Tag: Culture
Recalling an obscure West Coast vinyl record operation
Its albums stood apart from many of the others I borrowed from Dayton’s public library, with its fine record collection and its guardian.
Contemporary Records was the name of the company, founded in Los Angeles in 1951 by Lester Koenig and soon a leading advocate of what became known as West Coast jazz, including Chet Baker, Shelly Manne, Art Pepper, Sonny Rollins, Bud Shank, and Andre Previn. It was even the first jazz label to record in stereo.
It also ventured into classical, including guitarist Pepe Romero, perhaps joined later by his brothers and father, all of whom soon became famous.
The company also offered a Good Time Jazz label focusing on Dixieland, plus the Society for Forgotten Music in a classical vein, and a contemporary composers’ series.
I had thought one of its founders was American songbook master Vernon Duke – aka Vladimir Dukelsky, his Ukrainian name, used for his 12-tone pieces – but I seem to be wrong. I vaguely recall that one of the disks presented his work as played by the Hollywood String Quartet, but find no support for that now, either.
I have no idea what brought all of this to mind, all these years later. What I am seeing now is how easily so much falls into oblivion.
I don’t remember his name
Or much else, for that matter.
He was my introduction to philosophy professor, and then a semester of logic.
I expected to learn pithy bits of wisdom but discovered that philosophy is mostly about bottomless questions. I did find symbolic logic enticing, akin to geometry a few years earlier.
He was young, apparently Greek, as I recognize today – that curly hair and beard resembled any of a slew of statues. Rumors were that he was madly in love with his girlfriend and spent most of his nights talking long-distance to her in Europe.
What fascinated us was his clothing, the same cheap gabardine suit and tie and pair of scuffed brown oxfords every time he showed up for class. We assumed it was the same pair of socks and same shirt, too.
The next semester he wore a different suit but only that one to every class.
Later, hearing of his finals question from the previous year, I was grateful I hadn’t had him then.
The question he assigned for the blue-books scribbles was just one word:
“Why?”
Nothing else.
Most of the students labored away, hoping to chance across an acceptable answer.
The “A” grade went to the one who wrote a one-world answer:
“Because.”
And the “B” went to the one who used two: “Why not?”
Getting the rest of the story about one of my heroes from adolescence
One of the joys of blogging has been the way it’s opened connections I wouldn’t have otherwise found.
An example of that came after an email exchange with Paul Glover, who had come across my references to Hub Meeker, who had been the fine arts columnist at my hometown newspaper, the morning one that later gave me an internship as my first professional stint.
Hub had a position that was long my dream job, but a rarity in American journalism. Fine arts coverage is marginal, at best, and these days often limited to press releases rather than performance reviews. Even the Washington Post is a near zero on that front.
And there I was in the same newsroom, sometimes even going to lunch or dinner with him.
You can imagine.
Shortly before my graduation from college, Hub moved on from Dayton and eventually from sight altogether. And his position went to another, more established figure, rather than me, despite my own little fan club in the room. At this point, I’m thinking it would have turned out disastrously.
(I need some time for that thought to sink in.)
~*~
Turns out Paul knew Hub from a different perspective, a stepson of sorts, though falling in that range of family relationships that currently lack an exact word that fits.
He related that Hub had recently died and was wondering if I had any memories
or stories of interest that I could send his way in British Columbia.
So here’s my quick stab.
~*~
Naturally, you’ve stirred up so much more.
For starters, I’m not sure what high school he attended or even college. Ohio University? As for a major? Or even how he got hired at the Journal Herald, though Glenn Thompson had an eye for the unusual. Glenn hired me because of a letter to the editor I had submitted and then talked me into changing my major at Indiana University, from journalism to political science.
I graduated from Belmont in ’66 and gather that you’re a decade or so younger. Do fill me in.
The art institute, as you probably know, was undergoing a major shift at the time, from a collection that had included samurai armor and an Egyptian mummy in its displays to instead focus on picking up first-class works in a particular style or period rather than second-rate works by big names. Hub was happy to proclaim the purchase of pre-Columbian pieces at a time when nobody else was aware of their glories.
The DAI was also on the cutting edge of the arts scene, including its degree-producing art school, which several of my friends attended. Or, as my high school art teacher once said during a visit to her home when I was home from college with my girlfriend (from the other side of town), it was the kind of place that displayed the constructions of my girlfriend’s mother and her close friend slash mentor. Don’t know if she called it rubbish, but she certainly didn’t see it as “painting.”
