Remembering a Special Friend...Billy Block

By Peter Rodman

In 1992, I moved to Santa Barbara and rented a house near Shoreline Park with my best friend John.  We were both newly single at the time, and right around 40. We each bought new cars, and started hittin’ the town in earnest. I guess you could call it a “mid life crisis.”
In short order, we both began to wonder why there were so few 'eligible females' over college age there.
Here we were--a couple of wild and crazy guys--with the means to have fun, and no one to have it with.
Everybody was either 20 or 60, but certainly not 40.
Pretty soon, someone clued us in to the town's long-standing punchline:  "Everyone in Santa Barbara is either newlywed, or nearly dead."   
My roomie had a job in town, but I was commuting up the coast to San Francisco almost every week, from which I’d fly to Hong Kong or Taiwan, and then return home four days later, totally exhausted.  All of this conspired to keep me indoors in SBA, while John happily jogged the beach and gave me daily ‘pulchritude’ reports. 
The irony was not lost on me:  Here I was in “paradise,” but way too beat to enjoy a minute of it.
Between business trips, I’d fly to Nashville, rent a car, and record song demos and/or play the Bluebird Cafe…often sleeping on a friend’s couch.  (At $200 a song, plus travel expenses, it wasn't long before I found myself in some serious credit card debt.)

I kept in contact with friends in Chicago, New York, Nashville, and L.A. via telephone (“long distance”... remember that?) and one of those friends happened to be Karla Bonoff.  We’d known each other since 1977, when she nervously gave her first-ever radio concert in Boulder.  Over the years there'd been many interviews and shows, so now--since 100 miles seems like less than a thousand--we'd occasionally catch up on a little gossip, exchange notes about our living situations, and/or keep up with each others’ careers on the phone

One day Karla asked me if I was aware of L.A.'s  'MUSIC CONNECTION,’ a weekly “insider” rag for aspiring musicians. (I was actually  kind of dismissive about it, having seen similar sheets growing up on Long Island.)  But Karla pointed me toward one column in particular, by a guy named “Billy Block.”
In his little nook, Billy excitedly reviewed recent shows and described new artists he had seen, as well as plugging albums and gigs for a wide variety of musicians, spanning all genres.
Not being in L.A. (Santa Barbara is 100 miles away) I couldn’t really act on any of it, but being a performer myself, I found it nourishing to eavesdrop on a scene I thought was really “too big” for me.
Lots of people think that about L.A.
Clearly, what Billy Block was doing was to break it all down into little, digestible pieces…and believe me, that made L.A.’s music scene seem far less intimidating--not just to an 'aspiring' artist like me, but even to an established one, like Karla.  Pretty soon she mentioned 'a little Monday night thing' Billy was hosting, at a coffee place called Highland Grounds, on Sunset. 
“I know it may seem hypey at first,” she said, “but Billy’s actually creating a little ‘scene’ here, and it gives some of us a place to go without being watched, or getting all

self-conscious--casual, like a real community.  L.A.’s never really had that--or at least, not recently--and this is really special, what he’s doing. You should come check it out.”

To know Karla Bonoff is to know a very careful person.  She does not seek attention; in fact, she almost purposely avoids it.  But now, after checkin’ it out herself, she was ready

to dip her toe in the water and perhaps play a few songs at this little weekly event Billy had started, called ‘Western Beat.’
One more digression, from before I met Billy:
A year or two earlier, I’d been living in Chicago, and when Karla had a week of shows booked at the Fairmont, she asked if I’d like to come along for the gigs, because she didn’t really know anybody in the Windy City.  Needless to say, I was flattered and delighted to do it.  But as much as it felt like we were friends, I would always be just a fan, underneath it all.
After she decided to play Billy’s ‘Western Beat’ show, Karla asked if I’d be interested in coming down to see it. 
 

Bryndle--from left, Wendy Waldman, Kenny Edwards,
Karla Bonoff, Andrew Gold--with Peter Rodman, circa 1995.

