Note: When I first wrote this column, I never thought it would apply all over again 5 years later, after
essentially the same thing happened, in the same exact place. I'll never forget the faces of those kids--which is
what they were, really--as long as I live. And they should never have to
worry about their safety at home, on the largest and (supposedly) most
secure base in America. But this story is not about those tragedies at all; it's about the family of soldiers of Fort Hood, and how a civilian came to know them, and got a rare glimpse into their lives...
By Peter Rodman November 5, 2009
I am dressed informally here, because we've just "ferried" our empty 747 all the way home from another mission to Eastern Europe.
Hearing today's tragic news about Fort Hood brought back memories--many of them pre-dawn or post-midnight, as we landed 747s on-base, to deploy 400 troops at a time to Iraq or Kuwait or Afghanistan, on MAC (Military Aircraft Command) charter flights, beginning in 2003.
These were unscheduled charter flights--whereby, under Federal law, the military can (more or less) commandeer commercial aircraft, in order to move troops and supplies, worldwide.
It was volunteer work, but we did get paid for it. The hours were hugely unpredictable, but a tiny sacrifice, compared to the true sacrifice of our service men and women...which is humongus, on a daily basis.
The troops would sometimes sit there all night long, on school buses, waiting--either for us (to drive in from our dumpy motel just off-base in Killeen, Texas, where we'd just spent the night) or more often, to accomodate some eastern European airbase's arrival curfew--so as to smoothly and safely effect their secure transfer, on other end of the trip.
At the designated time, they'd walk 50 yards or so by the hundreds across the tarmac, and board our airplane--having sat in a packed school bus for as many as six hours overnight, without complaint. I was honored to receive (and still have) several coveted "base medals," which are rare indeed, from base-commanders at Fort Hood and elsewhere. They would tell me it was because I helped coordinate their passage, in some small way...but in truth, I still feel guilty that most of the rest of my crews didn't get 'em. Actually, I think it was just given to whomever they arbitrarily selected to hand out the one or two coins they had, and I just happened to be the crew member greeting the Commanders out on the ramp.
Fort Hood is totally in the middle of nowhere.
Few outposts in mainland America are farther from anything.
It takes almost ninety minutes by van, to just get from Austin out there, in completely flat and barren land, and the entrance itself is at least three or four miles long. The airstrips are nothing but flat concrete, for as far as the eye can see. The base shop (a little convenience-store type of thing) is the only thing of any interest whatsoever, and it is of no interest, whatsoever.
When we first started going, in 2003, the troops were young, and 'gung ho'.
Imagine 400 large rifles, each at their seat beside the uniformed soldiers--unstowed, on a 747! It was strange, to say the least.
When the base commander shook my hand, before we would close the airplane door, he would look me in the eye, and almost tear up: "Take good care of them," was all he said.
These kids had been drilled and drilled and drilled, and I don't mind telling you, they proudly liked to think of themselves as 'killing machines.'
One kid looked up at me once, and said, "You know that saying about about 'winning hearts and minds'? I have a saying, too..." With that, he motioned toward his weapon. "One in the heart...and two in the mind."
Many of these young men and women had hardly ever flown before; were shocked at how "good" the coach-style meals were; had no idea how to operate the movies; and in fact, were totally amazed, to see such "luxury," onboard an airplane. I got the clear impression they had not grown up as children of wealth.
Fully 70% of the troops onboard missions we did (which were to drop troops off at a European airbase--'staging area'--and retrieve another full load, coming home, in later years) were "minorities." The ones who weren't were largely farm kids, by their own description.
That is the volunteer army. (I always say to people, "Next time you root against the Williams sisters at Wimbledon, remember...they ARE the Americans!!!")
The vast majority of today's troops (that I saw, on many MAC missions) are tattooed; love hip-hop and rap music; and enjoy texting, and ultra-violent video games.
I would say a majority are either black, hispanic, asian, or a beautiful combination of various races, including white.
Many are of Arabic descent, too.
Keep in mind, "Maliks" are easily as common as "Franks," in today's American army.
By 2006, some of the same faces began showing up--only now they were seasoned, weary adults--not children, anymore...on their *third or fourth* tour, of Iraq or Afghanistan. Understandably, as the nationwide fervor for 9/11 revenge became less focused, the troops I flew seemed to express less of a 'patriotic' motive than they once had, when the war began--and spoke more of their service as a 'career move,' now--something to set up a secure future, for the families many of them had already started. A surprising number had decided to remain "career soldiers."
That's me out on the tarmac, individually greeting 400 fully armed soldiers we are flying off to war.
At Fort Hood, like Camp Mirimar, Fort Bragg, and others, there'd be nothing but horizon, at dawn or dusk...and the purity of that scene was often broken only by barbed wire, way in the distance. Lots of orange light shone off the cowlings of our huge jet engines, and filled the endless sky, as they either anxiously filed onboard (in the appropriately-named 'fatigues'), ready to go fight...or...wearily exited the aircraft, after making it all the way home.
To even see a tree there was rare, and quite beautiful.
The light plays very differently on planet earth, when there's not much else in the way...
It's hard to believe, I know...but the troops never quite knew where we were taking them--it was top secret, especially from them! ("Come on!" they'd whisper. "Where are we going?")
We were under strict instructions not to discuss or answer questions about our destination, until the onboard commander either announced it himself, or the Captain did so, halfway (or more) over the Atlantic Ocean.
To this day, I rarely discuss which cities these were, but they were (in some cases) quite unexpected (for me, anyway) locations in Europe, indeed.
