July 6, 1958 was sweltering. During the dog days of summer, you can feel the air hanging from the tree limbs, dripping like fresh clover honey. Anything that touches the night air is carried with a weight of exhausted anticipation. On this night, the sounds of crickets blended with crackles of laughter, and outdoor music drifted lazily over the whir of passing automobiles. The remnants of a weekend in Newport, Rhode Island had gathered on the lawn of Fort Adams State Park, for what became a momentary salvation; a radiance of spirit that soared high to the heavens and expanded through every soul in the crowd. To many, Mahalia Jackson‘s appearance at the 1958 Newport Jazz Festival eclipsed all other performances, from the legendary Louis Armstrong to the upstart Chuck Berry. Hers was the set that made everyone have to stop and catch their breath.

If you go back far enough, you’ll find that jazz, blues and gospel all came from the pulpit. The difference is where they traveled, once they left. Jazz went to the bar and blues went to the grave, while gospel continues to stand in the front pew, hands outstretched and screaming for the spirit. All deal with the same subject matter, and are buoyed along by the same fervor, but in the years since their separation have acquired different philosophies. Needless to say, when George Wein brought together all these different styles for one purpose, there was both great tension and greater release. Miles Davis continued to redefine himself, while

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Duke Ellington brought himself back into relevance. Louis Armstrong swung into high gear while Chuck Berry drove his groove through the radiator. Friday and Saturday night reeled and rocked, sending body and soul into a state of ecstasy; then Sunday rolled around.

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Mahalia was introduced simply: “Ladies and gentleman: it is Sunday, and it is time for the world’s greatest gospel singer, Miss Mahalia Jackson”. From the first tender notes to the final triumphant cadence, she gives her all to the audience. One almost feels like an intruder upon her first song, “An Evening Prayer”, as if you accidentally stumbled into a chapel to find her praying out loud. Something intensely personal has become public, not for spectacle’s sake, but as an offering to God and her fellow-man. She moves on through “A City Called Heaven”, not shaken, but world-weary. Her contralto voice is never timid, always sure. She sings with a conviction, not from Electronic Cigarette herself nor pointing a judgemental finger. It simply flows out of her like a cool water.  Moving on through ” I’m On My Way”, “It Don’t Cost Very Much” and “Didn’t It Rain”, she picks up momentum, dragging the musicians with her and whipping all up into a buoyant fury. If you listen carefully, you can hear the audience going right along with her, clapping hands and hollering for more. Her set is supposed to end after forty-five minutes, with “The Lord’s Prayer” closing it out, but the audience spurs her onto another four songs. All of the energy exuded in the previous set was brought back in, and focused up towards heaven as she moves through this beautiful prayer. Once again, we are caught eavesdropping on her most sacred moment of solitude. She makes it through her encore, being greeted on the other side by  thousands upon thousands who had just unwittingly participated in a divine moment.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=22s7gvf2Ww0]

While every musician on that particular weekend put their all into what they were giving away, Mahalia was completely different. Her gift, her song, her being on that stage served one purpose only; to serve the Lord. She went where she was led, she sang what mattered to her and she lived upward as much as outward. I got to do a little research on Miss Jackson before sitting down to write, and her life offstage was as brilliant as her life under the lights. She was a central figure in the Civil Rights movement, she established a scholarship program for underprivileged  children who wanted to go to college, and she toured the world, spreading the Good News. Through it all, she lived humbly in a brick house in suburban Chicago, owning a floral shop and a beauty parlor until her death from heart failure in 1972.

Mahalia Jackson was able to take the sacred moment into the secular, thus making all moments before, after and around ring out with reverence and reverie. Both sinners and saints, believers and patient observers were a part of the communion. She was surrounded by the cream of American musicians that weekend, and in return, they were graced with her gifting. A musician’s creative force is poured out through the work they create, and it is arguable where it comes from. One thing is certain; for at least an hour on Sunday, July 6, 1958, Newport and the rest of the world received an unexpected and momentary salvation.

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Every American knows the blues. We’ve all heard it drifting up from the sticky Mississippi delta, salty and reeking of bathtub gin; anyone who knows a rock song unwittingly knows the blues lick that preceded it. Modern media have done much to propel the delta blues into our musical lexicon, but what about the blues of a different hue? What about the pickers east of the mighty Mississippi, coming from the red clay rocks of Georgia, or the mountains of Appalachia? Theirs is an amalgamation of once popular styles, molded by nimble hands and finely tuned ears, known as the Piedmont Blues.

The Piedmont plateau region runs from Richmond, VA to Atlanta, GA, stretching out to the edges of the Appalachian range on all sides. Many African-Americans

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began their migration here during Reconstruction and on through the 1920s, taking with them the musical traditions they had begun earlier. The natural barrier created by the mountains kept the local culture from expanding further north and west, and by the early 20th century, many musical styles had converged upon each other.

