The Roots Is The Toots: The Music That Got The Generation Of ’68 Through The 1950s Red Scare Cold War Night-Sweet Dreams, Baby- With Thanks To And With Mister Roy Orbison In Mind

The Roots Is The Toots: The Music That Got The Generation Of ’68 Through The 1950s Red Scare Cold War Night-Sweet Dreams, Baby- With Thanks To And With Mister Roy Orbison In Mind

Dream Baby

Sketches From The Pen Of Frank Jackman 

recorded by Roy Orbison
written by Cindy Walker

G7
Sweet dream baby

Sweet dream baby
C
Sweet dream baby
G7                C
How long must I dream

G7
Dream baby got me dreaming

Sweet dreams the whole day through

Dream baby got me dreaming

Sweet dreams night time too

C
I love you and I'm dreaming of you

But that won't do
G7
Dream baby make me stop my dreaming you
                        C
Can make my dreams come true

Repeat #1 twice

Sixteen and sex. No, I warn you, don’t settle back and think about your own sixteen and sex dreams it is not about that. About that first time you did the “do the do” as we called the act in the old Clintondale neighborhood in the early 1960s after Peter Markin heard Howlin’ Wolf on Be-Bop Benny’s Blues Bonanza on WKPX in Chicago call the sex act that in a song that he heard one Sunday night when the wind was blowing right and he picked the station up on his transistor radio and wowed everybody in Monday morning before school world with that bit of knowledge. (By the way the “do the do” was not  necessarily done at that age but the parties we will be discussing happened to congeal their fates at sixteen and so “sixteen and sex.” Nor is this about your fundamental lack of knowledge of the do’s and don’ts beforehand due to the vagaries of learning about sex not from your parents who were the natural candidates to put you wise, or your house of worship which could have been a useful backup, or even better your school which could have eased the way by covering everything up in austere scientific terms so the faint-hearted or the blushers who did not opt out could catch on but rather learned on the streets. Learned on the streets from those just one step ahead of you and who were wrong more times than right. Jesus, and brother you can say that again.   

Well, maybe this little sketch is not all about that, about those  desperate moves you made trying to figure out about the opposite sex, trying  to figure what the hell the hormonal urges running rampant meant, running every which way not leaving you alone even when you were alone. Not about the what to do about how far to go, how far to let the other party go, or not go, or just wait until everything blows over. (And that “how far to go” was not relegated to the female sex since some mad daddy’s shotgun and worse made the issue more far-fling than that.) Worries too, about reputation, about what Johnny or Jane will, or will not, say, come mandatory Monday morning before school boys’ or girls’ “lav” talkfest or about being Susie being “fast,” Jason a dweeb or some frill being nothing but a man-handler or any of six varieties of goof in a goofy universe.

And here you thought you were so serious, had made such an impression, had got almost everybody in the before mentioned Monday morning talkfest believing you were the stud of the month or the “hottie” of the universe. But  you know you stayed in your room all weekend by the telephone waiting for that call to come in, the “what you doing tonight” call that will not come because the longed for party does not even have your phone number, and does not want to have the damn thing. Probably tossed it on some floor or in some rubbish bin the minute your back was turned. Tough luck, brothers and sisters my kindred heart goes out to you.  

So, no, no too, we will not be focusing on some backseat coupe, all Jimmy retro-ready, maybe fresh from a “chicken run” kill or  down by the seashore, up some hilled lovers’ lane, or in some midnight minute motel kind, at least not yet. No we will step back and take a breather, forget about Monday morning, about reputation, about knowledge, heck, even for a minute the “do the do” itself as hard as that is to believe. No, we are going to ease into this new relationship. Do the ABC work. Just get to know her, easy know her, and let things take their course from there. Our guy Johnny, but it could have been any of fifty thousand guy names in eight hundred languages, was going to set a new course, was going to take the few accumulated lessons that he had learned and change course in his life. No more of this frenzied, heated, beating some other guy’s time (or trying to) like he had just got finished doing with Lucy. No more Lucys, and as an amendment, make it a constitutional amendment if you want, no more dog-eat-dog fighting over girls, women, you know, frails. (Frail meaning girl, meaning today young woman, the young guys in the neighborhood, the Clintondale working-class neighborhood had a million “terms of art” for young woman-frill, chick, babe, twist and on and on most of them introduced by the king hell king of the corner boy night, Johnny’s corner boy night, Frankie Riley, but this sketch is not about Frankie and his mad capacity to make up names for girls strongly influenced by 1930s black and white Hollywood gangster movies and Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler’s hard-boil detective talk which he was addicted to so we will move on.)