I've never been too keen on driving long distances for just a night out, but if I was ever gonna go, this would be it.
When I arrived, I could hardly believe how small the place was! Maybe 50 or 75 people crammed in, many behind poles which blocked your sight lines entirely, in booths that resembled a cafeteria, more than a concert hall.  And the “stage,” if I recall, wasn’t more than a few inches off the floor…if it was raised at all.
With Karla were Wendy Waldman and Kenny Edwards, whom I already knew, and Andrew Gold, whom I had also interviewed, but didn’t really know yet. 
I’d vaguely heard of ‘Bryndle’ from Karla and Kenny, but never suspected they were using that night’s get together as a “reunion,” 25 years after going their separate ways!

Each booth at Highland Grounds held only 4,  maybe 5 people, if you really squeezed in--so as Karla and the group greeted old friends, I decided I wasn’t even worthy of sitting there, takin’ up space.  (Okay, maybe the “fan” in me got a little flustered.) 
I stood leaning against one of the big, square poles that held up the place, trying not to interrupt, stare, or intrude…in short, trying to blend into the pole.
I’ve rarely ever felt so self-conscious, and I could tell by Karla’s glances that it really was getting awkward.
See, it’s like this:  You go to a party, but you really only know one person. Do you hang around (read: onto) just that person all night, or do you try not to?  
I opted for the latter...but soon realized I was still tethered to the booth, and it felt downright creepy to be nearby, trying to 'act casual' but sort of just hangin' around anyway. 
In short, I wanted to crawl under a rock.
At the height of my discomfort, well before Karla & company

played, a series of local acts were introduced by this white-haired 'Billy Block' character, with a kind of compelling ‘emcee-ness’ I hadn’t experienced since Bill Graham used to emcee his Fillmore East shows.  Each act got a nifty build-up, “…and I’m especially honored that she’s come out tonight, with no rehearsal, to play with our house band tonight! Let’s give a very special ‘Western Beat’ welcome, to ALANNAH MYLES!!!”  
He was part cool-guy, part P.T. Barnum, and all positivity.
I remembered what Karla had said, on the phone.  "I think you'll like him. He may seem over-the-top at first, but he's really got a certain knack for bringing the music community together, and we haven't seen that out here in a long, long time. I like him a lot."
Next thing I new, Alannah was singing “Black Velvet,” and Billy was bounding over to me, introducing himself--and exuding the warmth I would come to know and love for the next 23 years.
“Hey, Peter! Karla tells me you’re an old friend of hers, and you came all the way from Santa Barbara,” he began. “Welcome!  If you ever decide you want to play here, just call me and we’ll set it up.”
BAM.
All my self-consciousness went out the door.
There was a musical community here…and I was welcome!
(There still wasn’t enough room in the booth, though.)
From there things loosened up considerably, as Andrew, Wendy, Kenny, and Karla began including me in their network that night, introducing me to other folks I’d eventually know from that day to this, like the wonderfully gifted Kevin Montgomery.

Wendy Waldman first appeared on my radio show in 1975;  Karla Bonoff, 1977.  I’d done the same interview show in the ‘80s, too.  But here in Hollywood, nobody knew I'd ever hosted a show at all. 
Certainly Billy Block didn’t know a thing about me--except that I was a singer-songwriter, and knew some people whose own music he respect

Billy with Jim Lauderdale--Photo by Lawson Little

ed.
That night, Karla, Kenny, Wendy and Andrew got onstage and killed it, beginning a reunion that would last, on and off, until first Kenny and then Andrew passed away, a few years ago.
All this time, nobody knew that Billy himself had already fought skin cancer and won.

I moved to Nashville a few months later (mainly to save money on rental cars!) and re-started my long running music interview show (Sunday Night with Peter Rodman) on Radio Lightning 100, in December of 1993. 