The ragtime and string band traditions melded with the white folk sounds of the mountain hollers, resulting in a highly syncopated, fingerpicking guitar style. Whereas ragtime piano uses the walking-bass left hand to support the melody driven right hand, Piedmont blues converts all action into the right hand. The thumb acts as the bass, while the rest of the fingers pick out the melody. Since influence was pulled from an assortment of different sources (country, ragtime, string bands and folk), Piedmont blues tend to have a lighter touch, as opposed to the heavy-handed delta sound.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fnWxZtI3ONY]

As with delta blues, the heyday of the Piedmont sound lasted through the 1920s and 30s, falling by the wayside during the war years, only to be picked up again by folklorists and revivalists of the late 1950s. Some of the most popular names in Piedmont blues are Blind Willie McTell, Blind Blake and Reverend Gary Davis. Their influence is heard in bands ranging from the Rolling Stones to Bob Dylan and the Carolina Chocolate Drops, to name a few.

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It’s said that there are many ways to skin a cat, and that rings as true in blues music as in anything else. The blues are an idea, conveyed in whatever style is readily available to the player at the time. Like it’s more popular counterpart, Piedmont fingerpicking blues has done more than its share to propel music forward, while pulling the past along for the ride.

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For most, the building located at 6907 Lankershim Boulevard means nothing. Situated in North Hollywood, it’s home to a banquet hall, specializing in Persian and Armenian delicacies. To anyone familiar with the history of country music, it means much more, whether they know it or not. From 1952-1995, 6907 Lankershim was home to, as the LA Times once put it, “country music’s most important west coast club”. Anyone who is familiar with Buck Owens or Merle Haggard, Jerry Lee Lewis or Dwight Yoakam, owes much to that piece of real estate, once known as The Palomino Club.

The Bakersfield sound began with a group of musicians in and around Bakersfield, CA. There, they traded drawling fiddles for driving electric guitars, mingling with the familiar sounds of steel guitar. Musicians such as Lefty Frizzel, Buck Owens and Hoyt Axton contributed to the new style, and all of them made regular appearances at The Palomino. It all began in 1952, when Indiana transplants Bill and Tom Thomas and Amos Emery “Pat” Yeigh began renting the rowdy beer bar. The Thomas’ had come to California with the notion of starting a night club. They chose the Palomino because of the low rent. They built it up over the next four years to be the biggest western club in the San Fernando Valley, attracting the biggest stars of both television and radio. Yeigh sold his interest in 1956 and when the building’s owner ran into financial trouble, he sold it cheap to the Thomas brothers.

During the 50s, the only competition the Palomino had to deal with was the Riverside Rancho, a big country music showcase that hosted the biggest stars of the day. When that closed down in 1959, it made all its stars available to The Palomino. Throughout the 60s and 70s, it’s popularity continued to grow. Aside from the  regular performers such as Buck Owens and Patsy Cline, and stars that just came to hang out, the club was just another neighborhood dive. Opening at 6am everyday, happy hour ran from 8-10am, and continued to be open throughout the day during soundchecks for the evening performances. Patrons could sit through soundcheck and chat up the bands, often getting off-the-cuff performances for free. The dressing rooms carried an open-door policy and almost everyone was up for having company and signing autographs.

As the 60s bled into the 70s, country music bled into long-haired rock. Gram Parsons brought his Flying Burrito Brothers to The Palomino, and other rock acts followed. The Cow Punk movement of the 80s found its home at The Palomino; Rosie Flores, The Long Ryders and Dwight Yoakam helped usher in a new sound, with strong ties to the old days. Sadly, after 43 years of business, The Palomino Club closed it’s doors in 1995. The deaths of the Thomas brothers and other financial struggles brought an end to the club’s illustrious career.

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Though Nashville has always been known as the hub of country music, Bakersfield and clubs such as The Palomino gave the smooth countrypolitan capitol an edge of competition. They were vastly different and yet shared similar roots. The Palomino was as important as Tootsie’s and just as rough around the edges. If not for the small neighborhood clubs, country music wouldn’t be what it is today.

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October 4th, 1970 dawned similar to October 3rd. People woke up, got the kids off to school, dressed and went to work. It was a seemingly ordinary day for most, save one. On the morning of October 4th, Janis Joplin lay face down in her LA motel room, dead of a heroin overdose. This was the second of three fateful deaths in the music community that year, first being Jimi Hendrix, to be followed by Janis and finally Jim Morrison. If there is one thing rock and rollers know,  it is that it’s better to go out with a bang than a whimper.

Janis Lyn Joplin was in LA recording her first solo album, Pearl (her nickname), coming out of a temporary hiatus from the music business. Her first big success came out of her alliance with Big Brother and The Holding Company, a band out of San Francisco. Their popularity as the Avalon Theater’s house band would land them a spot at the Monterey Pop Festival, giving blistering performances of their latest single, “Piece of My Heart”. After her Big Brother days ended, joined the Kozmic Blues Band for one album, I Got Dem Ol’ Kozmic Blues Again Mama.

