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Madman M's Blog

• One Is the Loveliest Number

  2007 Jan 05

  The January 6th edition of “Mark After Dark,” conveniently occurring in the first week of the New Year, will be the first anniversary my first radio show. This got me thinking about some other “firsts” in my life – for example, my first recording session.
  
  It was the summer of 1957, rock and roll was going full tilt boogie, and I was itching to hitch a ride. I had come down to Wilder, Idaho from Cambridge, a hundred mile jaunt, flush with enthusiasm from winning my first talent show and ready to take on the world.
  
  I had recently met a real hip kid from Kansas City by the name of Waldo, who had played sax in a band there. When he told me the name of his band had been “The Merry Wannas,” I smiled and said, “That’s cool,” being too naïve to get the joke. But we talked about music, and when Waldo found out that I was a singer, he suggested we make a record. “I’ve got this song I wrote called ‘Crazy Legs Kate’,” he told me, “and I know this guy with some recording gear.”
  
  The guy’s name was Bill and his father was editor of the local paper, the Wilder Herald. His “recording gear” was an old disc cutter whose fidelity was questionable, but what the heck! We were going to make a record!
  
  Waldo arranged for Bill to set up in the Wilder High gym. “Good echo!” he told me. The band was a stand-up bass player, Waldo on alto sax, and yours truly on vocal – all huddled around one tiny microphone. We did two takes of “Crazy Legs Kate,” since Bill only had two blank discs. I only heard one playback (“don’t wanna wear it out!”) before Waldo moved back to KC, and I never did get a copy of the session.
  
  Later that summer I started singing with Dick and “Mooney” White, and we became the Fireballers. Add and subtract and add various players, and that threesome became the Idaho Playboys, “the band with no name,” the Downbeats, and finally the Raiders.
  
  You probably have a copy of “Indian Reservation,” and perhaps even “Orbit, the Spy,” but if you have a disc with “Crazy Legs Kate” handwritten on the label and carbon-dating back to 1957, you’ve found one of the rarest records on record.
  
  

• Is It Done Yet?

  2006 Dec 29

  When you read the credits on the CDs or (if you’re old enough) the albums in your collection, you will probably find a list of writers, publishers, musicians, etc…plus a line that says “produced by so-and so.” Just what does a producer DO, anyway?
  
  If you have ever baked a cake, you are in effect doing the same thing. You start with a recipe, then take various ingredients, stir them together in certain proportions, add this and that until the mixture is just right, and then pop it in the oven until it is perfectly done. Voila…you are a producer!
  
  If you are making a record instead of a cake, you decide on a song, pick the musicians, record and add various amounts of bass, guitar, keyboards, horns, vocals, et cetera until it sounds about right. Season with echo and other effects, and finally it’s done. Voila…you are a baker — producer — whatever — you are the single person with the responsibility of saying WHEN.
  
  To explain a bit more, think of the horns as raisins. If you toss ‘em in and don’t stir the mix just right, they may end up as burnt lumps instead of tasty little nuggets that add just the right counterpoint at just the right time.
  
  And if you think of the vocal as the icing on the cake, you must make sure that you don’t add too little, or the record/cake will be dry. Add too much, and the whole thing gets gooey and you can’t taste the cake!
  
  Have I ever had a disaster in the kitchen — err — studio? More than once, I have to admit, but sometimes, those “mistakes” seem to taste a little better with the passage of time. Others, unfortunately, remain pretty yucky!
  
  Hmm, now I am getting curious – was that one I hid on the back shelf really that bad? Let me put on my chef’s hat, and I’ll catch you later!
  
  
  
  

• Flying Home For Christmas

  2006 Dec 23

  Getting questions on “Mark After Dark” about the Ferrari I once owned brought back memories of some of those wild drives I had between L.A. and Idaho. I especially remember one momentous commute which took place on Christmas Day in the late 60s. The distance was about 1200 miles one way, and although I usually allotted about fifteen hours for the trip, on occasion I managed to make it in about twelve. “Impossible,” you say, “that’s averaging over a hundred miles an hour! What about the highway patrol?”
  
  Well, you see, at that time the speed limit in Nevada was unlimited! This probably had something to do with the fact that most of the state’s roads ran straight for miles and were sparsely traveled, plus Bill Harrah owned the distributorship for Ferrari. If you were driving one of those prancing horses in Nevada and weren’t dodging too many cows or forcing other drivers off the road, I guess the boys in blue (or tan) just concentrated on more important tasks.
  
  I can’t remember whether it was ’68 or ’69, but it was late Christmas Eve. I left L.A. planning to be in Idaho the next day in time for the family’s holiday gathering. By the time the sun came up on Christmas morning, I had already gassed up and was leaving the outskirts of a small Nevada town. Suddenly, I flashed past a guy in a denim jacket with his thumb up. I didn’t usually pick up hitch-hikers, but it was cold, and in the Christmas spirit I jammed on the brakes and backed up. “Where ya headed?” I asked.
  
  “I’m trying to get home to Idaho in time for Christmas dinner,” said the stranger, “but I guess I won’t make it now.”
  
  When I found out that his destination was only about sixty miles out of my way, I told him to buckle in and hang on. “Don’t worry,” I said, “that’s only about 700 miles from here…I’ll get you there in time!” And off we went.
  
