When Girls Doo-Wopped In The Be-Bop 1960s Night

 

 

 

From The Pen Of The Late Peter Paul Markin

 

With A 2015 Introduction By Sam Lowell

 

If you did not know what happened to the late Peter Paul Markin who used to write for some of the alternative newspaper and magazine publications that proliferated in the wake of the 1960s circus/war/bloodbath/all world together festival/new age aborning cloud puff dream, won a few awards too and was short-listed for the Globe Prize this is what is what. What is what before the ebb tide kind of knocked the wind out of everybody’s sails, everybody who was what I called “seeking a newer world,” a line I stole from some English poet (Robert Kennedy, Jack’s brother, or his writer “cribbed” the line too for some pre-1968 vision book before he ran for President in 1968 so I am in good company.) I will tell you in a minute what expression “the Scribe,” a named coined by our leader, Frankie Riley, which is what we always called Markin around the corner we hung out in together in front of Salducci’s Pizza Parlor in our hometown of North Adamsville, used to describe that change he had sensed coming in the early 1960s. Saw coming long before any of the rest of us did, or gave a rat’s ass about in our serious pressing concerns of the moment, worries about girls (all of the existential problems angst including about bedding them, or rather getting them in back seats of cars mainly), dough (ditto the girl existential thing to keep them interested in you and not run off with the next guy who had ten bucks to spend freely on them to your deuce, Jesus) and cars (double ditto since that whole “bedding” thing usually hinged on having a car, or having a corner boy with some non-family car to as we used to say, again courtesy of the Scribe via scat bluesman Howlin’ Wolf, “doing the do.” The Scribe though wanted to give it, give what we were felling, you know our existential angst moment although we did not call it that until later when the Scribe went off to college and tried to impress us with his new found facts, his two thousand new found facts about guys like Sartre and Merleau-Ponty. Like I said we could give a rat’s ass about all that.

 

All I know is that ebb tide that caught Markin kind of flat-footed, kind of made him gravitate back toward his baser instincts honed by every breathe he took as a kid down in the projects where he learned the facts of life, the facts of fellaheen life which is what one of our junior high school teachers called us, called us peasants, called it right too although we were the urban versions of the downtrodden shanty peasants but they were kindred no doubt, is still with us. So maybe being, having been a “prophet, ” being a guy who worried about that social stuff while we were hung up on girls,  dough and cars (him too in his more sober moments especially around one Rosemond Goode), wasn’t so good after all. Maybe the late Markin was that kind of Catholic “martyr saint” that we all had drilled into us in those nasty nun run Sunday catechism classes, maybe he really was some doomed “n----r” to use a phrase he grabbed from some Black Panther guys he used to run around with when he (and Josh Breslin) lived in Oakland and the “shit was hitting the fan” from every law enforcement agency that could put two bullets in some greasy chamber to mow down anybody even remotely associated with the brothers and the ten point program (who am I kidding anybody who favored armed self-defense for black men and women that’s the part that had the coppers screaming for blood, and bullets).

 

Here is a quick run-down about the fate of our boy corner boy bastard saint and about why stuff that he wrote forty or fifty years ago now is seeing the light of day. I won’t bore you with the beginnings, the projects stuff because frankly I too came out of the projects, not the same one as he did but just as hopeless down in Carver where I grew up before heading to North Adamsville and Josh who was as close as anybody to Markin toward the end was raised in the Olde Saco projects up in Maine and we are both still here to tell the tale. The real start as far as what happened to unravel the Scribe happened after he, Markin, got out of the Army in late 1970 when he did two things that are important here. First, he continued, “re-connected” to use the word he used, on that journey that he had started before he was inducted in the Army in 1968 in search of what he called the Great Blue-Pink American West Night (he put the search in capitals when he wrote about the experiences so I will do so here), the search really for the promise that the “fresh breeze” he was always carping about was going to bring. That breeze which was going to get him out from under his baser instincts developed (in self-defense against the punks that were always bothering him something I too knew about and in self- defense against his mother who was truly a dinosaur tyrant unlike my mother who tended to roll with the punches and maybe that helped break my own fall from heading straight down that Markin fate ladder) in his grinding poverty childhood, get out from under the constant preoccupation with satisfying his “wanting habits” which would eventually do him in.