Fast-forward to 1994:
SNPR had taken off. Artists, writers, session players, actors, producers, label heads, politicians, newcomers, legends, movie critics, sports figures and more populated the show, which became a sort of clearing house for anyone with something to say.
The radio station itself became pivotal to the Nashville music scene, hosting ‘Dancin’ in the District’ and other events-- which almost single-handedly revived the downtown area, and made it “the place to be.”
Around 1995, Billy Block moved to Nashville and began hosting weekly club shows here, just as he had in L.A.-- but with a decidedly more elaborate title:
"Billy Block's Western Beat Roots Revival."  
At first it was slow going, because quite frankly, most

aspiring  songwriters in Nashville thought only one place counted: The Bluebird Cafe.
Before Billy got here, there was NO significant outlet for aspiring singer-songwriters, besides the Bluebird. (In fact, Bluebird owner Amy Kurland constantly beseeched people to create more such scenes elsewhere, as her small venue had been virtually overrun by requests from out-of-towners and newbies, seeking to get a foot in the door.  There simply wasn't enough time in a week--nor enough staff--to sift through the growing mountains of cassettes, DATs, and audition requests besieging the ‘Bird.)  Still, no one seemed anxious to play anywhere else but the Bluebird, lest they be left out of the action.

Billy began by importing some of his rootsier L.A. friends,

like Rosie Perez and James Intveld. Building slowly, he started out at The Sutler on Franklin Pike, and soon moved on to the fabled (and much bigger)  Exit/In, where nights full of music included such up-and-comers as Keith Urban, Alison Moorer, and Jim Lauderdale.
Before it even had a name, “Americana” had found a home--wherever Billy Block was hosting his ‘Western Beat’ show. 
 

“For just 5 bucks,” said the posters,“You get a 6 dollar show!”
Pretty soon there was an ‘Americana’ organization, and ‘Americana’ awards shows. 
But nothing is permanent in radio (or nightclubs), so Billy would sometimes have to pull up roots (so to speak) and switch radio stations or venues in mid-stream, just to keep the newly retitled ‘Billy Block Show’ alive. 

I have to make a personal confession, here: I only have just so much energy, before I get discouraged.  My gig has always been a similar thing--giving new artists radio exposure, making established artists comfortable, presenting another side of the music, etc.  So Billy and I felt we had a lot in common.  But whenever we got together privately, I’d always marvel at his indefatigable resilience.  “How the hell do you keep picking yourself up off the canvas, Bill?  I can’t even imagine recovering so many times, and emerging stronger, every single time!”
He’d look me in the eye, always with those sky-blue eyes and a wide smile, and say, “I wanna know how you do it!”  But the truth is, he was being kind.  Billy knew very well I wasn’t even close to that strong...but we did share the odd distinction (mission?) of having spent a lifetime "presenting" great artists, in the best light possible. 
When my Lightning 100 gig ended in 1996, I never seriously looked to place my show anywhere else.  I walked away, content with what had been accomplished over three decades in radio.

Billy Block was another breed altogether.

A lesser man (see: me, above) would have quit after just one such venue change.  
Imagine carefully building a very delicate, beautiful house out of toothpicks--only to have some  club rube (or radio station) knock it all down, in a single motion.  Could you start over, from scratch--to rebuild your entire audience, each and every time it happened? 
New club…New time slot… New station... New bosses... New rules…?
That’s not me.
But none of this deterred Billy Block--not for even a nano-second.

In fact, to read his latest interviews or promotional blurbs, you could never even tell that switching venues wasn’t in his plan, all along!  That’s how smoothly he transitioned, from one venue to another. It was always done seamlessly, and with grace.

I used to say, “Man, you exhaust me!  I thought putting together 6 or 7 interviews every week was hard…but you never stop!” 

And he didn't.

I remember picking up his monthly newsletter for Western Beat, back when Tower Records was still open. So that's one  7-act LIVE show a week (have you ever juggled that many musical acts in a single night, let alone every week?) one self-published monthly magazine, and a weekly radio show. 
Years later, Billy would add a local American Idol-type competition for seniors, which he called ‘Silver Stars’--for those ‘of a certain age’ who still had talent and dreams but felt locked out, by our youth-oriented culture.  