By the time of Kent State, Dayton was already in a downward economic cycle — National Cash Register had laid off almost all of its workforce and was demolishing its factories, and General Motors’ five divisions were all getting hammered, too. The dysfunctional school board’s refusal to work on racial imbalances led to court decisions that, well, pretty much destroyed public education in town.
You were lucky to escape.
You touch on your parents’ marital difficulties. From meeting Hub’s wife a few times, I got the feeling that their relationship was rocky. Yes, she was British and daffy and likely neurotic — a smoker? — all with their charms, and, yes, quite pretty (brunette?) to my 20-year-old eyes. I later wondered how much of that factored in the decision to move to Rhode Island. Looking back, I do believe she really was hitting on me late one afternoon, though I rather brushed it off at the time. (Gee, I was still virgin. Hard to admit that, even now.) (Ditto, for another encounter, at school a few months earlier.)
I’m also wondered how Hub managed financially after leaving Dayton. Writing is rarely lucrative, even for some major authors, as I’ve learned from one friend who envied my steady income while I envied his New York Times critical acclaim. Well, Paul, you know the arts scene. Did you continue in that vein or find another path?
Being together 50 years, though, is quite an achievement. I always saw Hub as a gentle soul. I hope he was that in your relationship, too. Stepping in as the new male authority figure is rarely smooth, as I found in my own remarriage.
I am impressed by your efforts on the memorial service and hope it brings comfort to your mother, you, and the rest of those closest to you.
Oh, yes, and thank you for visiting the Red Barn. I was surprised to see I had mentioned Hub five times over the past dozen years.
~*~
This must have been in a follow-up dispatch:
Hub had what for me was a dream job on a newspaper. His wasn’t just a column – ideal enough – but one covering the fine arts, all of them – visual, literary, and performing – just as they were becoming important in my own adolescent life.
At the time, Dayton was a thriving industrial hub that also had a heavy Air Force presence. It wasn’t someplace you thought of as having an artsy side, even as the ‘60s took shape.
Glenn Thompson, editor-in-chief of the morning newspaper, one of a moderate Republican stance, believed in raising readers’ visions a bit higher. Somehow, in recognizing Hub’s potential, he created the State of the Arts beat.
For Hub, this was an opportunity to discover creative work in many veins, and in doing so, he nurtured a growing scene. Vanguard Concerts surfaced to bring top-notch chamber music to town; an opera company was formed, presenting some up-and-coming stars along the way; his coverage of new architecture was cited by, I believe, it was Time magazine. The local art museum was hailed by the New York Times as, “Dayton, Dayton, rah-rah-rah,” no doubt influenced by Hub’s columns.
He did get to cover the arts elsewhere, too. Some of his columns reveled in the richness of London, which had all of five symphony orchestras.
Turning to Cincinnati, with its zoo, he opened a report with “Hip, hop, hippopotamus, it’s the zoo. Where …” and then took us behind the scenes with a world we’d otherwise never see. The story was accompanied by a page-wide photo of a giraffe’s neck stretched out to an ice cream cone.
Every fall he and the outdoors writer headed off to the hilly part of Ohio to review the fall foliage. Their columns then ran side-by-side. Fun stuff, seeing the same event from different perspectives.
And then, in my sophomore year of college, I got to intern at the Journal Herald and actually meet the guy, go out to lunch – I remember the open-face cheeseburgers from one of those at an old-fashioned downtown dive, even share a staff party or two.
He admitted feeling he was on thin ice, trying to cover so much. I think the spirit of wonder and curiosity he conveyed made up for any lack of formal expertise. He did come from humble roots on the wrong side of the river, as I recall – well, my part of town wasn’t exactly classy, either. And then there were rumors of a used hearse Hub and his wife drove, perhaps somewhat scandalously.
And then, shortly after I transferred to Indiana University, the paper announced that Hub was off to Rhode Island.
It hit me as a shock. He had been a crucial influence shaping my own artistic tastes and outlook.
~*~
What I learned in return was that Hub had left journalism but done some writing along the way. Spent his later years in Canada and serving in community service of various strands. In the photo that was enclosed, both he and his longtime sweetheart look very happy.
Is anyone reflecting you or those you know?
Look in the public media around you and tell me where you see your life presented. Is there anywhere in TV shows, movies, advertising, magazines, newspapers, or novels that reflects life as you know it? Beyond that, is there anywhere that voices your aspirations and values? You know, where you want to be?