 

Markin had made a foolish decision when he decided to drop out of college (Boston University) after his sophomore year in 1967 in order to pursue his big cloud puff dream, a dream which by that time had him carrying us along with him on the hitchhike road west in the summer of love, 1967, and beyond. Foolish in retrospect although he when I and others asked about whether he would have done things differently if he had known what the hell-hole of Vietnam was all about was ambivalent about the matter. Of course 1967, 1968, 1969 and other years as well were the “hot” years of the war in Vietnam and all Uncle Sam and his local draft boards wanted, including in North Adamsville, was warm bodies to kill commies, kill them for good. As he would say to us after he had been inducted and had served his tour in ‘Nam as he called it (he and the other military personnel who fought the war could use the short-hand expression but the term was off-bounds for civilians in shortened form)  and came back to the “real” world he did what he did, wished he had not done so, wished that he had not gone, and most of all wished that the American government which made nothing but animals out of him and his war buddies would come tumbling down for what it had done to its sons for no good reasons.

 

And so Markin continued his search, maybe a little wiser, continued as well to drag some of his old corner boys like me on that hitchhike road dream of his before the wheels fell off. I stayed with him longest I think before even I could see we had been defeated by the night-takers and I left the road to go to law school and “normalcy.” (The signposts: Malcolm X’s, Robert Kennedy’s and Martin Luther King’s assassinations, hell maybe JFK’s set the who thing on a bad spiral which kind of took the political winds out of any idea that there would not be blow-back for messing with the guys in power at the time, the real guys not their front-men, the politicians; the rising tide of “drop out, drug out, live fast and die young” which took a lot of the best of our generation off giving up without a fight; the endless death spiral of Vietnam; the plotted killings of Black Panthers and any other radical or revolutionary of any color or sex who “bothered” them; and, the election of one master criminal, Richard Milhous Nixon, to be President of the United States which was not only a cruel joke but put paid to the notion that that great unwashed mass of Americans were on our side.)

 

Markin stuck it out longer until at some point in 1974, 1975 a while after I had lost touch with him when even he could see the dreams of the 1960s had turned to dust, turned to ashes in his mouth and he took a wrong turn, or maybe not a wrong turn the way the wheel of his life had been set up but a back to his baser instincts turn which had been held in check when we were in the high tide of 1960s possibilities. (Josh Breslin, another corner boy, although from Olde Saco, Maine who had met Markin out in San Francisco in the summer of love in 1967 and who had also left the road earlier just before me was in contact until pretty near the end, pretty close to the last time in early 1975 anybody heard from Markin this side of the border, this side of paradise as it turned out since Josh who lived out in California where Markin was living at the time confirmed that Markin was in pretty ragged mental and physical condition by then).           

 

Markin had a lot invested emotionally and psychological in the success of the 1960s “fresh breeze coming across the land” as he called it early on. Maybe it was that ebb tide, maybe it was the damage that military service in hell-hole Vietnam did to his psyche, maybe it was a whole bunch of bad karma things from his awful early childhood that he held in check when there were still sunnier days ahead but by the mid-1970s he had snapped. Got involved in using and dealing cocaine just starting to be a big time profitable drug of choice among rich gringos (and junkies ready to steal anything, anytime, anywhere in order to keep the habit going).

 

Somehow down in Mexico, Sonora, we don’t know all the details to this day a big deal Markin brokered (kilos from what we heard so big then before the cartels organized everything and before the demand got so great they were shipping freighters full of cold cousin cocaine for the hipsters and the tricksters and big for Markin who had worked his way up the drug trade food chain probably the way he worked his way into everything by some “learned” dissertation about how his input could increase revenue, something along those lines) went awry, his old time term for something that went horribly wrong, and he wound up face down in a dusty back road with two slugs to the head and now resides in the town’s potter’s field in an unmarked grave. But know this; the bastard is still moaned over, moaned to high heaven.

 

The second thing Markin did, after he decided that going back to school after the shell-shock of Vietnam was out of the question, was to begin to write for many alternative publications (and I think if Josh is correct a couple of what he, Markin, called “bourgeois” publications for the dough). Wrote two kinds of stories, no three, first about his corner boy days with us at Salducci’s (and also some coming of age stories from his younger days growing up in the Adamsville Housing Authority “projects” with his best friend, Billie Bradley before he met us in junior high school). Second about that search for the Great Blue-Pink American Night which won him some prizes since he had a fair-sized audience who were either committed to the same vision, or who timidly wished they could have had that commitment (like a couple of our corner boys who could not make the leap to “drugs, sex, rock and roll, and raising bloody hell on the streets fighting the ‘monster’ government” and did the normal get a job, get married, get kids, get a house which made the world go round then). And thirdly, an award-winning series of stories under the by-line Going To The Jungle for the East Bay Other (published out of the other side of the bay San Francisco though) about his fellow Vietnam veterans who could not deal with the “real” world coming back and found themselves forming up in the arroyos, along the rivers, along the railroad tracks and under the bridges of Southern California around Los Angeles. Guys who needed their stories told and needed a voice to give life to those stories. Markin was their conduit.