Our planes were decorated by the crews with many flags and banners, thanking them for their service--unlike any plane you've ever seen. Occasionally, I would have to take down some George Bush 'speech' a crew member might hang on the airplane walls, defending his political actions--because this was not a political statement for any of us...just a patriotic one.
Even those few of us who (privately) thought Iraq was an idiotic decision, supported the troops enough to volunteer to transport them, and did nothing to dissuade their enthusiasm, ever.
It was a simple decision, to me. Our troops needed replenishment, and were stretched too thin. The fresher they were, the sooner we could (hopefully) end all this madness.
Many times, I would go off to cry, on my own, after watching an innocent young woman or man embark upon possibly their last life adventure. And most times, fewer people returned, than we had first brought overseas.
I will express one firm political opinion here, and that is that I found it disgraceful, that Americans were not even allowed to see their coffins coming home, for six full years.
I truly believe we must always see the cost of war, before we embrace any deployments at all.
Some of those coffins contained the bodies of people I was proud to serve, if only for a moment--and more importantly, were proud to serve me, in the most ultimate, meaningful way.
They gave their lives.
It HONORS them to look...and to remember.
That bond with those troops has never diminished, for me--although I no longer choose to fly the MAC charters. (I'm too old for those kinds of hours!)
Today on CNN, I actually heard a reporter say this:
"Authorities cannot confirm whether the gunmen got their uniforms in one of the many 'army surplus supply' stores, located just off-base."
Really?? How dumb is it that we even even have Army uniforms for sale in stores, just outside our bases?
We have a lot more work to do, in deciding when (and where) to fight.
But no matter how you feel about the war(s), it has to bring a lump to anybody's throat, that several hundred kids (soldiers) are about to deploy tomorrow, regardless of the fact that 31 of their group (who were also ready to deploy) were injured today, and a dozen killed.
Some no doubt lost their best friends, today.
That is what they will leave behind, as they board an empty 747 on that same tarmac, sometime in the next couple days.
Talk about 'heavy hearts'...one can only imagine.
I pray tonight for the victims, their families, and the larger 'family' of servicemen and women, worldwide. And I offer a special prayer to Fort Hood--and to our Arab-American soldier-patriots, who will endure (with their usual grace) the inevitable 'additional scrutiny' imposed upon them now, through no fault of their own.
God bless America...all of it.
“The
Ice Cream Man! The Ice Cream Man! Oh, Mom….please?” He was not just any ice cream man... He knew
every kid by name, and no matter what street game or baseball card ‘flip’ he
interrupted when driving by, he seemed perfectly attuned to his pint-sized
customers. Despite the fact that we were just kids, he treated us all like old
friends, each with a story all our own. The bells were as real as police
sirens were, back then--five or six *actual* silver bells, which hung above the
front windshield, operated by a simple dirty pull-string, from the driver’s seat
of the small, white ‘Frosty Bar’ truck. ‘Dominic’ was his name, and he’d
knowingly coast through our Long Island suburb (appropriately called
‘Plainview’) not once, but twice a day, at his peak.
He spoke our
language, and could calculate for you instantly your maximum affordable treat
that day. His waxy green cups of ‘Italian ice’ came in every flavor
imaginable, and he never went a day without fully re-stocking even the most
obscure delights. Root Beer Italian Ice? “I got it,” he’d proudly say,
bustling around the side window of the refrigerated truck. Coconut Crunch
Bar? “Of course! Don’t you know me, by now?” How about that new Cake
bar? “Come on!!" he’d say, “Who’s got everything!” He did, that's
who!
The ice cream was never stale; the choices were never
few. Most folks today will be offered whatever the guy happens to have, no
matter how long it’s been there.
Dominic was different; very
different. He prided himself on knowing everyone’s favorite, and almost
before the truck came to a stop, he’d have each group of kids' array of pops
handy, flailed like a frozen deck of cards, in a single olive-skinned hand,
richly bronzed by the sun, shining down on his truck.
In the
days before central air conditioning, we’d sometimes run straight up to the
small white truck, just to feel the glorious fog of refrigeration coming
full-boar at us, out the window. Dom’s fancier items were thirty five cents,
back then. (That’d be your ‘Sundae on a Stick,’ for example.) After a hard
day of stoop-ball in the blazing sun, somewhere between 2:25 and 2:35, you’d
hear those (real) bells, chiming ‘just so,’ in the distance.
Like Dominic himself, they were slow and steady. But the
truth is, he was always checking his watch, and racing to get the transactions
done, because his signature trait was arriving in each and every neighborhood at
precisely the same time every day.
Sometimes, in a mad desire for the
ultimate sugar rush, you'd try to pry the entire Italian Ice loose from its cup,
and flip it upside down--so you could get to the intense, half-inch sweet-flakes
(which we called "The Crisp") at the bottom. More than once, Dom agreed to
replace my ice for free, after I'd clumsily flipped the whole thing to the
ground, diggin' for that sugar at the bottom of a 'cherry ice.' But he made no
bones about being in business for business, and his generosity had its limits.
Again...lessons learned.
Our summer days were filled with
far more sophisticated dealings than our parents could ever fathom. We’d ‘flip’
(read: gamble) our baseball card collections in elaborately devised schemes,
sometimes way beyond the basics of matching colors or teams, and into positions,
averages, triples hit, or a combination thereof--so complicated that the ‘pot’
could grow to sixty or seventy cards at times, before the winner took all.
