I was trolling through the vast wasteland that is cable TV (one of those many “500+ stations and nothing to watch” moments) and came across a documentary on Showtime about the great singer-songwriter-soulman Bill Withers – “Still Bill.”

I’ll confess I didn’t expect much. To me, Bill Withers is sort of like the Grand Canyon – hard to miss, great place to visit… then you never go back. Or, as Withers himself put it in the movie, “I think I’m kind of like pennies. You have them in your pocket but don’t remember they’re there.” So the first thing I appreciated about the documentary was being reintroduced to some classic stuff that I’ve always been aware of but never truly appreciated: Ain’t No Sunshine

The film reminded me that short, sturdy songs like Lean On Me and Ain’t No Sunshine and Use Me are about as good as it gets… almost zen-like in the way they convey basic human emotion. Little pop hymns for the masses – and I mean that in the best possible sense. “The hardest thing to be in songwriting is to be simple and yet profound,” said Sting in one of the interviews that underscore Withers towering influence on contemporary pop. “Bill seems to understand intrinsically, instinctively how to do that.”

When you listen to a tune like Sunshine, you realize that songwriting really hasn’t advanced much since the early ‘70s. In fact, when you think about a lot of the contrived crap that passes as hip-hop or indie rock – or one of those country hits that seems like a checklist for the Bubba lifestyle – it’s easy to argue that the form has actually devolved over the past four decades.

In the film, Withers confesses that he’s bit of a manic-depressive. And even though he walked away from the music business in 1985, you can still see flashes of that obsessive focus shared by most great artists. Whether he’s worrying over a single couplet (one of his many gems: “Your love is like a chunk of gold, hard to get and hard to hold”) or worked up about the phrasing of a chorus, Withers serves as living proof that constructing the perfect three-minute pop song is serious business: Grandma’s Hands

The casual feel of his best material hides the fact that there’s a hell of a lot of sweat equity behind these mini-masterpieces. And although he hasn’t released anything since his last Columbia album in ’85, the film shows a very animated, 70-year-old Withers working on a Cuban-flavored tune in his home studio with Latin musician Raul Midon. “He has no problem throwing down when he feels like throwing down,” his daughter Kori points out. “When he wants to do something, he’s just obsessed. He’s all in, up at 2 o’clock in the morning, not eating, not sleeping.”

“Still Bill” doesn’t delve too much into why Withers left the business, or even his glory years of 1971 to 1975, before he signed with Columbia and veered off into “quiet storm” territory. And the film’s directors, Alex Vlack and Damani Baker, readily admit to this shortcoming. Instead of taking a more straightforward biographical approach, Vlack and Baker captured the remarkable spirit of the man as he is today: “…we just realized that he was such an unbelievable guy and the more time we spent with him the more we just kept thinking, ‘This needs to be a film about him as a person, not about his life so much,’” said Vlack in an interview with PopMatters. “So I think the more that we just kind of learned about him and spent time with him and just experienced what it’s like to be around such a wise and complex, interesting guy that we realized that’s the experience we want people to have watching it.”

Besides, a lot of the basic biographical information on Withers is readily available on Wikipedia and elsewhere. Born on the Fourth of July, 1938, in Slab Fork, West Virginia… youngest of 13 children… spent his youth as an asthmatic stutterer (“Any dreams I had, I kept to myself”)… inspired by his grandmother and the spontaneous singing at her Holy Sanctified Church… joined the Navy when he was only 17… worked at Douglas Aircraft installing toilets into 747s… wrote songs on the side, and saved up enough money to record a few demos… got signed by Sussex Records in 1970 and recorded his first album with the legendary Booker T. Jones at the helm… moved to Columbia in ’75 after Sussex went under… eventually became disenchanted with the music business when Columbia execs – and various white “black-sperts,” as he likes to call them – kept pushing him away from the stripped-down sound and honest emotions of his original recordings.

In the film, Withers points out that he didn’t even own a guitar until around 1970. “I don’t know an F-sharp from 9th Street,” he said. His first live performance was in front of about 5,000 people, probably around the time that Ain’t No Sunshine was rocketing up the pop charts. And given that most of his life has been spent away from the spotlight, it’s not surprising that Withers comes across as an exceptionally warm, well-adjusted and centered person, with few if any regrets about his personal and professional decisions. “We are so remiss in overvaluing entertainers – of which I am one, no problem – and athletes and undervaluing the people around us who have less-obvious gifts,” Withers said, bringing even greater clarity to his decision to remain outside the public eye.

By the end of “Still Bill,” you feel like you’ve been hanging out with your favorite relative – and can’t wait for the next family get-together.