That is exactly what Johnny Prescott had on his mind, that no more fighting over girls, no more, no mas, whatever way you wanted to express the new dispensation, as he noticed this cool looking frill across the field heading his way. The field that Johnny saw the cool girl crossing being, for those not from Clintondale, Johnny’s hometown, unofficially known as “the meadows,” a family outing place that no longer was well-used since a couple of years previously they had the big Gloversville Amusement Park going full blast but just the place to go and think through, well think through, sixteen and sex, boy sixteen and sex.

When he was younger, and before the amusement park took the air out of 

the place, Johnny and his family in their sunnier days (that too a story for another day, not a Frankie Riley king hell king of the corner boy night day but some such day) loved to ramble over the stone fences and scattered granite pieces that dotted the landscape and provided ground for the innocent to play in before the barbecue fires got hot and the family dug into the feast of hot dogs, hamburgers, potato salad and cupcakes that formed the culinary delights that drove them to the park and family fun for that little breathe of fresh air time before the family civil wars started anew. But today was different, today he was here to think, to mope a little if he had to.   

Johnny knew, knew as sure as he knew he own think through habits that this frill (girl, okay) was also here to do some thinking. He had run into others, guys mostly, including a few older guys, like maybe college guys, who gave him that same impression, that trying to figure the girl world out stuff. Hell, he had sheepishly asked one guy, a college guy from the lettering on his jacket, who had been sitting on a bench whether he was thinking deep thoughts and what about. Answer: hell, you know the answer, “the torch,” the guy carrying the torch and nothing but. Being at the meadows making that burden a little lighter. So Johnny figured that she was here maybe doing a getting over a boy thing like he was getting over Lucy. She sure looked like somebody whom he could talk to if it came to that all light- brown hair, cashmere sweater showing a nice shape, a short skirt showing well-turned legs and later as she got very close some very pale blue eyes. Or maybe she was just here thinking that the way the boy meets girl rules were set up were just flat-out screwy. He hoped so. That would be his wedge, his edge on the conversation if what he thought was true about her moping about something. 

And as she, this girl okay, approached him, maybe five yards away just then Johnny recognized her from school, from Clintondale High. At least he thought so because although the high school was fairly big gathering in every high school student in town he thought it was small enough so that he should have recognized her, even if only from the “caf.” Maybe some assembly or some Friday night dance before Lucy took his time away. As she came very close in view he noticed that it was none other than Timmy Riley’s younger sister, Betty Ann, a sophomore a year behind him. At first he was going to pass because now that he thought about it, although it was clear that she was pretty in a second look way, and maybe a third look way too, she was known as one of those bookish-types that, well, you know were too bookish to think about sixteen year old boys and sex, or maybe boys of any age. And, well Timmy, Timmy Riley, was the star fullback on the Red Raiders football team, and who knew how he felt about his bookish sister and sexed-up sixteen year old boys.

But Johnny felt lucky, or maybe just desperate, and started to speak. But before he could get word one out Betty Ann said, “It’s a nice day for walking the meadows with nobody around. I come here when I want to think about stuff, about my future and what I want to do in the world. How about you?” Bingo, thought Johnny. Not boy troubles but some kind of troubles.  He was determined that he was going to talk to Betty Ann, and he thought as he pondered that idea, “I’ll take my chances with Timmy- the hell with him (unless he hears about his sister and me then it’s strictly only in my head, okay Timmy).” And they talked and talked until almost dark. Talked about the future, about how they world was rigged up before they could make a dent in it, had not been asked question one about what to do about it, and then Johnny kind of introduced the thing about Lucy, and about how he had seen the light on women (girls, okay).

Betty Ann said she had never had a serious boyfriend although she had been out on a few dates. She preferred to read and study if it came to that, although lately she had been feeling a little restless. Johnny became crestfallen after that burst figuring that Betty Ann was in that category of a “unapproachable” that guys were always rating certain girls as when they discussed stuff on the grapevine. Then Betty Ann told Johnny this little story that changed things in a big way. See Johnny had seen her before, seen her at the Fall Frolics and had danced with her out of some courtesy or other because one of his corner boys was interested in her and wanted Johnny to check her out. Nothing happened (with that corner boy either). But Betty Ann had developed something of a crush on Johnny, nothing big but she would watch for him around school. Of course she knew from that infinitely reliable teenage grapevine that was better than anything any governmental intelligence agency could come up with that Johnny was with Lucy Barnes and so off-limits. But when Lucy busted up with Johnny she saw her chance, and she knew through that same teenage grapevine that Johnny was spending some time in the meadows moping. And that was that.   