So let’s not romanticize those days as somehow “innocent.” Fact is, we
were ruthless little gamblers, willing to devise the most complicated set of
rules possible, in order to take home that winner’s pile by mid-day, before the
actual playing of street-ball began. I can now sadly reveal that I sometimes
made foolish wagers on purpose, just to make my friends happy--so glad was I to
be included at all, in the proceedings. I'm still that way. With the Yankees
down by two runs in the bottom of the eighth, I’d suddenly say, “I’ll bet they
win!” Then would come the knowing glances, in the downstairs den of
whomever's house it was. A long pause, and then... “Really, Rodman?” (We
always called each other by last name. It seemed to confer a toughness, upon our
scrawny little seven and eight year old personas.) “Yup! In fact, I’ll bet
you Hector Lopez homers,” I’d say. At this point, the bet would have to be
made official. The sealing of the deal was always done by hooking your pinky
fingers together. If this was not accomplished, you had no contract. More than a
few times, I was able to invoke this clause, in order to save my ice cream
money. And more than a few times, Dominic’s bells would absolve me of the need
to go through with another obviously masochistic wager.
“Dom,” as we came
to call him, also taught us a lot about personal responsibility. He knew full
well that some of us were slightly poorer than others, on the block. (In
retrospect, my pennies must have been a dead giveaway…or maybe it was the long
delay, as I occasionally ran inside the house at lightning speed, snuck upstairs
to my parents' bedroom closet, and filched my final few coins from my father’s
inside, right pants pocket.) Either way, Dom knew us all, and knew us
well.
Although he never showed favoritism, he’d cut you some slack on
occasion, if you were short. (Money, that is.) In fact, Dominic actually
gave most of us--now dentists, dee jays, brokers, and lawyers--our very first
experience with actual credit! He began to keep ‘accounts’ on each and every
kid, and if yours got up towards three or four dollars, he give you a ‘warning.’
But there were a couple of heartbreaking occasions, when Dom simply had to put
his foot down, and he did so compassionately. “Sorry, Pete,” he’d say,
shaking his head the way a quiz show host does, when you’ve almost won. “I
wish I could do it for ya. But I’m gonna have to cut you off, until you pay a
little. Next time, okay?” And the bells began to jingle, as he pulled the
string, and drove away--slowly at first, out of respect and in sympathy with his
penniless customer--and then proudly again, jingling 'just so,' for the next
group of kids, on the next block. It never occurred to us, quite frankly,
that Dominic knew any other group of kids better than those of us on Burton
Avenue. That would seem impossible. Even if you asked me today, I’d have to
guess that the 15 or 20 kids on our block were his favorites--but from the
vantage point of a man now much older than Dom was then, it seems pretty clear
that could never have been the case...could it?
Fact is, he
was an expert at what he did. I’ll bet he made a pretty good living at it, too.
Back then, there were lots more kids around, and everybody knew who their
neighbors were, which must have helped business immensely, in the way of what is
now known as ‘peer pressure.’ Eventually, Dominic saved up enough for a very
large truck, the kind that had heretofore only been used by the faceless
corporate drivers for “Mister Softee.” Even way back then, we were able to
discern the difference between a corporate truck (like “Good Humor”) and
our very own local, independent Ice Cream Man. With his own growth came
inevitable change. Now, he had a virtual candy store inside, and you could
actually step up into the truck. In fact, he no longer had to go outside and
around to the window at all, to serve you. He could simply get up out of the
driver’s seat, and take a few steps back into the ‘store.’ But somehow, it
wasn’t quite the same. He still carried the vast array of our early
childhood favorites, but in this fancy new setting, they seemed somehow small,
and pedestrian--almost as if he should have had ‘soft’ ice cream
dispensers...kinda like…like the “Mister Softee” guys. It still feels like
heresy, to say that.
In truth, by that time, we were beginning
to outgrow it all. Voices started to lower. Your trip out to the street to
see the Ice Cream Man was (strangely) beginning to seem almost…embarrassing. I
can actually remember at some point looking up and down the block, to make sure
nobody saw me, before running out to my old friend, Dom. I had become a paper
boy by then, so here I was, finally able to afford his wares, and
yet…suddenly mortified, to even be seen, getting them. It seems like that little
‘life lesson’ has repeated itself, a few times over--but like so many others, it
all started beside Dom’s truck. It was the stock market, the grocery store, the
country club, and the bank, all at the same time. I am reminded by some
fellow former patrons that Dominic actually had a "loyalty" incentive program.
(Not that he needed one.) He distributed "charms" with each purchase, which
were like tiny, colored 'pieces-of-eight' to us. If you collected ten charms,
you got a free ice cream. This was, without any doubt, the first "frequent
buyer" program any of us kids ever experienced.
Dom’s own business began
to falter slightly, at around the time he invested in the new truck. It wasn’t
his fault, really--the demographic bulge of we ‘baby boomers’ had simply passed
on through that part of the snake, that‘s all. He hung on for a few more
years, even though most of us were in junior high school, by then. Heck, there
was always gonna be a ‘youngest’ child, in some family, who knew Dom’s schedule
as well as any commuter on the Long Island Railroad ever knew theirs.
Now, I live in Nashville. We still have Ice Cream Men,
yes--but I must tell you, there’s something slightly...surly, about them.
There are no jingling bells anymore, for one thing. Just this immensely
irritating, pre-recorded jack-in-the-box music, with a decibel level to rival
any F-15 Fighter Jets that might be flying overhead. If you took the most
annoying possible ditty, say, “Pop Goes the Weasel” (which happens to be one
they use), and canned the ‘Pan Flute’ guy playing it over and over through Eddie
Van Halen’s Marshall Amp at around “10,” you’d understand ‘Ice Cream Man, 2009.’