 

Every once in a while somebody, in this case Bart Webber, from the old corner boy crowd of our youthful times, will see or hear something that will bring him thoughts about our long lost comrade who kept us going in high school times with his dreams and chatter (although Frankie Riley was our leader since he was an organizer-type whereas Markin could hardly organize his shoes, if that). Now with the speed and convenient of the Internet we can e-mail each other and get together at some convenient bar to talk over old times. And almost inevitably at some point in the evening the name of the Scribe will come up. Recently we decided, based on Bart’s idea, that we would, if only for ourselves, publish a collection of whatever we could find of old-time photographs and whatever stories Markin had written that were still sitting around somewhere to commemorate our old friend. We have done so with much help from Bart’s son Jeff who now runs the printing shop that Bart, now retired, started back in the 1960s.

 

This story is from that first category, the back in the day North Adamsville corner boy story, although this one is painted with a broader brush since it combines with his other great love to write about books, film and music. This one about music, about doo wop, women’s side which always both intrigued him and befuddled him since the distaff side lyrics (nice combination term that Markin would have appreciated especially that distaff thing for women who also as this piece will speak to, befuddled him, befuddled him straight up). It had been found in draft form up in Josh Breslin’s attic in Olde Saco, Maine where he had lived before meeting Markin in the great summer of love night in 1967 and where he had later off the road stored his loose hitchhike road stuff and his writerly notebooks and journals at his parents’ house which he had subsequently inherited on their passings. We have decided whatever we had to publish would be published as is, either published story or in draft form. Otherwise, moaning over our brother or not, Markin is liable to come after us from that forlorn unmarked grave in that Sonora potter’s field and give us hell for touching a single word of the eight billion sentences he  had had stored in his fallen head.     

 

Here is what he had to say:                        

 

When Girls Doo-Wopped In The Be-Bop 1960s Night

 

By the late Peter Paul Markin

 

 

Jess Barker, Jess Barker, Junior to separate out the generations correctly, very correctly when talking about musical tastes, a subject over which more wars that international ones have been fought, mostly bloodless, but sometimes that was a close thing, especially if usually distant in the cold war family battles too busy working to get up close and personal when the declarations started flying father intervened, sometimes with not cool today belt strap in hand, mainly around that classic battle between sober, sane, and profound parent music and wild, pagan, decadent children music. Back in the 1920s more RCA radios, the small bedroom model which could survive on a bed-stand not the family pride center of the living room one used for Saturday night family around the fire listening, ditto 1950s with transistors radios although no worry needed about where to place the thing since its beauty was its placement near the ear keeping prying parents or a stray snitching sibling away, in order to quell the uprisings of the young than you could shake a stick at.

 

So I will leave you to name your generational conflict, but the present one is centered on the staid 1950s Perry Como, Patti Page, Frank Sinatra, and their gang versus sexy, silky, make the women wet Elvis, riffing Chuck Berry, manic Jerry Lee Lewis, and their progeny, specifically those doo wop singers who filled the gap after Elvis died, or might as well have fleeing in the night to the U.S. Army, Chuck got caught with one of Mister’s woman, also in the night, and Jerry Lee got caught playing kissing cousin games, maybe day and night. Jess had of late, after dusting off some attic boxes filled with 45 RPM records and LPs and his old teenage days record player in preparation for readying his father’s house, his late father’s house, for sale, been running back over some material that formed his coming of age listening music (on that ubiquitous, and very personal battery-driven transistor radio that kept those snooping parents out in the dark, clueless, and just fine, all agreed), and that of his generation, the generation of ’68.

 