Talk-weary but still no wanting to move more than three yards from each other Johnny pulled out his transistor radio and they listened to WMEX, the be-bop, non-stop rock ‘n’ roll station that was mandatory listening for those under eighteen, those who counted. And just then Mister Roy Orbison, “Roy the Boy,” came on to trill his latest, Sweet Dreams, Baby. That became their song. Oh yeah, and Johnny and Betty Ann began what became one of the great Clintonville High romances of 1962.

Good Rockin' Tonight, Part II

CD REVIEW

Good Rockin’ Tonight: The Legacy of Sun Records, various artists, London-Sire Records, 2001



I have already commented elsewhere in this space about the Public Broadcasting Service’s American Masters 2001 production of Good Rockin’ Tonight: The Legacy of Sun Records. Here we have a CD produced in tandem with that effort. And not just any old CD but a CD that has material covered by artists who either are in, will be in or are on a short list to be included in, some musical Hall of Fame. Strangely, when I first heard this CD I was put off by it because I thought, correctly, if stupidly that covers of these Sun classics could not possibly measure up to the originals, even if done by extremely competent musicians. Well, on a second hearing I got over that little personal problem and while the originals still set the standards there are some very good, and in at least one case, better covers of the classics.

So who is good here? Well, start with a nice cover by Paul McCartney (you know him) and the Elvis classic That’s All Right, Mama. Jeff Beck with a fair rendition of another Elvis classic Mystery Train. A nice upbeat cover of My Bucket’s Got A Hole In It. An excellent Blue Suede Shoes by Johnny Halladay. A passable Whole Lot of Shaking Going On by Elton John. Okay covers of Blue Moon of Kentucky by Tom Petty and Sittin’ On Top Of The World by Van Morrison and Carl Perkins. A right on cover of Don’t Be Cruel by Brain Ferry. A surprisingly good cover of the little known Red Cadillac and Black Mustache by the endlessly surprising Bob Dylan. Classic throwback performances of Just Walking In The Rain by Eric Clapton and Lonely Weekend by Matchbox Twenty. A so-so performance of Jerry Lee’s (who can do it better) Who Will The Next Fool Be by Sheryl Crow. A stand up performance of Johnny Cash’s Walk The Line by Live. Another classic throwback performance by Mandy Barnett on You Win Again. The biggest surprise and the one that clearly is done better than the original is Kid Rock’s cover of the Jerry Lee covered Drinkin’ Wine Spo-Dee-O-Dee. I have taken the time to evaluate each song in this collection to both do penance and to give just a whiff of what this masterful album holds in store for you. These are serious artists paying their dues to artists who played Rock and Roll for keeps. Kudos.

Good Rockin', Tonight- The Legacy of Sun Records

DVD REVIEW



Good Rockin' Tonight- The Legacy of Sun Records, PBS American Masters, 2001



Howlin’ Wolf, Roscoe Gordon, Rufus Thomas and an assortment of black blues notables in the early days. Elvis, Carl Perkins, Johnnie Cash and Jerry Lee Lewis and an assortment of white rockabilly notables in the mid to late 1950’s. What do they have in common? Well, one thing, and make that an important one thing, is that they passed through Mr. Sam Phillips’ Sun Records recording studio in Memphis, Tennessee on the way to some kind of career. Amazing. With the possible exception of Chess Records in Chicago, that moreover concentrated on the blues, no other studio can claim so much as the catalyst for what became rock and roll in the mid- 1950’s, the youth of the present writer and of his Generation of ‘68.

The format here, as in most of the Public Broadcasting Station’s American Masters series, is to have a generous round of ‘ talking heads’ interspersed with some performances, in this case, to honor the 50th Anniversary of the founding of the Sun Records (1950). An added touch here is that some of the performances by the old Sun recording artists are covered by more recent performers like Paul McCartney and Kid Rock.

