurdy man
Came singing songs of love
Then when the hurdy gurdy man
Came singing songs of love

Hurdy gurdy, hurdy gurdy, hurdy gurdy gurdy he sang
Hurdy gurdy, hurdy gurdy, hurdy gurdy gurdy he sang
Hurdy gurdy, hurdy gurdy, hurdy gurdy gurdy he sang

Histories of ages past
Unenlightened shadows cast
Down through all eternity
The crying of humanity

'Tis then when the hurdy gurdy man
Comes singing songs of love
Then when the hurdy gurdy man
Comes singing songs of love

Hurdy gurdy, hurdy gurdy, hurdy gurdy gurdy he sang
Hurdy gurdy, hurdy gurdy, hurdy gurdy, hurdy gurdy hurdy gurd
Hurdy gurdy, hurdy gurdy, hurdy gurdy gurdy he sang

Hurdy gurdy, hurdy gurdy, hurdy gurdy gurdy he sang
Here comes the roly-poly man
He's singing songs of love
Roly poly, roly poly, roly poly poly he sang
Hurdy gurdy, hurdy gurdy, hurdy gurdy gurdy he sang
Hurdy gurdy, hurdy gurdy, hurdy gurdy gurdy he sang
Roly poly, roly poly, roly poly poly he sang

"Josie"

Josie,I wont fail ya,
I wont fail you have no fear,
Josie,I wont fail ya,
Give me one more chance to be as near.

The meadows they are bursting
the yellow corn is in your hands,
and with the night comes sorrow
as the tide of dawn slips on the land.

The long breezes are blowing
all down the sky into my face,
Ive a worried kind of feelin
that my time has come and gone to waste.

I love you darling Josie,
the trees of pine they grow so tall,
how can you come to love me
when you didnt love me at all.

Josie,I wont fail ya,
I wont fail you have no fear,
Josie I wont fail ya
Give me one more chance to be as near.

My Josie looks a child now
as she lies beyond my breast,
in the night I think about her
in the day I get no rest.

I cut me a young pine cone
And gave it to the river deep,
It sailed way by your window
where you lay so long in sleep.

God bless you darling Josie
with your sparkling eyes so bright and clear,
Josie,I wont fail you have no fear,
Josie,I wont fail ya
Give me one more chance to be as near

"Sunshine Superman"

Sunshine came softly through my a-window today
Could've tripped out easy a-but I've a-changed my ways
It'll take time, I know it but in a while
You're gonna be mine, I know it, we'll do it in style
'Cause I made my mind up you're going to be mine

I'll tell you right now
Any trick in the book now, baby, all that I can find
Everybody's hustlin' just to have a little scene
When I say we'll be cool I think that you know what I mean
We stood on a beach at sunset, do you remember when?
I know a beach where, baby, a-it never ends
When you've made your mind up forever to be mine

Hmm, hmm, hmm, hmm, hmm
I'll pick up your hand and slowly blow your little mind
'Cause I made my mind up you're going to be mine
I'll tell you right now
Any trick in the book now, baby, all that I can find

Superman or Green Lantern ain't got a-nothin' on me
I can make like a turtle and dive for your pearls in the sea, yeah!
A you-you-you can just sit there a-thinking on your velvet throne
'bout all the rainbows a-you can a-have for your own
When you've made your mind up forever to be mine
I'll pick up your hand and slowly blow your little mind
When you've made your mind up forever to be mine

I'll pick up your hand
I'll pick up your hand

Out In The Be-Bop Be-Bop 1960s Night- Classic Rock: 1966: Shakin’ All Over- “You Are On The Bus Or Off The Bus”- The Transformation Of “Foul-Mouth” Phil Into “Far-Out” Phil- With Mad Writer Ken Kesey And His Merry Pranksters In Mind

Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of The Chiffons performing their classic Sweet Talkin’ Guy

CD Review

Classic Rock: 1966: Shakin’ All Over, various artists, Time-Life Music, 1998

Scene: Brought to mind by one of the pieces of artwork that graces each CD in this series. In this case, this 1966 case, the then almost ubiquitous merry prankster-edged converted yellow brick road school bus, complete with assorted vagabond minstrel/ road warrior/ah, hippies, that “ruled” the mid-1960s highway and by-ways in search of the great American freedom night. We never found it in the end, but the search was worth it then, and still worth it now.
*****
A rickety, ticky-tack, bounce over every bump in the road to high heaven, gear-shrieking school bus. But not just any yellow brick road school bus that you rode to various educationally good for you locations like movie houses, half yawn, science museums, yawn, art museums, yawn, yawn, or wind-wept picnic areas for some fool weenie roast, two yawns there too, when you were a school kid. And certainly not your hour to get home daily grind school bus, complete with surly driver (male or female, although truth to tell the females were worst since they acted just like your mother, and maybe were acting on orders from her) that got you through K-12 in one piece, and you even got to not notice the bounces to high heaven over every bump of burp in the road. No, my friends, my comrades, my brethren this is god’s own bus commandeered to navigate the highways and by-ways of the 1960s come flame or flash-out.

Yes, it is rickety, and all those other descriptive words mentioned above in regard to school day buses. That is the nature of such ill-meant mechanical contraptions after all. But this one is custom-ordered, no, maybe that is the wrong way to put it, this is “karma” ordered to take a motley crew of free-spirits on the roads to seek a “newer world,” to seek the meaning of what one persistent blogger on the subject has described as "the search for the great blue-pink American Western night."