“Gut mah galfriend wit’ me tuuh-day,” he’ll say, and you get the feeling
this job might just be keeping somebody out of jail. Oh well, God
bless him anyway.
Speaking of which, today was Easter. Dominic
would never come on Sundays, let alone Easter! It was a matter of mutual
respect. But it’s Easter 2009--not 1959--and today, the guy came lumbering
through the neighborhood, blaring “Silent Night,” of all things. That’s
nothing new, either. From “Happy Birthday” to “Beethoven’s Ninth,” my new
Ice Cream Man has ruined more songs each summer than I can recall. His company
seems to choose the pre-recorded tapes based upon one criterium: “Will this
be annoying enough, if you play it over and over, and over again?” I never
knew “Silent Night” could fit in that category…but I do now, and we can look
forward to hearing it all year long--except on Christmas day itself, when he’ll
probably be blasting “(Roll Out) Those Lazy, Hazy, Crazy Days of
Summer.”
And sure enough, what few little kids reside in this
neighborhood are still alerted by that ‘music,’ from deep inside their solid
brick houses and even deeper within their tiny hearts, almost as if they’d just
received the Bat Signal. It would not surprise me in the least, to find out
that there is, in fact, some sort of Darwinian DNA connection between children
and the sound of an approaching ice cream truck--then, or now. Who knows? In
future times, we may evolve to where actual antennae emerge from their ears,
when the truck is within range!
Once he arrives near your house, a nearly
century-old seduction reveals its newest innovations: The driver will
knowingly slow his pace to a crawl, and increase his volume just enough to make
ANY adult cave into any childhood demand, if only to stop the music. His
wheels will barely move now...as he allows for the time-tested persuasion ritual
(read: begging and whining) to run its full course. At the end, the score
will always be “Ice Cream Man 1, Parents 0,” whether they acquiesce, or not.
(Think about that one.)
Something about all of this seems intrusive and
obnoxious to me, at 57. Am I wrong, or were Dominic’s bells a little more
friendly, and a lot more real? They seemed to speak to us, like an old
friend coming to visit every day, at the exact same time. Am I wrong, or are
these new guys just careless intruders, out for a buck? They come after dark
sometimes--and many times, not at all. Nobody knows their names, either.
Surprise, surprise: I am wrong!
It turns
out not to matter at all. To a kid, it all means the same thing--even if
they have no name, nor any real face that they’ll be able to attach to it, or
remember as fondly as I do Dom’s, over 50 years later. Call me a grumpy old
man, but I’m going to ‘date’ myself anyway, and say it just ain’t the same as it
once was.
Still, there is something…something almost holy…in the timeless
connection between a kid, and the Ice Cream Man.“And the children
solemnly wait For the ice cream vendor Out into the cool of the
evening Strolls the pretender He knows that all his hopes and
dreams Begin and end there” --Jackson Browne, ’The Pretender’
I don’t honestly know what
ever happened to Dominic. A tiny part of me wants to find--and restore--his
original, little ‘Frosty Bar’ truck. In fact, I wouldn’t even mind driving
it around the neighborhood each day, secretly extending ‘credit’ to the kids
while waving to the parents, and learning everybody’s favorite flavor by
heart--but I’d only do it, if you let me ring those silver bells by hand, just
like he did. That would be nice.
Meanwhile, I’ll just have a ‘lemon
ice,’ please…
Copyright 2009 by Peter Rodman. All Rights
Reserved.
In 1972 I moved to Colorado, with my girlfriend of four years. (We got married the following year.) The lure was the chance to break away from our suburban existence on Long Island, and see America on our own. I'd been writing songs for six years already, and my high school pal Kenny suggested we join him in a house on Barr Lake, out in the boonies north of Denver, to co-write some songs. I jumped at the chance, because Kenny and I were a good fit musically--he with a deft touch on acoustic finger picking, me with a melody--so off we went. The house was an historic (but decidedly run-down) former "Pony Express" post office. A perfect square (so horses could ride up and grab the mail in a hurry, from any direction), located on 40 or 50 acres, with the huge lake as our 'backyard.' Up until that time, I had no real idea what America was like at all, beyond the Fillmore East, anti-war demonstrations, Jones Beach, or the Long Island Expressway.
I found out, in a hurry.
My chest-length brown hair, though shampooed to perfection every day, wasn't just a frowned-upon accoutrement anymore. In Brighton, Colorado, it was a deal breaker. Everywhere we went, people refused to even speak to us. In truck stops, which were the only place to grab a quick breakfast back then, it was even worse:Waitresses would literally turn their backs to us, saying things like, "Boys, do yousee anybody over here at this booth, waitin' to be served? Because I sure don't!" It was brutal. What I'd always seen as a mere 'generation gap' was actually, it turned out, a culture war. Hawks and Doves, Straights and Hippies. Call it what you will, but Colorado back then was not the place it is today. The best description for our experiences outside the property would be "dangerously hostile."