Although Withers engages in a little group bloviation with African-American black-sperts Dr. Cornel West and Tavis Smiley, he can’t resist bringing that session back to reality when Smiley decries the dangers of selling out. “I’m not crazy about that word,” Withers replies. “We’re all entrepreneurs. To me, I don’t care whether you own a furniture store or whatever, the best sign you can put up is ‘sold out.’ Can we make that ‘subservient’?”

Once again, Withers is a lot more complicated than his songs and easygoing manner would suggest. He struggled with an obvious (and still slightly noticeable) stutter until roughly the same time that he entered the music business. But he shows no signs of the subservient mindset that can trigger many speech disorders. There seems to be great inner strength and pride behind his decision to spend more time with his family rather than lip-synch his way through yet another TV variety show – or put out yet another over-produced album for Columbia: You Try to Find a Love

Withers is especially emotional when he talks about the issue of stuttering and the need to bring greater self-esteem to children who struggle with it. The film captures his appearance at a fundraiser for New York City’s Our Time Theater Company, where he gives a few heartfelt remarks about his own experience as a stutterer: “Let’s hope that each kid finds his own personal comfort zone, where he can grow and nurture whatever gifts that he might have. Because if you take away the people who stutter from the world, you’re left with a whole bunch of chatty… fill in your own word.”

But the film’s most touching moment comes near the end, when Withers records a song written and performed by his daughter Kori. As he listens to a playback of the tender, jazzy ballad, he can only cry… probably tears of gratitude for the time he spent away from the “fame game,” nurturing the gifts of his children.

Bill Withers on video – with his great touring band from the ’70s: Benorce Blackman on guitar, Ray Jackson on keyboards, Melvin Dunlap on bass and the supremely funky James Gadson on drums:

And here’s the trailer for “Still Bill”…

“Still Bill” is available on Showtime on Demand through Feb. 28. Or, you can order a DVD on amazon (below):

Caroline, Dan and Mary at the Grammys

My sister Mary Auerbach, French teacher at Woodridge High School and mother of The Black Keys’ Dan, gives us a blow-by-blow of her recent trip to the Grammys, where the Keys picked up a little hardware for the trophy case.

So, not being a tweeter or much of a social networker, I’ve decided to use my brother’s blog to respond to all the wonderful Akronites who’ve asked, what’s it like to be at the Grammys? (The “GRAMMY Grammys,” as my friend Julie put it.)

Let’s begin in the middle – and if you want to really hear about all my lame preparations in anticipation of attending this year’s Grammy ceremonies, you can catch that on my facebook page.

When our son Dan and his bandmate Patrick of The Black Keys were nominated for four Grammys this year, my half of Dan’s parental unit decided it might be a nice idea to actually attend the ceremony in Los Angeles. My husband Chuck opted out of the garish event, deciding to remain true to the alternative roots of our son’s band, even though the doting dad had predicted a Grammy eight years ago. I decided to attend with my sister Caroline and her two girls, Hazel and Pearl.  A girls’ weekend for a mom who has four brothers and two sons. Yippee!

Hazel and Pearl, Grammy-bound

Preparations aside, let’s just say that after two months of gearing up, I found myself with two days off my teaching job, flying to 80-degree LA on the day before the Grammys, fresh from the slushy streets of Akron and the crunchy ice that’s been underfoot for seemingly a lifetime. I was immediately blinded by the intensity of… what do they call it? Oh yes. The sun. I was literally blinded. So much so that this seasoned international traveler found herself immediately at the wrong baggage carousel – and in the wrong terminal! None of the airport staff could help me, but my younger sister (from Boulder CO) not only found me but picked me up in her rental car and ferried me to the proper place. My lone bag was sitting in the “found luggage” room and god knows how I had found it. Welcome to LA.

I got a Grammy schedule from Dan’s manager, and we GPS’d our way to the boutique hotel in West Hollywood where Dan had reserved a suite for us. “What suite?” they asked. “Oh, for today, not tomorrow?” Four hours later we moved into our rooms, and god knows how they found a suite at the last minute on Grammy weekend. “God knows how” became the catch-phrase for our stay.

We proceeded (very fortunately, it turns out) to front-load ourselves with food. And where was Dan? Meeting with a “megastore” – the first of many business-related responsibilities he had warned me about. Our post-arrival lunch spot, just around the corner, was chosen by Dan’s very foody wife Steph, in an effort to get us off to a good start in LA. But the charming little cafe was so jammed with customers and fast-moving, tray-laden waiters that we literally cowered against the walls (for an hour, with a three-year-old in tow) and opted for take-out. Then we hoofed it back to the hotel in time to gobble it down in our rooms just before leaving for – early dinner. My capable sister had set up reservations in the only nearby restaurant that was offering them, at the only time available. We met up with my younger son Geoff (renamed “Thank God for Geoff” after the weekend) and his girl Katie, who cruised over in a convertible they had rented. We had arrived. We had eaten. We were ready for Grammy day. Possibly the longest day of my life.