And in recent years, he had even more spin-offs:  ‘Capt. Billy’s Whiz Bang Blues Band,’ jokingly called “An Explosion of Pedigreed Bunk!” --a self-effacing reference to his ubiquitous hype machine, as “Mr. Nashville.”   He tirelessly promoted son Rocky Block’s band (very good, by the way!) and hooked him up with some dang good sidemen…including, on at least one occasion, E Street Band bassist and Rock 'n Roll Hall of Famer (and close Block family friend) Garry Tallent.  
Not bad, for a teenager!



At the risk of sounding immodest, about ten years ago, Billy took me aside and said, “Peter, I want you to know something…I was inspired to do this in Nashville by listening to your radio show.  When I got to town, I heard your show and said, ‘Man…that’s what I want to do!  I wanna be like him!’”
He repeated that compliment often over the years, probably because he knew it made me feel pretty darn good.  It stands as one of the highest compliments anybody's ever paid me--because I always had such respect for his self-starting mindset.  That's what it takes, to create something truly original:   Invent your job.
Obviously, Billy’s accomplishments touched countless more people than my little show ever could, but like I say...it sure felt good to hear such a thing, coming from someone I so loved and admired.   


At the end of each live 'Billy Block Show'--and believe me, they loooong...sometimes over four or five hours--no matter how many (or how few) people remained in the audience, Billy would jump onstage, sweaty but exhilarated, and plug about a month’s worth of upcoming shows, right off the top of his head!
And at the very end of the night, he would close with this:
“Remember: If you see someone without a smile, give ‘em one of yours!”

It wasn't about slogans; it was about messages.
“No Fear; All Faith” was his main cancer motto--typically not bitter…and it fit him to a ‘T.’ 
When he got sick a couple years back, I suggested he throw a benefit; little did I know he'd already planned dozens of 'em.

Billy plowed through the past few years like there were fifty years of livin’ to squeeze in.  He was right there for son Michael’s football conquests and state championships, at Hillsboro High.  Right there for Grady, Rocky, and Shandon, too--and the amazing Jill…always.
Life was like one big juggling act he loved, and Billy never dropped a single ball.  He kept it all in the air, always looking up, always with his eyes on everything that mattered.

In January, I got to see him one last time, at St. Thomas Hospital.  His face was ravaged with the scars of cancer, his lungs struggled to breath, and there was a distance to the sound he made, but his smile never let up, as he discussed his next round of treatments.

 

“It’s okay, Billy,” I said softly as we held hands...two grown men!  “You don’t have to expend any extra energy, telling me everything…just relax.”
“No, no!  I want to!” He insisted, unleashing a litany of plans and back-up plans they (he and his doctors) had assembled for the battle ahead. 
I walked into that room thinking he was in decline, and I needed to lift him up. 
But Billy knew better. He also insisted on taking this 'selfie' of us, and as he spoke I was on the edge of tears, realizing that my friend was wheezing and struggling just to make me feel better about everything! 

 St. Thomas Hospital~ January, 2015 
Photo by Billy Block

He knew that deep down, it was his friends who were hurting, and needed reassurance.
 
That was Billy Block. 
A true gift, and yet another ‘object lesson,’ from a life so full of them, you can't even add 'em all up.

 
Ultimately, I realize there are no words. 
Certainly no slogan or catchy title will ever describe the ‘whiz-bang’ life force that was--no, is--our friend, Billy Block.

Literally thousands of posts will be written by those he touched, near and far.  They are the real testament, to how one little guy can change the world. So is Billy’s family, with two sons and two adopted sons, all brought to blossom under the amazing greenhouse of Billy and Jill’s love.  Perhaps it’s a cliché to say this, but knowing Billy I believe he approached his passage exactly as he did all those little ‘venue changes’ I spoke of, earlier. 