More than once, our VW van was stopped for no reason at all, until finally one sheriff decided to detain me overnight, in a Mayberry-like (but humor free) cell near downtown Brighton, slightly below ground level. So freaked out was I about this unexplained confinement, that my friends and roomates stayed outside the barred windows that met the ground overnight, to offer moral support. The next day the Sheriff let me go, and told me to "be more careful drivin' 'round here..." which I took as code for, "Why don't you just leave altogether, and we'll both be a lot happier." So, after two months of living in the Postmaster General's Office, where unused mail-slots had held our underwear, my future bride and I departed for Boulder, where the skies finally opened up. Literally. I had never seen a bluer sky, than I did the day my girlfriend and I got to Boulder-- June 1, 1972. The streets "on the Hill" were PACKED
with 1,000 hippies...many in various states of trippy disrepair. Within
5 minutes of walking in the door, I was hired to run Budget Tapes &
Records. (The guy in there had already had enough. He'd seen the
shoplifting, the overdoses, and the 'STP family'--hardened street
people, virtually *living* on Orange Julius, acid, and gold paint
fumes. During my earliest days running the shop, I used to take
requests. "Be My Lover" by Alice Cooper was (by far) the most popular song there. Why? I have no
idea! But pretty soon I had to actually ban the worst of the stoners from
the store altogether. The smells that arise from an unwashed human body
after a year or so were just too much for me. Still, All the Young Girls Loved
Alice... For all its grungey street people, Boulder was an oasis of liberalism and music, tailor-made and "meant to be," for this boy.
That same day, we moved into a tiny apartment around the corner from the new gig at Budget Tapes and Records, for the scary-high (to us) sum of $125 a month. There we stayed, until our marriage finally broke apart, during the mid '80s. My point is that there were two worlds back then. In fact, the early 70s engendered so much more hostility between them, that we are still fighting those 'culture wars' today. But during the period I'm talking about, before Rush Limbaugh and Fox news had a chance to re-litigate it all, we ('the hippies') had clearly won that war. Heck, even bankers began sporting muttonchops. It was as common for a young woman to go 'braless' then as it is for them to wear a bra, today. There was no more perfectly divisive character than Richard Milhaus Nixon.
"Hawks."
He was loved by some and hated by others, but there was no in-between whatsoever. If you loved him, chances are someone in your house had a pastel blue pantsuit, you listened to the Carpenters on AM radio, had never smoked pot, supported the war in Vietnam, and thought Bob Hope was hilarious, as well asthe ultimate patriot. If you hated what Nixon stood for, you had probably devoted some time to avoiding the draft, grown your hair long, thought pot was harmless, loved outdoor concerts, and listened to Cat Stevens, the Beatles, or Crosby, Still, Nash and Young, on FM radio.
"Doves."
In Colorado, the dividing line was obvious: For the 'AM' crowd, you had John Denver's "Rocky Mountain High"--a record no self-respecting hippie ever owned, even if they secretly hummed it on occasion. If you were 'FM,' that same expression came via Joe Walsh's "Rocky Mountain Way," cranked to a volume just shy of upsetting the neighbors.
The year was 1972--the year Don McLean's "American Pie" topped the charts. Ostensibly a song about Buddy Holley's death (on February 3, 1959--along with Richie Valens and The Big Bopper, in a plane crash in Iowa), in truth it was much more than that. It was a gauntlet for the hawks--the AM crowd, finally laying down a manifesto that condemned all this frivolous hippie nonsense, which brought 'hair bands' to us from England, and seemed to eradicate all the great 'American Values' Richard NIxon and Spiro Agnew stood for: God. The Flag. And Apple Pie. In this, young Don McLean saw an opening.
His light-bulb moment gave us "American Pie."
Of course! Wasn't it about time somebody spoke out on behalf of all the American Values getting smothered by anti-war protests, all this talk of Kent State, and all these "heavy metal" bands suddenly imported from overseas--like Humble Pie, Led Zeppelin, T-Rex, and Uriah Heap. "What the hell ever happened to all the great music we had, before this so-called British Invasion!" It was about time to "tell it like it is," Don thought. And so, he did.
Though I have questioned him in interviews about this subject before, McLean has steadfastly refused to discuss the meaning or the motivation behind "American Pie"for all these years--but suffice it to say, this is not like some "You're So Vain" mystery, where you had to guess who Carly Simon was singin' about. But make no mistake...
Don was saying it straight out loud:
He fucking hated the Beatles.
He thought Dylan was a phony piece of shit; America was being ruined, by all the crappy music that was made after Buddy Holly and some decent, law abiding Americans died in that fateful plane crash.
"Hawk."
Catchy as it was, that is what "American Pie" was all about. Strangely enough, most of us knew that in 1972...until we got old, forgot the context of the times, and just decided to sing along anyway. Instead of being an ode to "the Day the Music Died," what McLean was really saying was that most of the music (and pop culture) after his beloved '50s had taken a serious turn for the worse, and he (McLean) wasn't having any of it. Now, there is an argument to be made for that view, and I'd respect this ninny a whole lot more, if he stood behind his own lyrics...but Don knows which side his bread is buttered on (both sides--hawks and doves buy records and concert tickets), so he's not about to bite the hands that literally feed him. With political polarization at an all time high, it turned out to be a savvy move. "American Pie" was the first-ever right wing rock anthem, swimming in listener-friendly images of Chevys, levees, good ol' boys--in short, pretty much every 'list' of brands and vacuous shit you hear in every single song on country radio today. It said, "Forget all these hippies; forget this stupid 'hard rock' garbage! Whatever happened to our music?"
An 'ode' to Buddy Holly, it was not.
What it was, was a full-on attack on any music (or lifestyle) that didn't reflect the white-bread 'values' we'd grown up pretending were "normal," via sitcoms like Father Knows Best and Leave It to Beaver.
Yer average all-American family, circa the time of Don's paper route.