Geoff and Katie

The front-loading ended with room-service breakfast on Sunday. Dan and daughter joined us. Then it was time for “hair and make-up” for Dan and Steph. We girls did our own hair and make-up, in which I had been diligently tutored by fashion-minded friends in Akron. My hippie sister winged it, and her girls needed no help whatsoever. We carved aside an entire hour to get dolled up, and then set off at noon for the three-hour pre-show, which would be immediately followed by the three-hour telecast. That’s more than six hours of interminable self-congratulation and waiting around! We brought our books and of course several pairs of shoes, jammed into a giant bag. My friend Ann had advised, “Don’t you dare wear flats. Just bring a bottle of 800 mg. ibuprofen!” I also threw in a bag of almonds… We were ready for a long day.

As you all know by now, Grammy night is all about spectacle. A two-man band from Akron is not exactly spectacle. The event organizers decided to shave off as many awards from the telecast as possible in the search for continually higher ratings. Gaga! Bieber! Mick! Bring ‘em on. In the meantime, the four categories for which the Keys were nominated would be dealt with at the “pre-show,” held next door to the Staples Center. We were hoping, though, that perhaps the Alternative Rock Album award might find some broadcast time. In fact, at one point during the handing out of 98 Grammys at the pre-show, Dan’s publicist excitedly told me that award had been moved to the telecast. No such luck.

Instead of paying $60 for a taxi, we took our rental car to the LA Convention Center, where the parking lot required a permit. So of course we started to whine as we searched for side-street parking within high-heel range of the center. Caroline soldiered on, making a U-turn into a place marked “Barney’s Warehouse Sale Parking.” It was a practically empty parking garage under the far side of the center. We were almost afraid to ask if we could park there for the Grammys, but the attendant sheepishly waved us in. He knew the $100 parking lot on the other side was a total rip-off. He just forgot to tell us we needed to be back by 8 p.m.

We hiked through the Center – several football fields’ worth of hiking – to the back door of the pre-show theater. “Thank God for Geoff” met us there with tickets in hand and bullied the five idle scanner guys into getting us in the back door. “Look at all those shoes,” one of them said.

Brothers

Arriving late at the pre-show, we found a grinning and daffy Mike Carney, who had just won a Grammy for the design of Keys’ “Brothers” album. He had endured the podium acceptance and the media room grilling and was still somewhere on a cloud. He needed a hug. I fulfilled my duty as a surrogate parent.

Our entourage was seated quite far in the back of a very dark room. We weren’t allowed to bring a camera… curses! Dan and Pat showed up in tuxedos, and their young ladies were stunningly beautiful. Steph was over six feet tall in high heels. Brother Geoff wore his tie in a “Merovingian” knot – like the evil twins in the Matrix, he said. Keys’ management was hovering. Would Mike win a Grammy, and not the guys whose album he’d designed? But they won two – and we cheered wildly as they went up to the podium, reminding me of the many graduation ceremonies I’d attended where that sort of thing was frowned upon. Other band entourages stomped out. Wildly dressed people swarmed about. Country singers with guitars brocaded on their tuxedos stood out. I met the great bluegrass musician Del McCoury, who Dan had performed with on Friday night at the Troubadour. And my heart went out to Neil Young, who was there to pick up his first music Grammy. Unbelievable.

But where was the food? Water bottles everywhere, but nothing to eat. And my feet were starting to hurt. I decided to stick with the flats (sorry, Ann) for the trip to the Staples Center for the telecast.

My God, the Staples Center. Hazel and Pearl took off to explore and peek at outfits, and Geoff and Katie left for a brief drink with friends. We all badly needed a break and couldn’t attend the red carpet at 4. Caroline and I stood around outside, wondering why the doormen (and women) were so insistently herding people indoors. Were they taking their duties too seriously? Bizarre outfits, seas of long dresses, even kimonos flowed past us. Rappers in massive suits, someone in five-inch platform tennis shoes. Still, no food in sight.

Del McCoury, Grammy nominee

Caroline and I had taken the more expensive tickets and left the rafter seats to the others. Our special seats had a special entrance, but it took us awhile to get there through the crowd. The auditorium was gasp-out-loud huge. It was packed with people hurrying to their seats. Huge screens with moving graphics only made us feel dizzier. Where were Geoff and the girls? The doors were closing! We were being locked in the Center with no food! No one could leave and return, and no one else could enter. But the rest of our group made it in at the last second. It was 4:45 and the telecast was about to begin, hence the herding. I reached for my bag of almonds while watching the people in the box seats eat all the food they could handle.

Dan, Pat and Mike were dragged to do some red carpeting, but their luscious ladies were barred. What up with that? Dan especially liked Jimmy Kimmel. His Mexican waiter interviewer (a Kimmel show regular) was about to ask a question when he saw Kim Kardashian. He ran off after her, leaving the boys staring at an empty mic. Ah, the Grammys.