Her lack of self-esteem and other personal demons found her early; she fell into drugs and never looked back, in an attempt to drown out her lack of self-worth. She partied with the boys, and often out did them. Her weapons of choice were Southern Comfort and heroin, often mixing and matching the two with whatever pills she felt necessary. Despite her usage, she was dedicated to her craft, working long hours in the studio and never missing a rehearsal. Which is why, when she failed to show up to the studio on October 4th, her band mates got worried.

On October 3rd, she was last seen in the lobby of the Landmark, getting change and picking up a pack of cigarettes. She had been to the Sunset Sound Studios earlier in the evening to hear the final bits of tracking for

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Pearl. After that, dinner and a couple of drinks followed at Barney’s Beanery before she went back to her room to shoot up. While waiting for the drugs to kick in, she went down to the lobby, buying cigarettes and coming back to her room. That was it. She was found the next morning, in a t-shirt and panties, head wedged between the bed and the night stand. The strength of the drugs had caught her off guard and she collapsed where she stood. The coroner ruled it an accidental overdose.

It shouldn’t have happened. It wouldn’t have happened, at least not that weekend, had it not been for her dealer. Normally he used a chemist to check the purity of his product, but that was the one weekend he was out-of-town. The drugs were pushed on a hunch, and turned out to be at least 50% pure. Even for a seasoned veteran, drugs of that potency are lethal. Eight other people were killed that weekend from the same batch of heroin.

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Janis was 27 when her star burned out. Hell, it didn’t burn out, it blew up. Her album was completed without her, all but one track already having the finished vocals. It was released and gave her the only #1 she would ever have, but never see. “Me and Bobby McGee” shot to the top of the charts and remains the seminal version we all know, despite its numerous recordings. Who knows what she would have lived to do, had that damned chemist been in town. Either way, we are lucky enough to have a small cache of honest, gritty, raw emotion, laid out and bunched up in just the right places, with Janis’ swagger and soul stamped all over them. So pull up a stool, pour yourself a drink and raise your glass to Pearl.

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Once upon a time, military service was not volunteer-based. Uncle Sam wasn’t picky when it came to gathering enlisted men; they had to have a pulse and be able to walk. There’s more to a draft process than this, but this made it almost impossible for a man to dodge the bullet, even if he was a so-called “King”. As expected, on December 20, 1958 Elvis Presley’s number was up, and the King of Rock and Roll was drafted.

It couldn’t have come at a worse time; his popularity was soaring to cosmic levels, his mother was becoming increasingly more ill and he

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was slated to begin a new movie project. The boy with the golden voice (and hips…) had made his mark on American pop culture at a time when the air was rife with change. Change was once again sweeping him off to an army base in Nowhere, TX and then to God-knows-where.

After contacting the recruiting office, his manager, Col. Tom Parker was able to get his trip deferred to March, when shooting of King Creole would be complete. So, on March 24, 1958, Elvis made his way over to the local Memphis draft board. There he began the enlistment process, hopping a bus to Fort Chaffee, Arkansas to finish. From the beginning, newspapers and tv cameras were everywhere, probably due to the efforts of Col. Parker. It was all dollars; what could be the worst scenario for Elvis’ career also had potential to be a gold mine. Turning Elvis into the upstanding American man, doing his patriotic duty without asking for special treatment, would endear him to fans both new and old. It would keep him in the spotlight, while he was kept under military wraps. The Col. knew that Elvis had plenty of unreleased material to keep him on the charts for the next two years, and the opportunity to build media hype upon departure would keep the fans clawing for more until he returned. It worked.

Immediately, fan letters began pouring in to the recruiting office, begging them to let Elvis go. The president himself received a handful of letters from bereaved fans, begging for the Army to avoid cutting his hair. All this fell to the wayside, as Elvis was in full compliance with the duties he faced. All branches of the military asked him to enlist before he was drafted, as early as 1957. The Air Force even offered to create an Elvis Presley Company, for the purpose of keeping Presley from regular military duty. He refused all such offers, wanting only to be treated as any other soldier, pulling KP, doing drills and whatever else it entailed. He didn’t want to be looked at differently, and because of his actions, he was soon accepted by his fellow soldiers.

He was shipped off to Fort Hood, TX on March 28,1958 where he completed basic training, living off base with his family. That summer, his mother’s health deteriorated enough for her to be brought back to Memphis, where she passed away on August 14, 1958. Elvis returned to Memphis for the funeral, and by September, Elvis was shipped off to Germany, where he would complete his tour of duty. His life changed while there, due to a young girl named Priscilla Beaulieu, whom he would later marry.

