An' dat's all I got to say about dem tunes. Y'all just listen to the Big Show, and then say hey to yo' mama and them.
I mean that in a good way.
May 30, 1966.
Buddhist monks were setting themselves alight as the war in Vietnam intensified apace. Surveyor 1 headed for the first soft lunar landing of an unmanned American spacecraft. The Klan was being the Klan in Denham Springs, La. -- which meant that Denham Springs was just being Denham Springs.
And "A WOWIE ZOWIE ZING-A-LING SWING-A-LING THING" had just hit Baton Rouge. The Teen-Age Rattler apparently was "the new fun sensation sweeping the nation."
The reaction to this, no doubt, from every person old enough in 1966 to have spawned a teenager was "Oh, joy." Note the lack of an exclamation point.
Considering that you could go down to the TG&Y dime store and buy a hot-off-the-record-press copy of the Beatles' "Paperback Writer" for something like six bits, I can't see the Happy Four's rattlin' wreck of a hack promotional song as much of a bargain.
THEN AGAIN, this is the 58-year-old me talking and not the 5-year-old me talking. On the other hand, the 5-year-old me had his share of Beatles' records. Until July 1966, that is.
July was the month John Lennon's "we're more popular than Jesus" interview hit the States, and Mama busted up my Beatles records. It was Louisiana; she was far from alone. Apparently, cracking up commie records from Limey purveyors of beatnik music was less inconvenient than actually attending worship services.
Not that I'm still bitter or shit.
BUT BACK to May 1966 and the Teen-Age Rattler.
At the time, the Teen-Age Rattler made no impression on the pre-kindergarten me whatsoever. As a matter of fact, I'd never heard of the things until . . . well . . . today.
My best guess is that the "Rattle in the morning . . . rattle at night . . . rattle anytime . . . it's dynamite!" sensation was a sensation in the same vein Donald Trump is sentient -- hardly.
After all, there DID come to be a Generation X. That could not have happened had the "greatest generation" quite understandably been driven to cut short the rattling lives of their rattling teen offspring.
Now let us speak no more of this. We wouldn't want to give rogue youth social-media "influencers" any ideas.
This week is no exception.
HERE'S THE thing: It occurred to me the other day that next week, specifically May 23, marks the 40th anniversary of my graduation from Baton Rouge Magnet High School. And as you'll be able to tell from the show, my mind is still 18.
3 Chords & the Truth is all about the music, exquisite taste and creative programming . . . not dumb preconceptions from the Usual Suspects. And boy, howdy, is this edition of the program an example of that.
And a host who sounds like he's 85 going on eternity at least should benefit from the vintage "golden age of radio" warmth of a cool, old microphone.
I KNOW, I know. Knock it off, Ted Baxter!
Thus, my friend, is the central mystery of 3 Chords & the Truth, where playing great music means never having to say . . . things that make any damned sense.
BUT GRANDPA'S LOSS is your gain on the Big Show. My parents' generation, as it turns out, had much better taste than I gave it credit for four decades ago. Once again, the old folks' have the last laugh, even if it might be from the Great Beyond.
If 1950s album-cover artists had been in charge of the Space Race (not to mention science education in the Space Age) . . . things would not have ended well.
At all.
This Ames Brothers LP would have driven Dr. Sheldon Cooper mad.
On the other hand, this being a post-factual world, we can say with Trumpian confidence that Ed Ames is the only surviving Ames brother because the sound of lunar windmills gave all his siblings cancer, and they died upon their return to earth.
Bazinga.
Max melodiousness.
Dear World,
Here in Nebraska, after the flood, we're down. But we're not out.
In fact, we're #NebraskaStrong. And we shall, as W.H. Auden wrote, "stagger onward rejoicing."
We go on.
We go onward.
Rejoicing.
It's the Big Show, y'all. Be there. Aloha.
As for me and 3 Chords & the Truth, we call bullshit. It had to be done, though I usually am loath to go all Howard Beale on you and take time away from tasty tunes.
You get the drift. Both kinds.
SO EAT, drink and be merry, children, for Wednesday we fast.
What would be the smart thing to do if weather's comin' where you are, too, would be to follow our lead at the Big Show and put on a pot of gumbo for yourself, too, and make sure you're well stocked with something to drink, as it were. The music . . . that we have covered for you.
THE IMPORTANT thing to remember is (insert word salad here).
That's right. This week, the Big Show hits the road.
In a studio in Omaha,
We assembled a defeated old fart
From somewhere in the South . . .
To bring you this message
From the last working brain cells
All over the world . . .
It's the real thing. Beer.