  Now, this particular Ferrari, a 275GTB with the six two-barrel carb option, would top out at about 170mph or so in fifth gear, although 120 to 140 was usually my preferred cruising speed. However, I was going to have to push it to get my passenger home in time. And push it I did!
  
  The man huddled down lower and lower as the speedo-needle went higher and higher. The road was mostly straight two-lane blacktop, and it got pretty narrow as we blazed down it at about 155. At that speed, the V-12 was almost deafening, as I had the competition exhaust, and so casual conversation was kind of out of the question. Plus, I had my hands full just keeping us between the telephone poles zipping by.
  
  Glancing over at my passenger, I was amazed to see his eyes closed and that he appeared to be sleeping. We stopped for gas at about 400 miles (competition tank) and I asked him how he managed to sleep through all the racket. “Actually,” he mumbled, “I was praying.”
  
  "What a sense of humor!" I thought, as I floored it for the last leg.
  
  God protects fools and children, they say, and He must have been working overtime that Christmas, as we stayed on the road safely all the way to the stranger’s house. It was about 3 in the afternoon when I dropped him off. He had tears in his eyes. “I’ll never forget this trip,” he said.
  
  A few decades later, I was doing a gig in Nevada and a woman approached me in the autograph line after the show. “You don’t know me,” she said, “but many years ago you gave my dad a ride home for Christmas dinner, and we were so thankful that he’d made it in time. Do you remember that day?”
  
  “Sure I do!” I assured her. “How is your dad these days?”
  
  “Fine!” she said. “But he doesn’t hitch-hike any more!”
  
  Gee…I wonder why.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

• "Waste Not, Want Not"

  2006 Dec 16

  Ahhhh, home for the holidays...something everyone longs for, but it is not always possible.
  
  I remember back when I was a green 18 and renting a house in Caldwell, Idaho with a couple of other guys. Thanksgiving was coming and we had two things in common: we were all too far away from home and had too little cash to make our individual trips to see our families and share the traditional feast.
  
  Feeling a little blue, but not wanting to blow the whole holiday off, we pooled our limited funds and found out that we had enough for a 12 pound turkey and all the trimmings. Although Richard and Tony were a couple of years older, I seemed to have the most experience in the kitchen. I therefore volunteered to be head chef.
  
  I spent the early part of the day dressing and stuffing "Tom", and as the bird was turning a toasty brown, I boiled and mashed potatoes, baked squash and sweet potatoes, and whipped up a salad. Nothing smells better to three hungry guys (especially when they haven't had breakfast) than the aroma of Thanksgiving dinner building up to serving time. The guys kept appearing in the kitchen, wanting to know "WHEN?!"
  
  Finally, about 15 minutes to zero hour, I realized that I had forgotten the cranberry sauce. The meal would not be complete without that quivering ruby-colored cylinder, so I sent Richard and Tony out to a small market that was still open, promising that when they returned, dinner would be served.
  
  When they were gone, I put on my "oven mitts" (actually a couple of hand towels), and carefully slid "Tom" out of the oven to move him over to the table. Ouch! Oops! In seconds, the heat from the pan had penetrated my hand wraps and the turkey took a dive, bouncing on the kitchen floor. Most of the dressing left on impact and I was staring at a steaming mess on the linoleum. I panicked! My roommates were going to kill me. Thanksgiving was ruined! Or was it?
  
  I remembered a saying attributed to the Pilgrims: "Waste not, want not." Hmmm. I slid the turkey onto a platter while wiping its little bottom with one of my "mitts", hoping to get rid of most of the grit from the kitchen floor. I then scooped up all the stuffing I could salvage, leaving the last quarter inch on the linoleum to be tossed.
  
  As I assembled the scattered parts on the platter, I had to admit it didn't look half bad. Plus, the big bounce had loosened "Tom's" joints and the accidentally-tenderized turkey was practically falling off the bones.
  
  My roommates returned with the sauce, and we sat down to eat what we all agreed was one of the best meals ever. As I pushed away from the table, I remembered another saying, and I had to smile...."What you don't know won't hurt you."
  
  How true! I proved it!
  
  Happy Holidays, Madman Markus
  
  P.S. For reasons that should be clear, I have been permanently barred from the kitchen area at Mark Lindsay's Rock & Roll Cafe
  

• Waiting For “The Muse”

  2006 Dec 09

  Where do songs come from?
  
  This is a question I have been asked many times, in various permutations. “How long does it take the write one tune?” “Which comes first, the words or the melody?” “Which is easier for you…” Etc, etc……
  
  I wish I KNEW how I write my songs, but to tell you the truth, I haven’t a clue. My best guess is that they come from outer space. Some say that God is the source of their inspiration, and this is not in conflict with my best guess since “heaven” is at least in the direction of far out space.
  
  A more scientific explanation could be that since everything we have ever heard, seen, or experienced in any way is stored somewhere in the deep recesses of our memory banks, perhaps all that is needed to trigger a suitable shower of synapses is the magical missing ingredient, “The Muse”.
  
  This “Muse” is very elusive. It does not obey rules. It comes and goes at its own whim. Don’t believe me? Just ask any writer who has ever sat down and commanded “The Muse” to come. You might as well try and stop the rain! It will stop when it’s time, and so “The Muse” will usually come only after you have taken a break, surrendered your ego, and given up for the time being.
  
  And when “The Muse” cooperates, it can be magical…