“A lesser man would have quit after just one such change.  In fact, you could hardly tell that ‘switching venues’ wasn’t in his plan all along.  That’s how smoothly he transitioned, from one venue to another. It was always done seamlessly, and with grace.” 


...especially this time.






_________________________________________________________________________
This column Copyright 2015 by Peter Rodman.  All Rights Reserved.
_________________________________________________________________________

“Ten Christmas Songs I Wouldn’t Miss, If They Went Away Forever”

By Peter Rodman

No one--and I mean no one--loves Christmas music more

than I do.  But there are two obvious problems with it:
1. The same twelve records get played to death every year, and even the best of our classics (whether Crosby’s “White Christmas” or Presley’s “Blue Christmas”) suffer from severe burn-out, in short order.  
2. Fact is, certain holiday faves have become ridiculously commercialized on TV--whether selling dish soap, cars or laxatives. Their melodies will haunt you, from early October all the way up 'til the Rose Bowl.

So now that the Christmas season is winding down, here's a handy (not-too-serious) list of  Ten Christmas Songs I Wouldn’t Miss, If They Went Away Forever:


10. ‘The Nutcracker Suite’ (that tinkly intro)
This is the most widely used Christmas theme out there.  Seemingly every Christmas commercial has used it at one time or another, and I'm guessing that's because Tchaikovsky's copyright has expired.  Good thing Pyotr isn't around to see his Nutcracker workin' the erectile dysfunction market.

Another reason I don't like hearing this suspiciously 'tinkly' music so often?  If you really think about it, it sounds like horror film music!  Over the years I’ve come to picture not so much wooden soldiers, but Chucky...sneakin’ around my 

bedroom joyously in the night, laying in wait to give me a heart attack. 

Here's a little experiment for ya:  Play the music below, and then tell me it wouldn't be the perfect soundtrack for this little guy in the closet...

 If that doesn't send a shiver up your spine, nothing will.


 9. “Santa Baby” 

This was already creepy when Eartha Kitt did it, but nowadays it’s a rite of passage for every aging wannabe ‘sex kitten,’ from Kylie Minigogohue (never could get her name right) to Madonna, whose coquette act has turned to creosote, over time.
And I don't even wanna know what Eartha did 'Under the Bridges of Paris.'

8. “In The Bleak Mid-Winter”  
Well, here’s a party song! Especially if you need to calm down after a raucous evening of Leonard Cohen ballads.  

Not since “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” has the NPR crowd found a more universally beloved dirge.  In keeping with my desire to be thorough here, I’ve listened to every single available version of this thing. 
I can now officially report the results of my extensive research: 
They’re all bleak.  
And just when I was beginning to think this was the Christmas equivalent of Sarah McLachlan's “I Will Remember You”…Lo, and Behold:
It’s actually the new theme song for those 'abused animal' PSAs. 
This is why people giggle at funerals. 
On the plus side, it's is great background music for decorating the tree--if you happen to be hanging Gillette single-edge razor blades.

7. “The Little Drummer Boy”  
I don’t usually pick on ye oldest-of-olde Christmas carols, especially the ones with a holy back story to them.  I remember closing out my annual radio Christmas Special one Sunday night, and the station's  Program Director stopped by to offer season's greetings.  At some point the subject came up (on the air): What were our least favorite Christmas songs?  Since he asked, I said this was the first one that came to my mind.  Just the intro gives me a headache.

Chucky's got nothin' on this guy.

Well!  Huff, huff! 
Turned out this was the dude’s favorite Christmas song ever.
Of course. 
Thinking on my feet as always, I said, “That’s okay!  Different strokes, right?” 
No luck there. My listeners got to hear him recite the whole back-story (centuries-long... and that was just his explanation) to “Drummer Boy,” if I may call it that.  I’m not sure if I blacked out or what…but as I recall, the song may have something to do with Kenney Jones replacing Keith Moon, in The Who.