Bob Hope himself couldn't have written it any better. That message was buried in a barrage of six verses everyone would soon know by heart, and the chorus was infectious enough to make anybody want to sing along, without regard to what they were actually singing about. As a middling artist on the brink of extinction during the early '70s, Don McLean saw an opening in marketing his 'patriotism,' exactly as Anita Bryant and Lee Greenwood would, years later.
His most deftly handled trick has been to avoid saying anything (beyond what the lyrics say) that might upset all those concert goers, for decades now. But rather than remain some slyly-kept secret (again, see Carly Simon), McLean's savvysurvival instinct seems to be the motive behind weaseling out of dissecting his perennial cash-cow.
So let's take a look, shall we?
VERSE ONE:
"A long long time ago...
I can still remember how that music used to make me smile.
And I knew if I had my chance, that I could make those people dance
--and maybe they'd be happy, for a while.
But February made me shiver--with every paper I'd deliver,
bad news on the doorstep. I couldn't take one more step!
I can't remember if I cried, when I read about his widowed bride...
but something touched me deep inside, the day the music died."
Okay...that's innocuous enough. Buddy Holly and the others die, in a plane crash. Don was a kid. He liked rock 'n roll. Simple rock 'n roll--you know, the kind that doesn't make you think. Not too complicated (like "American Pie"), just a dance song--like maybe... "Peggy Sue," "Chantilly Lace," or "La Bamba." We get it. Then, one day, Don's delivering papers...and like all paper boys, he thoroughly reads them before chucking each folded lump into somebody's driveway. He must do that, because back then (unless you were in Mason City, Iowa) this event was not front page news. So there he is--shivering and delivering--and whatever page 10, teeny-tiny item about Buddy and the boys' fate there was, actually made Don McLean one sad paperboy. He can't remember if he cried, though...when he read the part (they never wrote) about Buddy's bride, because he tried and tried...but "bride" is the best rhyme he could come up with for "cried," and so--in a fit of semi-honesty, he'd decide (see what I did there?) to not actually claim he cried, but to say he couldn't remember if he cried. (You know...about the bride.)
"So Bye, Bye Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry
And them good ol' boys were drinking whiskey and rye
Singin' this'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die."
That-there chorus is about teenagers in their cars, drinkin' and stuff. (Guess there weren't any girls down by the levee, by the time Don got there.)
VERSE TWO:
"Did you write 'The Book of Love'?
And do you have faith in God above, if the Bible tells you so?
Do you believe in rock and roll?
Can music save your mortal soul?
And can you teach me how to dance real slow?"
Here, we see little hints of the difference between the '50s and '60s, as interpreted by Don. "Who Wrote the Book of Love" (by the Monotones) is referenced, of course...and slightly more subtly, John Sebastian's 1966 Lovin' Spoonful hit, "Do You Believe in Magic?" Don isn't exactly a 'Jesus freak' (as we called them back in the '70s), but he's willing to bet those Monotones are about as naughty as y'oughta get. Because if you believe The Good Book, that's something--but from the very start, Don's had his doubts about this whole rock 'n roll thing. Being a professional songwriter, he knows those Monotones couldn't have written "The Book of Love!" (Not much gets by Don.) Now he's gonna go one step further, and say that Sebastian's cult-like devotion to rock constitutes something like heresy. See? That's where we all went off the rails! Once you ascribe any serious value to rock music--anything deeper than, say, a 'slow dance' (and really, is there any?) you're on the wrong track.
VERSE TWO, CONTINUED:
"Well, I know that you're in love with him,
'cause I saw you dancin' in the gym; you both kicked off your shoes.
Man, I dig those rhythm and blues!
I was a lonely teenage bronc'n buck, with a pink carnation and a pickup truck
--but I knew I was out of luck, the day the music died."
See, Don's a simple man. His heyday delivering papers at 14 was interrupted by this great tragedy on page 10, that barely made the evening news...and then...? He was furious to see some girl he liked spurn his advances, and actually dance with some other guy, in the gym. And my God, what kind of slut would kick off her shoes? Don't question it--Don saw all this, by God! Right then, rock 'n roll music began changing--and not for the better, in Don's eyes.
I mean, look at this shit. What's this Sebastian guy talkin' about? What's he mean, "stranger?" Aren't all these hippies like the Lovin' Spoonful (rumored to be named for a dose of drugs) the real strangers??
"Do you believe in magic, in a young girl's heart?
How the music can free her, whenever it starts
And it's magic, if the music is groovy
It makes you feel happy like an old-time movie
I'll tell you about the magic and it'll free your soul
But it's like tryin' to tell a stranger 'bout rock and roll"
--John B. Sebastian
Don's answer was, "No! I do not believe in all that."
By now he (Don) was a man of 21, and all this "groovy" shit wasn't doin' anything for a pudge who thought trucks and slow dances should be enough to get the job done. What next...incense? For God sakes, what the hell happened to tight mohair sweaters? Who wants to jump around acting all stoned, when the point is that God intended us all to just get married, have kids, deliver newspapers, go to school dances, date, get married, have kids, rinse and repeat! The instructions are right there, on every bottle of shampoo!
Don McLean was obviously not a 'flower-power' kinda guy. In fact, he knew he was the "stranger" Sebastian described--the nerd you just don't even bother with, when it comes to tryin' to tell him about how rock 'n roll could change the world. The guy who just couldn't get in the club.
"I started singin'
Bye, bye Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry
And them good ole boys were drinking whiskey and rye
Singin' this'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die"
In a way, through all of the '60s changes, nothing had changed.
Hey, you could stillgo down to the levee...free country, right?