Elvis returned to America in March 1960 and was immediately back to work, appearing on a special with Frank Sinatra, going back to the studio and jumping head-first into what would prove to be a mediocre film career.

Even Elvis Aron Presley couldn’t escape the bare essentials of American citizenship. Although he didn’t want to go, he served with dignity and charisma, working hard alongside his compatriots, earning his stripes like everyone else. His popularity remained in tact, and it wasn’t until the Beatles hit our shores that Elvis became just another passing craze. Despite staying afloat, his absence made room for other sensations to come into the spotlight, such as Buddy Holly, Richie Valens and The Big Bopper, all of whom would be gone by the time he returned. The 60s would prove to be an uphill battle for the man who once sat atop the royal throne.

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Some of the worst riots in American history occurred over the weekend of August 11-15, 1965. L.A.’s Watts neighborhood had reached a breaking point of racial tension and in one long blur of looting, beatings and commercial fires, the African-American community had finally taken a stand against the brutality of the LAPD. The event was one of many that brought about long-awaited equal rights to blacks across the country. To celebrate the 7 year anniversary of the riots, Stax Records held a benefit concert that they hoped would rival the likes of Woodstock and the Monterey Pop Festival, complete with a documentary and the cream of the Stax artist roster. On August 20, 1972 Wattstax

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became the biggest African-American gathering since the March On Washington in 1963.

For $1.00, admission into the L.A. Coliseum afforded you the opportunity to see the biggest stars on the Stax label, all of whom would be performing for free. Capacity was set at 100,000, and at 73,000, the room was moving and swaying to the sounds of Isaac Hayes, Rufus and Carla Thomas, The Rance Allen Group, William Bell, The Staple Singers and many more. This was truly a unique experience; the security force was entirely black, all unarmed. Unlike all festivals previously, all performers were black; despite the resurgence of black music in the 60s, very few black performers were featured at the Monterey Pop Festival or Woodstock. This became a milestone in the fight for and celebration of the civil rights movement. All proceeds from the show went to the Sickle Cell Anemia Foundation, Martin Luther King Hospital and the Watts Labor Community Action Committee. From the opening notes of “Lift Every Voice And Sing” to the closing song of Hayes’ set, there was joyous dancing, raucous hand-raising and a spiritual force that would rival any southern tent revival.

It all began with Stax and it’s co-owner Al Bell. They had wanted to join forces with the Watts Summer Festival, which had begun in 1966, to showcase the Stax artist roster. What better way to empower the Watts community and the black community as a whole than a gigantic concert, complete with documentary? Stax had been at the forefront of the soul movement for almost 10 years, creating the Southern soul sound to rival the likes of Motown in Detroit. They gave voice to a race that had previously been stifled, and their impact had reached out into the white-washed suburban communities, without compromising the ground work of the music itself. The timing couldn’t have been better for an event of such magnitude.

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The documentary used live footage from the concert, plus additional concert footage from other shows around the area, plus “man-on-the-street” interviews with people in the Watts community, putting emphasis on what it was like to be an African-American in the U.S. in 1972. It was nominated for a Golden Globe in 1974 for Best Documentary and was shown at the Cannes Film Festival in 1973.

From the ashes of American flags and cinders of man’s oppression can rise the new seeds of growth and progress. As a nation, our history carries the bones of our worst moments. This does not limit what we can do, if we choose to stand up. The Civil Rights Movement brought about the most basic changes that needed to be made; equal rights and treatment for all, regardless of race, creed, age, sex. We will never get it completely right; there will always be stains on the tapestry of time, but we keep moving. Keep standing up, keep celebrating, keep pushing. The fruits of the labor will bring a celebration of kings.

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The post-war years of the 1950s saw the rise of the American teen as the economical barometer of the times. The younger generation was going out and getting after school jobs to finance growing record collections and burgeoning social lives. At the same time, Rock n’ Roll burst forth as the voice of teen angst and rebellion, channeled through radio airwaves and the new medium of television. When forged, these forces created one of the most influential cultural empires of the 20th century: American Bandstand.

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ABs beginnings were humble enough, formed in a local Philadelphia television studio in 1952. WFIL-TV brought Bob Horn into the living rooms of Philly teens, every afternoon from 3-4:30pm. Originally showing mostly short musical films, the format was changed to a dance party, with local teens coming into the studio and dancing to the latest records, on October 7, 1952. The teen stars who made them popular would come on and lip-sync to the recorded version, while the locals twirled around with the latest dance moves. Originally titled Bandstand, the show had an impressive run from 1952-1989.