6. ‘We Wish You A Merry Christmas”  
Even my favorite version of this (by Peter, Paul, and Mary) is, at its core, irredeemable.  Remember when you were kids, and everybody taunted each other with Planet Earth’s universal taunt?  “Na, na, na-naaah nah!” 

"I'll wave, Honey...you go call 9-1-1!"

It’s kinda like that.  Wikipedia says this one goes all the way back to the 16th century.  (That’s pre-Spotify.)  
But never fear, the songwriters for this little winner were way ahead of their time: They never got a dime, either! 
In fact, nobody today even knows who they were at all.  

Wikipedia goes on to say that wealthy people “gave figgy puddings to the carolers” of this one.  My guess is that the folks who wrote this little ditty offered up one too

many verses at the wrong house one night, and ended up getting fiddy punches instead. 
It is said they now lie beneath the cobblestones of Hoffastraus...near the Meadowlands in New Jersey.  
Or…
Maybe the guy in that last house opened the door and said, “Do you MIND?  I’m trying to watch It’s a Wonderful Life!”  Anyway, the creators of this song were never found.  
Score one for the tauntees.

5. “Back Door Santa”  
I hate to disparage any sacred songs, especially in a Christmas song list--but this Clarence Carter classic is so wrong, on so many levels, I’m amazed it isn’t the #1 Hipster Holiday Hit of All Time!  

In a brilliant moment of redundancy,
Atlantic stamped it, "PLUG SIDE."

Gotta believe they haven’t all discovered it yet. 
Oh, well…I’ll leave it there. At the back door.  
You know, the door Santa’s gonna come in, when your husband’s not home.  Yeah.  That door.  
Yup, you got it. The back door…


4.  “Here Comes Santa Claus”  
This would rank higher on my list if Bob Dylan hadn’t given us a reason to laugh at it.  It certainly has that “taunting” quality I spoke of earlier.  Here's a test:
1. Go ahead, start singing it.  
2. Now, have your kid sing it to his younger brother, enthusiastically--over and over.

3. Wait a few seconds. 
I guarantee a punch-out. 
Actually, I used to live near Santa Claus Lane (it’s a real place!) in Santa Barbara.  

Didn’t help this bomb a single bit.  
Bad songs are funny that way.

3.  “Do They Know It’s Christmas”  
Let me start out by saying I’m American, for all my friends in England. Trust me, this song was no big deal here. 
Insofar as it inspired Michael Jackson and Lionel Richie to write “We Are The World,” I don’t know whether to thank the Mother Country or send all my tea back.  
Beyond all that, it’s a crummy song.

Original Band-Aid

 
A bunch of rich, '80s new wave rock stars singing “Feed the World” doesn’t get the job done-- although it did save Bob Geldof from the Boomtown Rats, which is encouraging, and which led to ‘Live Aid,’ which led to 'Live 8'...

Band-Aid 2014

an event precisely nobody understood, including Bono. Their slogan was "No Excuses"--which kinda brings me back to this song. Oh, and guess what?  They just re-made it, with another whole group of 'stars' nobody's ever heard of in America.   Do They Know Nobody Knows This Song?


2.  “Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town”  
Actually, I like this song. It's just the Jackson 5 version that merits this esteemed place of honor on my 'Ten Worst' list.
As a little boy back in the ‘50s, this song carried all the mystery of Santa’s list for me--and once I found out that had to do with my presents, I was determined to land on that “nice” list!  In fact, I checked with my parents twice a day, just to make sure.  
Then a funny thing happened: 
Frankie Valli & the 4 Seasons covered it, reaching #23 in December of 1962.  I only know this because by then, I was an 11 year old radio geek, meticulously documenting  Murray the K's “surveys” for future use.  (I can happily report that this constitutes the first 'future use' I have ever found for that useless factoid.)  
Anyway, the 4 Seasons' version of this song might just be the main reason my parents let me take over the basement wood shop and open an imaginary “radio station,” safely out of earshot. 
Anything, not to hear Frankie’s musical vasectomized vocals , wrecking their fond memories of the Great Depression.
What is wrong with parents, I wondered?  
They don’t like freakin' FRANKIE VALLI??
Well.  
God, whose holiday incidentally Christmas is supposed to be, is famous for his cruel ‘paybacks.’ (For instance, hell.) 