The ‘talking heads’ here also include many of the old Sun artists who did not attain the stardom of those mentioned in the first paragraph yet who nevertheless had some interesting things to say about the meaning of the Sun Record experience. A recurring theme is that mainly it got them the hell off the farms and out of the fields, especially those damn cotton fields or out of those dead end jobs. And they had fun and got paid for it. And met girls. How can you beat that? My take on this is that they were good old boys who got more out of the Sun, if not financially then musically, than they had originally bargained for. And all of this trip down memory lane is presided over by the impresario himself, the late Sam Phillips.

Along the way there are discussions, sometimes heated, about the roots of rock and roll- black blues or white country. That will never, ultimately, get resolved although I think the case for the blues gets stronger the more I see and read about the early 1950’s and the shift of the blues from a country sound to a city sound. But that can be argued another day. What we have here is recollections, funny and bittersweet, by those who were either one-shot johnnies or were ‘put on the shelf’ by one Sam Phillips. That is the kind of influence that he had for that one golden decade of the 1950’s. Another nice touch here is that the one- shot johnnies not only get their ‘hit’ covered by currently popular musicians but they get one last 15 minutes of fame by belting out their own classics. Who can forget Lonely Weekend or Rock and Roll Ruby after this retrospective to speak nothing of Good Rockin’, Tonight.

A note on sound- no, not of this American Masters production which like virtually all PBS productions is technically of high quality. No, I am referring here to the sound in Sun Studio. I do not believe in ghosts or other such things but tell me this. Why, for example, does Johnny Cash in his Sun Records days sound like god’s own creation when on work from other recordings I can take him or leave him? And that goes for Elvis, Carl, Jerry Lee and the others as well. The gods and goddesses of Rock and Roll were smiling on that joint- thanks.

From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin- When Roy “The Boy” Ranged Over The 1960s Teenage Night- A CD Review (Of Sorts)

Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Roy Orbison performing his classic Sweet Dreams, Baby with an all-star backup.

CD Review

In Dreams: The Greatest Hits: Roy Orbison, Roy Orbison, Virgin Records, 1987

Strictly speaking I am only doing this review, In Dreams: The Greatest Hits: Roy Orbison, as a favor to my old-time friend Peter Paul Markin. When he found out that I was crazy for Roy “The Boy” as a kid, and had some stories to tell, some teenage stories, he begged me (so he could beg off on whoever asked HIM to do the damn thing) to do a guest commentary. Of course being Pee-Pee (his old time North Adamsville junior high school moniker bestowed on his by his corner- boy friend, Frankie Larkin) he had to bring up the nine hundred and ninety-nine things (in exact chronological order) that he had done for me in the past. So, if only to avoid having to hear about the one thousand and one things he didn’t do for me, I consented.

My first refusal of Pee-Pee’s request was based on the simple fact that everybody, at least everybody who loves, uh, classic rock and roll already knows, already has genetically embedded in their brains, a half dozen of Roy’s songs. And already knows that he was the king hell king of a certain teen angst kind of rock and roll song in the early 1960s that spoke to our romantic longings, our fears of rejection, our fear of acceptance, our desire to keep away from wrong gees (male or female) and our fervent desire not to be “has beens” before we even got to first base on being a “has.” Those factors, plus the fact that Roy is safely ensconced in the Rock and Roll Hall Of Fame, and what more can a mere mortal add to the conversation.

Except, except like Pee-Pee coaxed (nice word, huh) out of me there are stories, youth stories, related to various Roy’s songs. So let me sketch out one of them concerning his classic Sweet Dreams, Baby. Naturally it centers on the eternal boy-girl thing (what else is teen-hood, early teen-hood here, for anyway). The early stages of the boy-girl thing when Roy’s lyrics and style meant something, some swoon anyway. (Later, in the super-heated Stones/Doors/Byrds/Hendrix drug-induced late 1960s night, he would draw no play in these quarters).

For those who don’t know, or who want to know, I grew up in Olde Saco, Maine the old- time big time mill town, a town filled to the brim with solid working- class families trying to eke out an existence in those dying mills. These were, mainly, French-Canadian working families, my people (despite my surname I am F-C on my mother’s side). These were (and still are) hard working, hard loving, hard drinking people who nevertheless brought a deeply religious feeling (Gallic Roman Catholic) with them as they migrated in successive waves down from old no place for them Canada. For teen purposes, for boy early teen purposes, for boy early teen F-C Olde Saco purposes this meant keeping a very tight rein on their daughters, very tight indeed.