Naturally back in those days, especially on the days, nights, late Sunday nights really, when Jesse was able through some inexplicable airwave magic to receive Mr. Lee’s Midnight Blues Show from the wilds of Chicago, one had to pay homage to the blues influences on rock and roll from the likes of Muddy Waters (think Mannish Child), Big Mama Thornton(think the original fired-up Hound Dog not Elvis’ misspent version), and Big Joe Turner (think, accept no imitation by Elvis, Jerry Lee, Bill Haley Shake, Rattle and Roll) And, of course, also the rockabilly influences on rock from Elvis (think Good Rock’ Tonight), Carl Perkins (think Blue Suede Shoes), Wanda Jackson (think Let’s Have A Party), Jerry Lee Lewis (think Breathless along with about twelve other classics of the genre), and perhaps the most influential of all, of Warren Smith’s Rock and Roll Ruby with its fast track beat and lyrics to die for. Lyrics about some lovely who was in thrall to rock and roll, day and night, had her well-worn dancing slippers at the ready at some Doc’s drugstore, some Tonio’s Pizza Parlor, some Jack Slack’s bowling alleys (Jack had to put in a small dance floor for the kids waiting for lanes to open after he had installed  that very profitable jukebox or they would have had had his lanes going to hell in a handbasket with their gyrations), or some Saturday Lions Club hall turned teen dance club night and no sweet daddy, no sweet daddy no matter how sweet was going to  rein her in when she had her wanting habits on. Christ danced on the tables at Tonio’s one night.     

 

He had as well spent some time on the male side of the doo wop be-bop Saturday night led by Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers on Why Do Fools Fall In Love? (a good question, he chuckled to himself as he fell into memory working through the lyrics of that one-caveat he never really figured that one out, never would) backed up by The Falcons’ You’re So Fine. After taking stock of his old time tastes he noted that he had not done much with the female side of the doo wop night, the great girl doo wop groups that had their heyday in the late 1950s and early 1960s before the British invasion, among other things, changed his generation’s tastes in popular music. He had meant to make some amends for that omission but found a certain stumbling block in the way, the “speak to” issue, then and now.

 

One problem with the doo wop girl groups for a guy, as Jess thought to himself on that question, a serious rock guy was that the lyrics for many of the girl group songs, frankly, did not “speak” to him.  After all how much empathy could a young ragamuffin of a boy brought up on the wrong side of the tracks (in the very small too cramped for five people faded house that held that treasure trove of memories) like Jess for a girl who broke up with her boyfriend, a motorcycle guy, a sensitive motorcycle guy, on her parents’ demand because of his lower class upbringing as the lyrics in the Shangri-Las’ Leader of the Pack attest to. He remembered that he blushed every time it was played on the jukebox over at Doc’s Drugstore, the local hang-out for after school be-boppers, or those like him who wanted to be-bop. Except, see, she should have stuck with her guy through thick and thin, and maybe, just maybe, he would not have skidded off that rainy road and gone to Harley heaven so young. And, maybe, just maybe, they could be in that little white house with the picket fence, Harley out in the garage needing little work, a little washing too,  hosting  angelic grandkids today.

 

Try this one, as added ammunition for Jess’s plea, the lyrics about some guy, some sensitive, shy, good-looking guy, a guy with wavy hair who all the girls were going crazy over but who the singer was going make her very own in the boy and girl love battle in the Cliffons’ He’s So Fine when Jess was nothing but a girl reject, mainly. He blushed again as he remembered back to the time when he asked Laura, school fox Laura, out on a date based on some common discussion of the lyrics at Doc’s and in a moment of bravado blurted out his request. She just smirked, and said her boyfriend, her football- playing boyfriend, would frown on that request. He immediately backed off and returned to his wanna-be be-bop shell once he heard that bad news. 

 

Or how about this one, the one where the love bugs were going to be married and really get that white house picket fence thing in the Dixie Cups’ Chapel Of Love for a guy who, more often than not, didn’t even have a steady girlfriend. Jess, a kiss-less youth, would never even get into, would not even make the cut, on the part of the anatomy that Betty Everett harped on in Its In His Kiss. Or, finally, how could Jess possibly relate to the teen girl angst problem, the very real “what if I get pregnant if I do it” in the barely “the pill” knowledge night posed in the Shirelles’ Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow? Yah, how would Jess know if it was the real thing, or just a moment’s pleasure, and what that dreaded tomorrow they sing about would bring.

 

So you get the idea of Jess’ problem, this stuff, this girl chatter in the Monday morning before school girls’ “lav” what did, and did not happen on Friday and Saturday with Jimmy down at the seashore, over at the back seat drive-in theater, or the back seat fogged windows listening to WMEX over the moans payback after a big splurge at Mel’s Drive-In restaurant could not “speak” to him.  Now you understand, right? Yah, but also get, and get this is straight,  straight from Jess  Barker, Junior, you had better get your do-lang, do-lang, your shoop, shoop, shoop and your best be-bop bopped into that good night voice out and listen to, and sing along with, the lyrics to those great girl doo wop girl groups. This, fellow baby-boomers, was about our teen angst, our teen alienation, our teen love youth traumas and now, a growing distant now, this stuff sounds great.