In which Frankie implores God
to wait, before allowing Michael
Jackson to cover this song.

  
But not even I could have anticipated that He would stoop to letting Michael Jackson screech this title over and over on record--using Frankie's arrangement!  
Only God could have set up this level of revenge toward me. 
Even Santaactually decided, upon hearing it, he wasn't coming to town. 

The above 'Jackson 5ive' record probably helped flush out Noriega, which is why this song lands such a high position here--safely above any glassware it might potentially shatter.  Oh, well...apparently Berry Gordy liked it. 
Then again, look what happened to Detroit.   I blame this record.

1. “All I Want For Christmas is 
No More Melisma You”  

Speaking of pain…
I do appreciate Mariah Carey’s efforts, really I do. Stuffing yourself into a sequined gown three sizes too small is no mean feat...and I speak from experience. 

But good heavens...
Must this be the Quintessential Holiday Song of the Great Kardashian Era of Personkind?  I get that the same hussies from Halloween like to dress up and try this one, but even ‘Back Door Santa’ won’t come near your chimney if he hears this rattling mess. Alvin and the Chipmunks seem like Handel, by comparison.  

Bruce Jenner, dreaming of Christmas gowns to come...

My theory is this:  The crowd at Rockefeller Center is way too busy taking cell phone videos to even notice the music anymore...so who cares how bad the song is? 
I do.
I care.
And I know humbug when I hear it.  
"Bah!  HUMBUG!!!"      


...forgive me, Jesus.


__________________________________________________
This opinion column Copyright 2014 by Peter Rodman.
All Rights Reserved. No portion herein may be reproduced
without express written permission. 

"Is there any such thing as a Hipster?"

By Peter Rodman
 

A friend writes, "Is there any such thing as a hipster? Are there any hipsters out there willing to admit that they are hipsters? If not, do you (hipsters) think that hipsters exist, and would you please point one out for me?"
He continues, "Do you know any self confessed hipsters? If not, ask them if they think hipsters exist, and to point one out. The subject of the hipster has me fascinated."

Okay, I got this one.

Dear Friend,

Look at my hair. I've essentially had the same (non) haircut since 1973... and believe it or not, I was never in Wings.

At some point during the '90s, the hipsters in LA began calling it a "mullet"--something that was never even a TERM until they began selling "mullet dolls" at Z Gallerie in Westwood. So...IS it a mullet?

PR, circa '77
You'd think that people would
have had enough of silly haircuts.

Well, in the eyes of those who just couldn't deal with the "business in the front/party in the back" look (and wanted to bring us down a notch)...I guess so. Yep. (Today, mine might still be called "a modified mullet.")

Did I like suddenly having a derogatory name applied to my groovy-lookin' hair? Nope.
(What the hell's wrong with pretending I'm a 63 year old Beatle?) 　

Likewise, I'll confess that some of us wore those acid-washed Mom jeans and white Reeboks a few years longer than we should have. 

Do you get where I'm goin' here?

In my opinion, the premise is moot.

I get it: You don't like the term hipster, because it unfairly 'bags' you, as we used to say in the '60s. 
Therefore you want it to go away, or for people to stop using it...unless they're willing to include themselves in the category.

"Do hipsters exist?" you ask rhetorically, hoping you can disprove the stereotype...but you can't.

It's out there--just like the "layered" haircut I've had for 40 years that younger hipsters (rightly fed up with us Boomers dominating the cool for decades) finally tagged the "mullet."

(You'll note here that part of my definition for 'hipster' is age-based.)  
It's all about generalizations--unfair or not.
Yes, ALL short hipster guys wear horn-rimmed glasses...and 50% of them work in the remaining 10 record stores in America.  So there. (I don't exactly know why it's true, but it is.)