And the tightest rein the old Atlantic section of Olde Saco neighborhood where I grew up was held by Meme LaCroix over her daughter. Lorraine. Now at this time, this early 1960s time, Lorraine was really nothing but a stick (a stick being a girl, a junior high school girl, who had, well, no womanly shape. Funny, one time when Pee-Pee and I were comparing notes he told me that “stick” term was what they used to use in his old Irish North Adamsville neighborhood. I thought we F-Cs were only ones to use the term. Go figure.). But stick or no stick, Lorraine LaCroix had about three tons of personality, a great smile, great naturally ruby lips, and for those who had the right antennae the look of a stick who would make a few heads turn before she was through. But all that came later.

What really made Mlle LaCroix stand out, and had a few boys, including this writer, lined up at the door, was her collection of rock and roll records, including everything that Roy Orbison had recorded at that time. And her willingness to invite said boys, including this writer, into her living room after school to listen to this stuff. In case you don’t get the import, the economic import, of that last statement, I, for one, did not have a record player, or records, at that time. I used a transistor radio, or went to Jimmy Jake’s Diner and played the jukebox there. In case you don’t get the social import of it, recall that Madame LaCroix held a very tight rein on Lorraine. For example Lorraine could not go on dates, go to dances, or any night activity. Somehow she thought that daytime at the LaCroix resident was alright. Oh, I didn’t tell you, Madame LaCroix worked (worked at the Olde Saco Valley Textile Mill in the same department as my father at the time) so that Lorraine was home alone. So you can see that the good Madame was a little off on her protecting teen daughter wisdom.

One afternoon (actually more than one afternoon but this one time will stand in for the rest which were very similar) she invited me over. I rang the doorbell, she answered, looking very attractive even for a stick (those natural ruby red lips had half the guys in school wondering, dream wondering), and we went into the living room. She started playing some Elvis, maybe Jailhouse Rock, and a little Jerry Lee (I was crazy for his High School Confidential, and could hardly wait to get to be old enough to go to Olde Saco High based just on that record).

After a while, and after a couple of Cokes, she changed the record to Roy’s Sweet Dreams, Baby, and started swaying to the tune. She then closed her eyes and called me over. And right then and there in the middle of the room gave me one of the most passionate kisses that I have ever received. Fifty years later (keep this to yourself) I can still feel the warmth of that kiss, and the bath soap fragrance I could smell coming from her body when we came up for air. Yes, Lorraine LaCroix had lips made for kissing. For the rest of the afternoons we hung around together that song was the signal that I was to kiss her (actually she kissed me but let’s not quibble).

And that little sketch is exactly my point. No great master thesis, simply this. Roy “The Boy” Orbison’s music was what got us through that early teen angst rough spot looking to find out what the boy-girl world was all about. Innocent, innocent as hell, as we were then. Enough said.

Out In The Be-Bop Night- Saturday Night With “Roy The Boy”- Roy Orbison

Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Roy Orbison performing Running Scared.
DVD Review

Roy Orbison: Black and White Nights, Roy Orbison, various all-star musicians and backup singers including Bruce Springsteen and T-Bone Burnett, 1987

Elvis, Chuck Berry, Jerry Lee Lewis come easily to mind when thinking about classic rock ‘n’ roll. And about where you were, and who you were with, and what you were doing when you heard those voices on the radio, on the television, or when you were spinning platters (records, for the younger set, okay, nice expression, right?). The artist under review, Roy Orbison, although clearly a rock legend, and rightly so, does not evoke that same kind of memory for me. Oh sure, I listened to Blue Bayou, Pretty Woman, Running Scared, Sweet Dreams, Baby and many of the other songs that are performed on this great black and white concert footage. And backed up by the likes of T-Bone Burnett, who may be the top rhythm guitarist of the age (and who has also gotten well-deserved kudos for his work on Jeff Bridges’ Crazy Hearts), Elvis Costello, Tom Waits, and Bruce Springsteen. With vocal backups by k.d. lang and Bonnie Raitt. All who gave energized performances and all who were deeply influenced by Roy’s music. That alone makes this worth viewing.

Still, I had this gnawing feeling about Roy’s voice after viewing this documentary and why it never really “spoke” to me like the others. Then it came to me, the part I mentioned above about where I was, and who I was with, and what I was doing when I heard Roy. Enter one mad monk teenage friend, Frankie, Frankie from the old neighborhood. Frankie of a thousand stories, Frankie of a thousand treacheries, and, oh ya, Frankie, my bosom friend in high school.