Writing this is a painful admission, but true. Somehow, though, I don’t picture myself in a typical suburban strip mall, either, no matter how often I’ve wound up there or been stuck in associated traffic.
What I do see, though, points to the reality that so much of what’s being presented and ingested is an escape from the daily grind. I don’t intend this as a judgmental stand, though I would counter it with the spiritual approach of trying to live in harmony with life as we encounter it in a specific place. Still, what I’m seeing generally rings hollow.
I’d issue a call for revolt but doubt that anyone would follow. Oh, well.
My, I didn’t expect to be hitting at the psychological malaise in the national soul, definitely not this quickly, but here we are. Just don’t hand me a cape and expect me to save anyone. I’m just a lowly writer, remember? Well, you could hand me a very dry martini (gin with an olive), but that would be my own favorite escape.
Now, to return more or less to the topic.
During my stint as a field representative for a major media syndicate, I called on newspaper editors in communities across 14 states. What struck me was how little sense their papers gave me of a unique local identity. There was rarely a distinctive voice in the generic mix. Maybe I’ll wax on some outstanding exceptions as a future post. I did try, mind you, to accomplish some of that where I was as an editor.
~*~
When I entered the workaday world, it was in the height of the hippie explosion, as well as the Vietnam quagmire and the first moonwalk and civil rights and, well, you could say generally everything was in flux and has remained so.
The pace of daily journalism, however, left me feeling there was so much change in the works that we were overlooking, especially in any in-depth way. For me, my impressions became fodder for fiction, which would allow me some leeway and definitely free me from footnotes and fact-checkers, not that I’ve veered from relating what I witnessed or even imagined as truthfully as I could, even with a degree of inventiveness and aspiration.
In that journey I wound up living in places that were outside of the big media spotlight, and what I faced ultimately differed from what was coming out of New York, Washington, Los Angeles, Chicago, San Francisco, or similar backdrops. My record reflected, I hope, just everyday folks who had to muddle on, best we could, in irreplicable circumstances of human progress or tragedy.
Ultimately, I tried to distill what I experienced from these unique viewpoints into novels that originated as “contemporary fiction,” though I’ve come to see the paradox of the label. Even without the scheduling conflicts of working a “day job,” I was caught in a time-delay of drafting and revising, even before trying to find publication. At the least, that would be a two- or three-year gap before a piece became public. Tastes and trends drastically change in that span. And here I am, shrinking from the crap shoot of fashion.
Or, now we are, decades later, perhaps trying to make sense of it all.
Not that I was alone. Every book author was running behind the frontlines where even the boldest got shot down, should they make it that far.
The consequence, quite simply, is that too much has gone unexamined beneath the superficial rush of what we once Baby Boomers and now creaky seniors and perhaps great-grandparents lived through, individually and jointly, from Watergate to today. No wonder things are such a mess. Look, kiddos, it wasn’t all our fault. Do note, I’m among those who wants to lend you a hand.
Mea culpa, then, though I’ve left some evidence of sorts to build on. Please stay in touch. That matter of “Don’t trust anyone over 30” was a brilliant slogan but ultimately BS.
As I’ve noted, we definitely needed elders. And so do you, on the frontlines now.
You can find my ebooks in the digital platform of your choice at Smashwords, the Apple Store, Barnes & Noble’s Nook, Scribd, Sony’s Kobo, and other fine ebook retailers. They’re also available in paper and Kindle at Amazon, or you can ask your local library to obtain them.
Sounds true to me, living where I do
In the Literary Review of Canada, Stephen Marche profiled Canadians:
“To prove ourselves better than the Americans — more upright, more loyal — is the central tenet of Canada’s founding. The anglosphere divided itself up like a dysfunctional family: England the brutal bullying drunken father, America the glamorous rebellious son with a violent streak, and Canada the daughter always trying to smooth everything over, always trying to bury the dark secrets.”
Who would be on your list of favorites?
So here you have 51 of my favorite writers. Looking back over them, I recall one girlfriend who, on entering my apartment the first time, burst out with the question, “Have you read all these books?”
I was equally startled by her question, realizing that this romance wouldn’t be going very far. Of course I had read them. Well, most of them. The others were simply biding their time.
Now there’s also the startling question of just how I found the time to read them, considering I was working fulltime and also writing and submitting to journals intensely on the side. On the other hand, it’s been more than 50 years since I graduated from college, so if I devoured just one book a year, it would add up.
Long ago I discovered that if you ask a classical composer for his favorite composers, or a painter for favorite painters, or writers for their favorites, the list will be filled with names totally new to you. I suppose actors and playwrights and photographers and architects will be just as quirky.