From OUTSIDE the profile, the hipsters' "uniform" is as clear as day--be it the tattooed girl behind the counter selling incense with a tiny 'starter' ring in her nose; the over-tattooed skinhead taking tickets at your local rock club; or the cluster of left-college-but-haven't-landed-anywhere-yet 'grown kids' gathered around "gourmet pizza" and some beat up cellphones in whatever the local bistro is called, where you live. 
Where I live, it's 'Fido.'
"Here, Boy!"
The reason nobody likes to be called a "hipster" is because, alas...it's a derogatory term.

One time in Germany (or was it Japan...or both?), I saw an interview on TV. It was in a language I completely did not understand, and the interview subject was the Springsteen-like "legend," in that country.

Japan Rock legend

How did I know this?

Because he had the 'uniform' on, of course! Jean jacket, tussled hair, heavy black work boots, and mumbled answers. It was quite clear this was not a banker, a politician, or the president of the local knitting circle.

German Rock Legend

It was their "Bruce Springsteen"--getting all the deference and respect Bruce would get here, which is how I knew it was some musician of stature.

A better question might be, "Does Bruce himself ever REALLY wear any of that uncomfortable shit at home in upper class New Jersey, or is it as much a uniform as any

American Rock Legend

West Point cadet wears, only with more medals? " But I'll leave that for another day. Fact is, he never, ever deviates from the 'working man' uniform, at least in public. It's been as much a prerequisite for him as Jennifer Lopez showing a lotta leg is, for her. Period.

Speaking of music...

Aren't you the same friend who often vehemently puts down 'today's music' as a talent-free endeavor?  Sometimes I think you may be right on that score...but then, at 63, I'm well ensconced in the "Get off my lawn" years, so my opinions shouldn't count for much in today's world.

All of which goes to the very heart of my point:

We all make judgements, but bristle when others come

too close to judging our own stereotype. 

Something about the word "hipster" touches a nerve with you. 
I see that, and it's a pity--because it's actually a pretty easily definable category, which by definition makes it  a VALID stereotype--even if it ruffles the feathers of the immaculately tussled.

Likewise I'm sure, for my "mullet." 
Likewise for "talentless non-musicians," etc.

They're all judgements. 

I'm as guilty as the next person of being judgemental, but I try to avoid being serious about it. 
In short, I love taking the piss out of hipsters because it's fun!

During the '70s, we called them "the tragically hip."  (There's actually a popular band named that, now.)

The shallowness beneath any identifiable veneer is an easy target.  It pretends to dismiss whole groups of people, but at its best, only strips bare some obvious pretensions.
The pretense of "individuality" among teenagers is a rite of passage--but you'll never notice their hilarious conformity in that effort, until you're well out of that demographic.  

How many of us still double over in laughter, watching the SNL bit with Joe Piscopo's schlocky Sinatra telling Sinead O'Connor, "Pipe down, Cueball!" or saying this, to Sting:

Mockery needn't be cruel...but it can be funny.  

As for me, I like to joke that I need a 'special visa,' to cross over the Cumberland River into East Nashville, which is universally regarded as Hipster Heaven around here.  
The truth is, it's such a vivid and colorful experience, I can barely digest two visits a year.  That 'Tomato Festival' of yours?  Much as I enjoy it--and I do--it pretty much answers your initial question, in one single, fabulous day:

Virginia's original
letter wasn't
about hipsters; it was
about another
dude in a (red) uniform.

Yes, Virginia...
There IS a such a thing as "hipsters."  

          'London Kids' by Peter Rodman

In fact, there's literally a whole world of 'em out there, from China to Argentina to Holland to Athens (Greece or Georgia) and back again.  I've seen 'em myself, in all those places.
Truth be told?
 
The term "hipster" itself probably came from someone my age--trying to get y'all back, for finally naming the mullet.  

Cheers,

Mullet Man 

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This opinion column Copyright 2014 by Peter Rodman.  All Rights Reserved, Man.