Music still sounded good enough, on the radio--it was just harder to make out to.
And that's the truth. Dion...or Mick Jagger?
Here's where Don pulls out the daggers:
"Now, for ten years we've been on our own
And moss grows fat on a Rolling Stone"
In the immortal words of Sammy Davis, Jr.,
"But, that's not how it used to be!
When the jester sang for the king and queen
In a coat he borrowed from James Dean
And a voice that came from you and me"
Translation: Bobn Dylan's no poet, he's a phony. Talk about a 'Rebel Without A Cause!' Dude can't even sing! "Hey, I'm a struggling folkie too," Don thought. And you and me taught Dylan everything he knows, right here in America! Who's this guy, to suddenly be the 'spokesman' for a generation, even a whole country--goin' over to England on tour? He's no better than you and me!
But here's where it gets tricky. Don's switching back and forth between the '50s and '60s faster than a Tim Burton movie--so in the next stanza, he pulls a fast one, and switches 'jesters' on us. Where before it could be Bob Dylan, now we had ceded control of our music to yet another clown, in the form of John Lennon. You may not remember it now, but before he was assassinated and deified, Lennon was widely mocked as a peacnik lunatic who--together with wife Yoko Ono--had foresaken all sanity to make of his charmed life one big, goofy publicity stunt. He began issuing albums containing just screaming, sound effects, and full frontal nudity; his singles amounted to mere chants you might hear at a protest march ("Power to the People," "Give Peace A Chance")...and the concensus among all but his most die-hard fans was that John had pretty much gone off the deep end. (And it was all Yoko's fault...of course.) Here was a true idiot who Don thought had become an embarrassment to the tradition of great lyric writing, as embodied by The Big Bopper ("Helloooooo, Baaaaaybeh!"), Richie Valens ("Ba-dah-dah La-la-la BAM-ba!") or Buddy Holly ("Uh-oh, Peggeh--A-mah Peggy Sue-u-ooo...")! Even Elvis--famously never so enamored of the Beatles--was clearly disgusted (or at least distracted, by ten years of making lousy movies):
Oh, and while The King was looking down
The Jester stole his thorny crown
The courtroom was adjourned
No verdict was returned
See that? The King (Elvis) could have stopped this damn jester (John Lennon) if only he'd been paying attention, and not making such shitty records himself.
Let's take the next few lines one by one, because here's where Don gets serious:
And while Lennon read a book on Marx...
The quartet practiced in the park
And we sang dirges in the dark
The day the music died
LINE #1: And while Lennon read a book on Marx...
There's plenty of evidence John Lennon had rankled the right wing establishment in
America. The Nixon administration marked him as a top priority for deportation, after he and Yoko brought their
Album graphic for Firesign Theatre, 1972.
publicity circus to New York City around 1971, grabbing headlines on an almost daily basis for one wild stunt after another. Be-ins. "Bag-ins." Full frontal, nude album covers showing up in Amercian record stores! Anti-war activity. (Beginning in 1969, massiverallies against the Vietnam War took place right outside the White House, regularly invoking Lennon's own "Give Peace A Chance," as their theme song.) Yessir, rock 'n roll had infected our youth! Don was not alone, in believing this crazy British distortion of our music had led us all to go off the rails. Don't laugh, now...but the feeling was definitely out there, among the hawks: John Lennon must be a communist! That is, in fact, what Nixon, J.Edgar Hoover, Haldeman, Erlichmann, and Agnew believed. (You can currently watch The U. S. vs. John Lennon for free, on Amazon Prime.)
LINE # 2: The quartet practiced in the park
It's no secret that in 1966, beginning with "Paperback Writer" and "Rain," the Beatles began changing the entire sound of Top 40 radio. Backwards guitar effects, droning middle eastern sounds, and yes, a dirge-like quality...permeated that two-sided hit single, with "Rain" reaching #23 all on its own, while "Paperback Writer" echoed up and down America's beaches at #1, blaring over every transistor radio in sight.
Right alongside Don McLean's old school sounding faves (like Tommy Roe's "Sweet Pea," Tommy James's "Hanky Panky," and the Ray Conniff Singers' "Somewhere My Love"), these four bastards from England were subverting the airwaves, with "Paperback Writer" and "Rain." Not only did they gain fame on the same Ed Sullivan Show that Elvis and Buddy Holly had, but they now had the temerity to refuse to even come here to do it, and simply send "promo films," instead!
In a major break from the longstanding Sullivan tradition, the Beatles were arrogant
"The quartet practiced in the park..."
enough to simply record a tape of themselves lip-synching these songs "in the park," lookingdownright bored doing it, as well. And if that weren't enough, they let Ringo (then widely regarded as the least important band member) offer this lame 'explanation' to Ed, as an intro:! "Well, Ed, sorry we couldn't be there...but you know how it is...everybody's busy these days, with the washes, and the dishes..."
They hadn't even had the decency to make up a good excuse for snubbing Ed Sullivan! They just sat there in a studio, mocking even the notion that they should care!
He was no doubt further offended that winter, when the boys turned up in another park in England--again, sending videos over here, instead of showing up--foisting total psychedelics on us all, hidden behind matching walrus mustaches, and acting out some sort of LSD fantasy, for "Strawberry Fields Forever" and "Penny Lane." This was just too much for Don.
How dare they spit on our music, in this way!