As 1956 rolled around, the network made significant changes to the show. Bob Horn was fired for being caught driving under the influence, on July 9, being permanently replaced by Dick Clark. WFIL had been participating in an anti-drunk driving campaign and decided it was best to find a new host. By 1957, the show was picked up by the American Broadcasting Company (ABC), being aired nationally for 90 minutes every afternoon. This was done to fill program gaps between the soap operas and evening programming. It was the perfect way to tap into America’s emerging teen demographic, coming on just as the kids were getting home from school, and ending just as dinner was being placed on the table. It gave boys and girls across the country access to all their favorite stars, and acted as a vehicle to propel record sales, thus boosting revenues for the labels. The first national broadcast featured a young Jerry Lee Lewis performing “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On”, while other episodes included, Francis, Chubby Checker and so on. All this being said, it became necessary to change the name of the show to fit its new home on ABC. American Bandstand was christened and set sail on August 5, 1957.

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Throughout the early 60s, programming began changing. Beginning in 1961, the show was cut down to 60 minutes; by 1962 it was 30 minutes. 1963 saw the 5 episodes for each week filmed on Saturday, to be broadcast the following week. By September of 1963 they dropped air time down to Saturday afternoons only, which is how it stayed until the final episode in 1989. Alongside the programming changes came geographical changes; the show moved to Los Angeles in 1964.With the advent of psychedelic rock in the late 60s, AB‘s focus shifted from the rock n’ roll dance tunes to the newer form of disco.This was because the show was based around dancing; kids didn’t dance to The Who or The Grateful Dead, but they could groove on the Bee Gees. Despite a backlash from teens weaned on rock music, the show continued to have popularity and sell the sounds of the day.

The end became apparent in 1987, when AB was moved to the USA Network, in syndication. Gone were the glory days of prime time, major network appeal. Dick Clark had stepped aside as host, taking on the executive producer role exclusively. By 1989, it was all over. The music ended, the dancers went home and the lights were turned off for the last time. America had let the good times role for 37 years, but with the advent of MTV and other exclusively music channels, American Bandstand became passe. The longest running show in American history went off the air for good.

What began as an offshoot to a local radio program, became a monolith of the entertainment industry, not only predicting, but guiding the forces of popular culture. Stars were born beneath Dick Clark’s watchful eye and teens across the country had an outlet to express excitement and come into their own. Thanks to Dick, Bob Horn and everyone else at WFIL, we now have 24 hour music channels that show nothing but music videos and showcase artists. Just one more example of how music is taking over the world.

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The visions of men have ability to take form, under the worst circumstances. The visions of men can drive them mad, make them hated, and lose them everything. Following dreams can sometimes produce fruit, while other times produce just one more opportunity to piss in the wind. Sometimes, they can make two polish immigrants push a group of poor black men and women from the bottom of Chicago’s blues scene to the top of the billboard charts. This happened at least one time, and it was for Leonard and Phillip Chess, founders of Chess Records. With others, they birthed and parented the Chicago blues movement, bringing opportunities to the folks who gave it a voice. In a time where black and white couldn’t even share the same set of steps, they created a whole new style of music together, paving the way for rock n’ roll.

Leonard and Phillip Chess came to America in 1928, settling in Chicago just before the onslaught of the Great Depression. During the 30s and 40s they bought up multiple clubs in town, giving black migrants from the south places to display their talents, the biggest of which was the Macamba. They brought in blues and jazz artists that would otherwise have nowhere to go. They noticed a lack of places that black artists could go to record, so they decided to start a label and do it themselves. Around the same time they met a couple named Charles and Evelyn Aron, who had started up a small label, Aristocrat Records. Joining forces in 1947, the Chess brothers saw their goal on the horizon.

The 30s and 40s saw a huge migration of southern blacks into northern towns. In the post-war culture of America, jobs were found in the factories of the north, so many moved north, looking for more opportunities. The promise of more than a sharecropper’s wage brought a young McKinley Morganfield to south Chicago, with an electric guitar and little else. He played on the street, meeting up with other blues artists, eventually forming a band and making the rounds to the clubs. He ended up playing in one of the Chess brothers’ clubs, where he was discovered by Leonard. This is how Muddy Waters first came to record with Aristocrat, later renamed Chess Records, becoming the father of the electric blues, and one of the key figures in the Chicago blues movement. He would also influence a handful of guitarists throughout the 50s and 60s to create some of the best rock licks of all time, including Keith Richards, Eric Clapton and more.

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By 1950, Leonard and Phillip had bought out the Arons, renamed and reorganized the label into Chess Records, and located it at 2120 S. Michigan Ave. Along with Muddy Waters, Leonard discovered Little Walter, the harmonica player that would revolutionize the instrument in the field of electric blues. Not only was he Muddy’s sidekick, providing the signature harmonica licks in all his hits, but he became a solo artist in his own right. He recorded on the Checker label, a subsidy of Chess, having a few hits, most importantly being “My Babe” in 1955. Soon realizing that they needed to scout talent from across the nation, the Chess brothers started looking to Sam Phillips to provide up and coming players from the South. This connection brought up Chester Burnette, known to us as “Howlin’ Wolf”, from the salty streets of Memphis. He first recorded with Phillips at Sun Studios, producing the hits “How Many More Years”/”Moanin’ In The Moonlight” in 1951. These masters were leased to Chess, because Phillips had yet to start his own label. They brought the Wolf up to Chicago where he cut “Smokestack Lightnin'”. The rest is history.