I hope this weekly list of writers has turned up some new names for you in that manner.
I can think of some bad influences, like William S. Burroughs, Hunter Thompson, and Cormac McCarthy.
And think of others who didn’t make my list, though I’ve admired and enjoyed them – Rilke, Rumi, Bill Stafford, Wallace Stevens, Hermann Hesse, Saul Bellow. It could go on and on.
And a few more who are coming into focus as a to-be-read pile. Ursula LeGuin, Cynthia Orzick, Philip K. Dick …
It even has me pondering the question, Does a writer ever read for mere pleasure?
Who wrote the copy on all those cereal boxes I read as a kid, anyway?
Acid test poet: William Carlos Williams (1883-1963)
The coincidence of ending my list of favorite writers with Dr. Williams M.D., is appropriate. All but eight of the writers I cite are American, and one of his goals was the establishment of an authentic American voice. Or, as it turns out, voices. And the majority of the writers are from the second half of the 20th century or later.
Williams was an influence on many of them, and he was generous in his encouragement, even if he had met them just once.
I first encountered him as an assignment for a contemporary poetry I was taking at the beginning of my junior year of college. I opened my textbook on a rainy Saturday morning while visiting a friend at another college in Indiana and was soon entranced. The reliance on imagery was unlike anything I’d previously read. Returning to them is always refreshing and unexpectedly surprisingly.
I have a fondness, too, for his short prose, often drafted on a hidden typewriter between patients back in an earlier era of medical care. I’m not sure I’d call them short stories, not in the sense of being deeply crafted like those of Dubus or Lee I’ve mentioned or of being abstracted from real individuals, but they are direct flashes of humanity.
What makes him stand apart from the other big figures of the emerging American poetry – Ezra Pound, T.S. Eliot, Edward Arlington Robinson, Marianne Moore, Wallace Stevens, among them? His form, for one thing, openly reflected American voice patterns, as did his subject matter, arising from everyday circumstances of the common people, for another. I appreciate Kenneth Burke’s insight that poetry was, for Williams, “equipment for living, a necessary guide amid the bewilderments of life.” I’ll extend that to the fiction I love, too.
Looking at his upbringing, filled with Spanish and some elite schooling, I more fully appreciate the fact that he is the one who worked to free us to listen to our own voices rather than some nasal, high-pitched affection for our culture.
Acid test environmentalist and poet: Wendell Berry (1934- )
My introduction to Berry came in reading his Long-Legged House while sitting on a gorgeous Navajo rug on the floor of the Ostroms’ contemporary home atop a wooded ravine in southern Indiana. It was a magical matrix, considering the story.
Berry was the embodiment of back-to-the-earth, having returned to his native Kentucky in 1964 and taking up farming by horse teams (or maybe mules). He did so to the consternation of colleagues in Manhattan who argued that he was just beginning to make a name for himself and that he’d lose his momentum and start writing sentimental verse about bluegrass.
Instead, he struck gold. His poems grew from real friendships and longstanding relationships. A bigger calling came in his environmental advocacy, especially as it expanded into real economics that countered the bean counters whose views neglected the value of parents, conservation, health, and the like. It even led him to a radical Christianity, including pacifism, and work with the Amish, where he met David Kline, whose weekly birdwatching columns were collected into a wonderful book, Great Possessions, which Berry helped shepherd to publication. (It’s about much more than birds, believe me. If you’re curious about Amish life, I’d suggest starting here.)
There’s something that’s much more life-affirming in Berry’s writing than in Robinson Jeffords’ strong but misanthropic nature poems from a generation earlier.
Berry had noted that his efforts at rebuilding the soil on his farm took 16 or 17 years to show signs of rebounding. It was something I later observed in our gardening in Dover, dealing with what my wife called Dead Dirt. Over the seasons, ours began to soften and then welcome earthworms and finally flowers and vegetables.
So it is with Berry’s pages.
Acid test novelist: Virginia Woolf (1882-1941)
Maybe I was intrigued by the title of the 1962 play, “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf,” but when I finally got around to reading her, in the novel The Waves, it was epiphany. While I had heard of stream-of-thought writing, but what overwhelmed me was the utter beauty of the prose and its observations. What poured forth was a stream, period.
I do get caught up in style more than content. Perhaps that reflects much of my career as a copy editor having to clean up a news story on a tight deadline.
Still, returning to her is always refreshing.
Jnana's Red Barn 