Naturally to keep its first purpose intact this heaven-bound vehicle is left with its mustard yellow body surface underneath but over that primer the surface has been transformed by generations (generations here signifying not twenty-year cycles but trips west, and east) of, well, folk art, said folk art being heavily weighted toward graffiti, toward psychedelic day-glo hotpinkorangelemonlime splashes and zodiacally meaningful symbols. And the interior. Most of those hardback seats that captured every bounce of childhood have been ripped out and discarded to who knows where and replaced by mattresses, many layers of mattresses for this bus is not merely for travel but for home. To complete the “homey” effect there are stored, helter-skelter, in the back coolers, assorted pots and pans, mismatched dishware, nobody’s idea of the family heirloom china, boxes of dried foods and condiments, duffle bags full of clothes, clean and unclean, blankets, sheets, and pillows, again clean and unclean.

Let’s put it this way, if someone wants to make a family hell-broth stew there is nothing in the way to stop them. But also know this, and know it now, as we start to focus on this journey that food, the preparation of food, and the desire, except in the wee hours when the body craves something inside, is a very distant concern for these “campers.” If food is what you desired in the foreboding 1960s be-bop night take a cruise ship to nowhere or a train (if you can find one), some southern pacific, great northern, union pacific, and work out your dilemma in the dining car. Of course, no heaven-send, merry prankster-ish yellow brick road school bus would be complete without a high-grade stereo system to blast the now obligatory “acid rock” coming through the radiator practically, although just now, as a goof, it has to be a goof, right, one can hear Nancy Sinatra, christ, Frank’s daughter how square is that, churning out These Boots Are Made For Walkin’.

And the driver. No, not mother-sent, mother-agent, old Mrs. Henderson, who prattled on about keep in your seats and be quiet while she is driving (maybe that, subconsciously, is why the seats were ripped out long ago on the very first “voyage” west). No way, but a very, very close imitation of the god-like prince-driver of the road, the "on the road” pioneer, Neal Cassady, shifting those gears very gently but also very sure-handedly so no one notices those bumps (or else is so stoned, drug or music stoned, that those things pass like so much wind). His name: Cruising Casey (real name, Charles Kendall, Harverford College Class of ’64, but just this minute, Cruising Casey, mad man searching for the great American be-bop night under the extreme influence of one Ken Kesey, the max-daddy mad man of the great search just then). And just now over that jerry-rigged big boom sound system, again as if to mock the newer world abrewin’ The Vogues’ Five O’ Clock World.

And the passengers. Well, no one is exactly sure, as the bus approaches the outskirts of Denver, because this is strictly a revolving cast of characters depending on who was hitchhiking on that desolate back road State Route 5 in Iowa, or County Road 16 in Nebraska, and desperately needed to be picked up, or face time, and not nice time with a buzz on, in some small town pokey. Or it might depend on who decided to pull up stakes at some outback campsite and get on the bus for a spell, and decide if they were, or were not, on the bus. After all even all-day highs, all-night sex, and 24/7 just hanging around listening to the music, especially when you are ready to scratch a blackboard over the selections like the one on now, James and Bobby Purify’s I’m Your Puppet, is not for everyone.

We do know for sure that Casey is driving, and still driving effortlessly so the harsh realities of his massive drug intake have not hit yet, or maybe he really is superman. And, well, that the “leader” here is Captain Crunch since it is “his” bus paid for out of some murky deal, probably a youthful drug deal, (real name, Samuel Jackman, Columbia, Class of 1958, who long ago gave up searching, searching for anything, and just hooked into the idea of "taking the ride"), Mustang Sally (Susan Stein, Michigan, Class of 1959, ditto on the searching thing), his girlfriend, (although not exclusively, not exclusively by her choice , not his, and he is not happy about it for lots of reasons which need not detain us here). Most of the rest of the “passengers” have monikers like Silver City Slim, Luscious Lois (and she really is), Penny Pot (guess why), Moon Man, Flash Gordon (from out in space somewhere, literally, as he tells it), Denver Dennis (from New York City, go figure), and the like. They also have real names that indicate that they are from somewhere that has nothing to do with public housing projects, ghettos or barrios. And they are also, or almost all are, twenty-somethings that have some highly-rated college years after their names, graduated or not). And they are all either searching or, like the Captain, at a stage where they are just hooked into taking the ride.

One young man, however, sticks out, well, not sticks out, since he is dressed in de rigeur bell-bottomed blue jeans, olive green World War II surplus army jacket (against the mountain colds, smart boy), Chuck Taylor sneakers, long, flowing hair and beard (well, wisp of a beard) and on his head a rakish tam just to be a little different, “Far Out” Phil (real name Phillip Larkin, North Adamsville High School Class of 1964). And why Far Out sticks out is not only that he has no college year after his name, for one thing, but more importantly, that he is nothing but a old-time working class neighborhood corner boy from in front of Salducci’s Pizza Parlor back in North Adamsville, a close-by suburb of Boston.

Of course then Far Out Phil was known, and rightly so as any girl, self-respecting or not, could tell you as “Foul-Mouth” Phil, the world champion swearer of the 1960s North Adamsville (and Adamsville Beach) be-bop night. And right now Far Out, having just ingested a capsule of some illegal substance (not LSD, probably mescaline) is talking to Luscious Lois, talking up a storm without one swear word in use, and she is listening, gleam in her eye listening, as ironically, perhaps, The Chiffons Sweet Talkin’ Guy is beaming forth out of his little battery-powered transistor radio (look it up on Wikipedia if you don’t know about primitive musical technology) that he has carried with him since junior high school. The winds of change do shift, do shift indeed.