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Probably the greatest addition the brothers added to the company was a session bass player named Willie Dixon. He was the in-house songwriter/bass player/producer on most of the music coming out of the studio. His hands were in every part of the process, and although he wasn’t in the spotlight like Muddy or Wolf, he laid the ground work and kept the fires burning for years.

It’s amazing that this was able to happen at the period in American history that it did. Civil rights wasn’t even a whisper on the lips of future activists; the black musicians putting Chess on the map were relegated to using a back stairway to get to the studio. White artists were recutting their music and taking every song to the top of the charts, reaping the benefits while Muddy and the rest had to get full-time jobs. Instead of being given any royalties in money, Leonard would buy them cars or houses, not giving them access to the money they rightfully deserved. It is said that Leonard was equally loved and hated by everyone. He was a conduit for their music,  but he was a hard-driving, tough-as-nails man to deal with in person. He knew what he wanted and he would stop at nothing to get there. Despite the opportunities created, we can’t overlook the fact that this was not a colorblind world, and it did not keep colorblind company.

By 1960, the Chess brothers had taken on more help in the studio and daily running in order to spend more time on the radio stations they had acquired. WVON was an exclusively black station, playing all the Chess artists, from Muddy and Little Walter, to Chuck Berry, whom Muddy had convinced to join Chess, Etta James, who became a legendary r&b artist, Bo Diddley, John Lee Hooker and many others. Along with the main label, they started Argo (later renamed Cadet) Records for all their jazz and r&b cuts. Ralph Bass was hired away from King Records in 1959 to oversee all A&R; he in turn brought in Billy Davis to produce. Billy was instrumental in reviving Etta James’ career and also bringing Chess into the area of soul music. Etta became their biggest soul artist, along with Fontella Bass, the Dells and others.

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Chess continued to pump out hit after hit throughout the 60s, but the loss of key personnel and the selling off of the company proved to be a fatal blow to an otherwise untouchable contender. Billy Davis left in 1968 to pursue another career, which caused most of the creative talent to also walk out the door. Leonard, who had always been the creative touchstone for the entire operation became heavily involved in WVON; he and Phillip sold Chess in 1969 to General Recorded Tape and later that year he died unexpectedly. This was the final nail in the coffin. Quality output petered out by 1972 and by 1975 GRT sold off what was left of Chess to New Jersey label, All Platinum Records. It all happened so suddenly; the company with no foreseeable end in sight was gone. Chess was the black sheep of the crowd from day one, but it was the sheep that everyone looked to for necessary change.

Among the countless artists touched by the Chess output stand the Rolling Stones. They recorded there in the mid 60s and immortalized it forever with their instrumental “2120 S. Michigan Ave.”, on their 1964 album 12×5. Technically, the song was recorded with 4 others for their 1964 EP 5×5, but it was paired with other recordings for their U.S. LP release later that year. Another story that may or may not be true comes from the first time Brian Jones met Keith Richards. Apparently, Jones saw a copy of Chess LP-1427,

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The Best of Muddy Waters and they began talking. Whether it happened or not doesn’t really matter; they formed a band and titled it after one of Muddy’s songs, “Rollin’ Stone”.

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The blues travels everywhere; it came on trains and buses from the south to the bustling cities above the Mason/Dixon. It hopped a plane and landed in small town record stores all over England, finding the hands of hungry white guitarists. It  continues to travel over airwaves and throughout space: a copy of Chuck Berry’s “Johnny B. Goode” was launched into space in the 70s, traveling to galaxies unknown still. Leonard and Phillip had an idea and they ran with it. They took the blues and threw it as far as they could, hoping someone else would catch it and continue running. Great ideas defy time and space; we take them as far as we can before we hand them off to the next person. It’s one of life’s greatest gifts.

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On December 6, 1969, the death knell hovering over the free-loving 60s rang out, cutting the cold night air like a rusted switch blade. In a beer-soaked, drug laced proscenium 30 minutes outside of San Francisco, the last cries of peace and love were blotted out by the thumping of pool cues on flesh, pitting “flower children” against “noble savages”, hippie against Hell’s Angel. At the center of it all was a band of British misfits, attempting to pull from the wreckage a night of harmonious oneness, but getting to the scene of the crash too late. The Altamont Free Concert

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, purported to be the “Woodstock of the West”, turned out to be the swan song of the American counterculture.