Together, "Strawberry Fields Forever" and "Penny Lane" (which reached #8 and #1, respectively) became the Beatles' biggest double-sided single to date. It was followed by Sgt. Pepper, Magical Mystery Tour, The BEATLES (white album) and more--all of which contained lengthy, experimental songs with 'chants' (which Don calls "dirges") at the end:
"All You Need is Love." "Hey Jude." "Hey, Bungalow Bill." "Yellow Submarine (re-released with the film)." "Baby, You're A Rich Man." "I Am The Walrus." "Hello Goodbye."
Every single song above (and several more) ended with a chant of some sort.
Don was livid.
And we sang dirges in the dark
The day the music died.
For his next verse, Don finds a track from The BEATLES (white album):
Helter skelter in a summer swelter
The birds flew off with a fallout shelter
Eight miles high and falling fast
It landed foul on the grass
The players tried for a forward pass
With the jester on the sidelines in a cast
"Helter Skelter," the Byrds "flew off" to do psychedelia themselves, in the form of "Eight Miles High," and then there's a stupid 'grass' pun. All these groups were flailing about, because their LEADER (Bob Dylan, the "jester"...remember him?) had suffered a serious motorcycle accident, and was now laid up in a cast. Meanwhile, Don panders to Americana with a few more football analogies...also managing to depict the Beatles as a washed-up halftime marching band. (Note: McLean later contended he'd been turned down by 72 record companies. Not that he was bitter or anything...)
Now the half-time air was sweet perfume
While sergeants played a marching tune
We all got up to dance
Oh, but we never got the chance
'Cause the players tried to take the field
The marching band refused to yield
Do you recall what was revealed
The day the music died?
We started singin'
Bye, bye Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry
Them good ole boys were drinking whiskey and rye
And singin' this'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die
Don was benched, baby. All these clowns and jesters and marching band and drug addicts had the field to themselves, man. What about Don?
Oh, and there we were all in one place
A generation lost in space
With no time left to start again
So come on Jack be nimble, Jack be quick
Jack Flash sat on a candlestick
'Cause fire is the devil's only friend
Oh and as I watched him on the stage
My hands were clenched in fists of rage
No angel born in Hell
Could break that Satan's spell
And as the flames climbed high into the night
To light the sacrificial rite
I saw Satan laughing with delight
The day the music died
Oh, looky! Don's back to slamming the Rolling Stones again!
"No angel born in hell, could break that Satan's spell."
His little history lesson has slinked its way to 1969 or so, when the newly energized Stones did their first major "adult" tour across America, fueled by "Jumpin' Jack Flash," "Honky Tonk Women," and "Sympathy for the Devil." Don, it should be noted, had no "sympathy for the devil." Know why?
'Cause he was singin'
Bye, bye Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry
Them good ole boys were drinking whiskey and rye
Singin' this'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die
Now, along came Janis Joplin...and man, was she a lost soul!
I met a girl who sang the blues
And I asked her for some happy news
But she just smiled and turned away
I went down to the sacred store
Where I'd heard the music years before
But the man there said the music wouldn't play
And in the streets the children screamed
The lovers cried, and the poets dreamed
But not a word was spoken
The church bells all were broken
And the three men I admire most
The Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost
They caught the last train for the coast
The day the music died
In a nutshell, this song has about as little to do with Buddy Holly as it does Don McLean's guilty plea for wife-beating last year. It's about hawk and doves. It's about straights and
All we are singing, is "Give Peace A Chance!"
hippies. It's about false idols and real idols, and who should decide which are which--and that person is...Don McLean, of course! Now you know why, whenever I hear February 3rd described as "The Day the Music Died," I cringe. (Whenever Don hears the phrase, he hears "cha-ching!")
I truly believe that if people realized they were singin' along with a song tearing apart the Beatles, the Stones, the Byrds, Bob Dylan, and the whole '60s...they think twice about chimin' in. Funny thing is, most hippies knew back then. They knew this was a hawkish rejection of everything we stood for; they knew it was a repudiation of the '60s, and everything thereafter; they knew it was the first musical salvo fired, in what came to later be know as 'The Culture Wars' --which we are still litigating, 50 years later.
No angel born in Hell
Could break that Satan's spell
Yep, they knew all that, but as the years rolled on, they seemed to forget. Time has a way of blurring all the lines. AM & FM, once diametrically opposed musical worlds, seem to be schmooshed together now, in the same fog of nostalgia which allows "Hello Dolly" to live alongside "White Rabbit."
It's hard to imagine how many millions more people have sung "Give Peace A Chance" than "American Pie" over the years, but there can be no doubt, more barrooms are filled with the latter, on any given night.
Whether or not any of them know what they're singing about, I can't say. All I know is, Don knows--and he's not saying, which is why I have. In fact, he's not giving anything away. In 2015, Don McLean sold the original lyric sheet on which he wrote "American Pie" for $1.5 million, at auction. And incidentally, I just googled "The Book of Love," and found out I was totally wrong: The Monotones did write it! Warren Davis, George Malone and Charles Patrick are in fact credited as the guys who wrote "The Book of Love." I wonder what they thought, when they first heard their song name-checked in "American Pie." Just now, I had a picture in my mind... Don was in a bar, singin' "American Pie," and just after he started with the line, "Did you write 'The Book of Love'?" the Monotones said, "WE did!" As I watched, Don continued the song, and The Monotones cheerily ordered some drinks. I decided to leave the place, before he got to the nasty parts, about Dylan and the Beatles. As I was walkin' out, that first chorus was about to begin, and the Monotones were clinkin' glasses, in a toast to songwriting royalties...
And they were singing
Bye, bye Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry
And them good ole boys were drinking whiskey and rye