See, when Roy was big, big in our beat down around the edges, some days it seemed beat six ways to Sunday, working class neighborhood in the early 1960s, we all used to hang around the town pizza parlor, or one of them anyway that was also conveniently near our high school too. Maybe this place was not the best one to sit down and have a family-sized pizza with salad and all the fixings in, complete with family, or if you were fussy about décor but the best tasting pizza, especially if you let it sit for a while and no eat it when it was piping hot right out of the oven. (People who know such things told me later that kind of cold is the way you are supposed to eat pizza anyway, and as an appetizer not a meal.)

Moreover, this was the one where the teen-friendly owner, a big old balding Italian guy, at least he said he was Italian and there were plenty of Italians in our town in those days so I believed him but he really looked Greek or Armenian to me, let us stay in the booths if it wasn’t busy, and we behaved like, well, like respectable teenagers. And this guy, this old Italian guy, could make us all laugh, even me, when he started to prepare a new pizza and he flour-powdered and rolled the dough out and flipped that sucker in the air about twelve times and about fifteen different ways to stretch it out. Some times people would just stand outside in front of the big picture window and watch his handiwork in utter fascination. Jesus, he could flip that thing. One time, and you know this is true because you probably have your own pizza dough on the ceiling stories, he flipped the sucker so high it stuck to the ceiling and it might still be there for all I know (the place still is, although not him). But this is how he was cool; he just started up another without making a fuss. Let me tell you about him, Tonio I think his name was, sometime but right now our business to get on with Frankie and the Roy question, alright.

So there nothing unusual, and I don’t pretend there, in just hanging out having a slice of pizza (no onions, please, in case I get might lucky tonight and that certain she comes in, the one that I have been eying in school until my eyes have become sore), some soft drink (which we called tonic in New England in those days but which you call, uh, soda), usually a locally bottled root beer, and, incessantly (and that incessantly allowed us to stay since we were “paying “ customers with all the rights and dignities that entailed, unless they needed our seats), dropping nickels, dimes and quarters in the jukebox.

Here is the part that might really explain things, though. Frankie has this girl friend (he always had a string of them, which what was cool about him, but this was his main squeeze, his main honey, his main twist, his main flame and about sixty-seven other names he had for them). The divine Joanne (his description, I could take or leave her, and I questioned the divine part, questioned it thoroughly, on more than one occasion). See though Frankie, old double standard, maybe triple standard Frankie, was crazy about her but was always worried, worried to perdition, that she was “seeing” someone else (she wasn’t). You know guys like that, guys that have all the angles, have some things going their way but need, desperately need, that always one more thing to “complete” them.

But sweet old clever “divine” Joanne used that Frankie fear as a wedge. She would always talk (and talk while I was there, just to kind of add to the trauma drama, Frankie’s drama) about all the guys that called up bothering her (personally I didn’t see it, she was cute, for sure, and with a nice figure but I wouldn’t jump off a bridge if she turned me down, others in those days yes, and gladly, but not her). This would get Frankie steaming, steaming so he couldn’t see straight. Once he actually couldn’t eat his pizza slice he was so upset and Frankie, Frankie from the old neighborhood, ALWAYS ate his pizza. Even fatherly Tonio took notice.

Worst, was when old doll, old sweetheart, Joanne would drop coins in the jukebox to play… Roy Orbison’s Running Scared over and over. And make Frankie give her good coin, his good coin to boot. It got so bad that old Frankie, when Joanne wasn’t around, would play it on his own. With his own money, no less. So, I guess, I just got so sick of hearing that song and that trembling rising crescendo voice to increase the lyrical that I couldn’t see straight. But, really, you can’t blame Roy for that, or shouldn’t. Watch this DVD. I did and just turned the old volume on the remote down when that song came on. And think of poor old lovesick Frankie and his divine Ms. Joanne. That’s the ticket.

**********
Running Scared- Roy Orbison, Joe Melson
Just running scared, each place we go
So afraid that he might show
Yeah, running scared, what would I do
If he came back and wanted you

Just running scared, feeling low
Running scared, you love him so
Yeah, running scared, afraid to lose
If he came back which one would you choose

Then all at once he was standing there
So sure of himself, his head in the air
And my heart was breaking, which one would it be
You turned around and walked away with me