It was supposed to be the final concert of the Rolling Stones’ ’69 American tour. Throughout the fall, concert attendance had been through the roof, so Mick and the boys decided to stage a free show,  a sort of thank you to the dedicated fans who had pushed their career into the heavens. The fact that a documentary was being filmed around the tour, with this final show providing the crowning moment of their glory, was probably another important, albeit unmentioned factor…

The show was set for Golden Gate Park, on December 6th. Unlike the three-day affair Woodstock became, the free concert festival was meant as a one-day event. Local San Francisco bands and other west coast acts would provide the foundation for the Stones to enter at the end of the evening. Among others on the bill, Santana, The Flying Burrito Brothers, Jefferson Airplane and The Grateful Dead were scheduled to perform. During the days leading up to the event, Golden Gate Park decided to drop the event from their schedule, due to a previously scheduled 49ers football game. The Stones’ management scrambled to find a replacement site, and settled on Sears Point Raceway. December 4th ushered in another set of problems as management fought with Sears Point’s owner, Filmways, Inc., over the filming distribution rights. This left them 48 hours to find a new venue, move all equipment and redirect all 300,000 fans that were on their way to CA. In a strategic business move, Altamont Raceway owner, Dick Curtis, offered up his location for the festival. What better way to get good publicity than to host a festival that would go down as big and better than Woodstock?

With their biggest problems solved, cast and crew made plans to converge on Altamont Raceway early Saturday morning, all other issues be damned. Among other issues that would be dealt with on-sight were the shortage of bathroom and medical facilities. With 300,000 people coming in, like refugees fleeing their war-torn lands, there was no way to account for parking, food, and waste removal. Somehow it all came together for Woodstock, the ground-breaking three-day festival in upstate New York, where the hippy culture reached its lawless, cultural nexus. It was freedom from the man and free love for all, and Altamont was considered the “Woodstock of the West”. Now the only problem was organizing a security force to protect the musicians and equipment from the frenzied crowds.

Enter, Hell’s Angels. Used frequently by The Dead and Jefferson Airplane for concert security, they came recommended. They were the ones The Dead used to protect generators and other electrical equipment from fans, and all they cost was their own weight in beer. The Stones had used some Hells Angels at their free concert in Hyde Park, London a few months earlier, and that had worked out tremendously. Everyone was well-behaved and had a great time; it wasn’t until later they found out that those “bikers” were merely dandies in denim, who fantasized about the world of renegade outlaws, without actually being a part of it. The real Hells Angels were the men behind the myth, and they lived up to their name. Both sides will deny that they were hired as security and that they were paid in $500 worth of beer, but one Hells Angel named Sweet William recalled a conversation had with Sam Cutler, road manager of the Rolling Stones, before the event. While talking with Cutler, another Angel Pete Knell, said there was no way they would take on the responsibility. They were there for fun, end of story. To this, Cutler asked if they could help give back, by generally helping out. The response was, “Sure, we can do that.”. So whether or not they were officially hired to act as security guards doesn’t matter; they were there, they were drunk, and they did what they said they would do: give direction.

From the ring of the first power chord, there was trouble. The crowd was antsy, pushing and throbbing to get near the action. The booze and the pills, acid trips and other substances were hitting all the right people at the wrong time. Crowd members were getting into scuffles with Angels and were drug away unconscious, bleeding and angry. As the day wore on, “concert security” was getting more volatile, in direct correlation to the amount of empty beer cans piling up around them. By the time Jefferson Airplane took the stage, it was getting out of hand. In fact, during one knock-down-drag-out moment, singer Marty Balin jumped into the middle to stop the fight. He was beat unconscious by an Angel. On arrival, The Dead heard about what had been happening, took one look at each other and piled back in the helicopter. They probably came out of all this the wisest. GET OUT WHILE YOU CAN.

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By the time Mick and the boys took the stage, it was dark, it was cold, and people were in a frenzy. They showed up over an hour late, apparently due to Bill Wyman getting stuck en route. They made it to the stage and had to stop two songs into their set. More than once  Mick had to stop the music and make announcements for everyone to “chill out”. It was during the third song, “Under My Thumb” that the bottom fell out. 18-year-old Meredith Hunter was towards the front left side of the stage and he followed suit when other fans jumped up on stage. He was punched n the face by an Angel and drug off to the side. In a drug-addled blur, he rushed back towards the stage, reaching for a long-barrel pistol in his coat pocket. He was taken out by Angel Alan Passaro, stabbed 5 times in the back and once beneath the ear, all of which is visible in the concert footage. Unbeknown-st to the band, he is killed; all they could see was another fight, so they continued playing, hoping to avoid mass chaos. They cut their set short and were rushed to a waiting helicopter, where they were transported to safety.

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It was over. The lights were cut. The silence was deafening. When all was said and done, there were four births and four deaths; one homicide, one hit-and-run where two who lay sleeping were run over, and one accidental drowning. Four lives given, where four more were brutally taken away. Over the passing days, months and years, Altamont was seen as the apocalyptic result of an innocently destructive counterculture. What so many saw as the beginning of a new way of life, became the negative image; the terrifying reality of what happens when all moral and legal order is pushed aside. Less than a month later, the 60s were officially over, with the 1970s pushing over the distant horizon line. For many, December 6th brought the 60s to an unexpected and grotesque end. Even free love has it’s price.

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When an entertainer’s career is on the downturn, there’s usually no turning back. Fads come and go, styles change, and fans are fickle. A small percentage of young dreamers are given the opportunity to step out on the stage to show what they’re made of, and a fraction of those elite rarely hang around longer than 5 years. Elvis burst onto the scene at a time when music and popular culture were at a crossroads. America was pregnant with a new movement and ready to pop: Elvis was the lanky Mississippian positioned as the unknowing midwife. The birth pains were extreme, the moaning was ear shattering, and Rock ‘n Roll came out kicking and screaming. Presley delivered, along with Little Richard, Buddy Holly and a slew of other doctors. He rode the wave all the way to his army induction, but upon return to American soil in 1960, he had become old news. The Beatles invaded, the Stones rolled in and Elvis was relegated, against his will or wishes, to the Saturday afternoon matinée. The star that once burned white-hot was almost burned out…ALMOST.

In October of 1967, Elvis’ manager, Col. Tom Parker

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rigged a deal with NBC to produce an Elvis Christmas special for the 1968 Christmas season. It was announced in January of 1968 by NBC head Tom Sarnoff. Parker originally envisioned the show as Elvis doing a trumped-up holiday concert, much like the Christmas radio broadcast he had done the year before. Steve Binder was hired to direct and he and Bones Howard would produce. Once Binder was on board, he began to see how this would be an opportunity to jump-start Presley’s flagging music career. He and Howard assembled a team that would build an hour-long special up around Elvis’ natural performing ability and musical interpretation skills. Elvis, unedited, on national tv, doing what he did best.

The show, simply titled Elvis, incorporated both choreographed numbers and improvised jam sessions, which were unheard of at the time. Chris Bearde and Alan Blye were hired to write a basic script for the show, a story centered around a young man finding his way in the world, running into obstacles and trying to figure out what he is made of. A version of Jerry Reed’s “Guitar Man” was the centerpiece of this theme, and together with “Trouble” this became the grand opening sequence of the show, complete with choreography, costumes and full band.

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The jam sessions that we’re all familiar with were not in the original show concept. During production, Elvis took up residence in his dressing room, with a cot and everything. He would wind down everyday in there with friends and band mates, jamming and laughing for hours. One night, Binder walked in on one of these sessions and found himself wishing he had a camera with him. How cool would it be to film this? It’s Elvis at his essence – at his best! Four different live sessions were quickly outlined; as a bonus, Elvis would be reunited with Scotty Moore and DJ Fontana, two of his original band mates. Along with Alan Fortas, Lance LeGault, Charlie Hodge and various guitars/accompanying cases, the group was piled onto a tiny square stage in the middle of a live studio audience. They reminisced, ran through old songs, jammed some old blues numbers and made everyone feel like they were getting a sneak peek into the personal lives of everyone on display.

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Oddly enough, Elvis was extremely nervous about performing live. It took months for him to warm up to the idea, even minutes before the taping. He hadn’t performed live since 1961, and frankly, he was afraid he had lost “it”. Binder made him a deal: if at any point he got uncomfortable, he could just get up and leave. He never did, although he pretended to, which can be seen in the final cut. The sessions were filmed over a period of 4 days, two sit-down portions and two stand-up sessions of Elvis singing with backing tracks. Each filming used a different audience, with an hour in between for Elvis to shower and have his black leather suit dry-cleaned.

The show was pieced together by the end of the summer and was aired on December 3, 1968 to critical acclaim. 42% of the national viewing audience tuned in, which was record-breaking, and secured Elvis’ reclaiming of his musical title of “King”. This was the pivotal moment in his career; do-or-die and he did it, in a way only Elvis could. From here, he secured deals to perform in Vegas and began a string of national tours that would take him through the end of the 60s and the 70s, to his death in 1977. At the 40th anniversary screening, Priscilla Presley sat next to Steve Binder. Partway through, she leaned over and whispered in his ear, “You saved his life. You saved his career”. Thank you, Steve.

In a business built on finding the next big thing and forsaking what has passed its prime, Elvis blew the door to success back open. With a team behind him that believed in everything he did, he swaggered back into the spotlight, grabbed it by the throat and blew its face off. It took everyone by surprise, but not his fans. They were just waiting for the moment he would come back. Stars that bright do indeed burn out, but once in a while instead of extinguishing, they just burn brighter. In a world with a “no return” policy, the ’68 Comeback Special returned with a huge profit for all.

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