I must say I was nicely distracted by the spectacle, and we were never bored – annoyed at times (Bieber, anyone?), but not bored. I don’t tweet, but I texted almost continuously to give my Akron family and friends one degree of separation from the Grammys. Brother Tim was having a viewing party with Chuck, and I sent him a few photos taken by my lame phone camera (which he of course tweeted right away). The light show was astounding – and, as reported, almost seizure-inducing for the band Arcade Fire. Cindy Lauper made her way to Dan’s row just before a performance started. She was forced to crouch down, so Dan briefly offered her his seat. And that’s how Steph appeared on the telecast, clapping with Lauper after one of the acts. I hope it wasn’t Bieber.

Screen shot of Steph, Cindy Lauper and Ray Lamontagne on TV

The stage production was amazing, and from farther back it was really magical. Hundreds of people would scurry backstage to set up during commercials, with never a hitch. Megastars who typically don’t take orders from anyone arrived exactly where and when they were needed. Despite a few minor screwups – like Christina Aguilera almost falling off the stage and the Avett Brothers mic stand falling over – the whole event had a Cirque du Soleil-like precision and flair.

Sheer screens, flames, people hoisted into the air, Lady Gaga’s egg thingy… It was all pretty astounding. My favorite act was the intense Eminem, with Rihanna flowing gently on a film screen above him. But the most amazing thing was the sound. Not even the best home theater could possibly capture the effect of being that enveloped in sound. The place was huge and it literally vibrated, but without killing your ears.

We stuck it out until the very end, then remembered how hungry we were. Dan was long gone, and Geoff left shortly after him (probably had a nose bleed) but made sure we were on the guest list for the Warner Records party.

The next hour was spent trying to find a street entrance to our parking lot (the upper entrances were locked shut after 8 p.m.). So we were late for the after-party and, at that point, close to starving. Some celebrities, having fulfilled their record company obligations, were already leaving. Thankfully, someone met us at the door with sliders and a fizzy wine drink. I scarfed down the burger (in my elegant dress and high heels) before I even got to the party room, where we were greeted by even more trays of food. I took off my shoes and chowed down, leaving the celebrity search to the young ‘uns. Geoff saw Juliette Lewis, Beyonce/Jay Z, Lenny Kravitz, Jane Lynch (“We loved you as Constance in “Party Down,” Geoff told her, to her utter delight) and Jeffrey Ross. But the highlight was when long red-haired Pearl met snowboarding celeb Shaun White. “I have red hair. You have red hair. We should be friends.” We took a picture, and they look like twins.

Pearl and Shaun White, twins

Dan was there for a little while, but soon left for the hotel with Steph. They flew to Vegas the next morning, and the show goes on. The flight home was all sunshine and clear skies – with the pilot tilting the plane each way after takeoff to give us a better view. I loved seeing the LA skyline… behind us, of course.

Thanks to Ann, Jenn, Amy and Laura and Meg for the shoes, make-up, hair and jewelry contributions. Thanks to my work friends, who had me walk a 12-inch paper “red carpet” as a going-away touch. Thanks to Chuck for staying home and letting me do my Grammy thing, and for his premonitions…to Dan for winning, to Geoff and Jeny for helping, and to Katie, Steph and Sadie for the fun times.

Thanks most of all to the “girls” for a great fun time, especially that Buddhist wannabe and master of competence, my sister Caroline (aka Keena).

For those of you who missed the Keys accepting one of their Grammys (in other words, virtually everyone who didn’t attend the Grammy pre-show):

Dr. John, the Night Tripper. Gris-gris man. Guru of hoodoo. Master of New Orleans rhythm and funk.

With Dr. John, New Orleans native Mac Rebennack created one of the most memorable characters in music. Part Mardi Gras Indian and part conjurer of dark spirits, Dr. John seemed rooted in traditions that had little to do with the psychedelic rockers he toured with back in the Sixties. And he probably sent more than a few hippies to the psych ward with the voodoo-inspired look and sound of the Night Trippers, his traveling band of New Orleans refugees: Gris-Gris Gumbo Ya Ya

On any given night, you might see a fire dancer, a snake handler or even a magic trick or two. But the band’s sinister sideshow was just part of the story. Dr. John remains the real deal – a visionary genius who has been reinventing Crescent City soul since he started playing guitar in the Third Ward back in 1954 (he switched to piano after the ring finger of his fretting hand was almost shot off during a fight). And if you only knew him from classic records like “Gris-Gris” or “Right Place, Wrong Time” – or even from one of his guitar-driven instrumentals from the ‘50s like Storm Warning – you were probably knocked sideways (like I was) by his 1981 release “Dr. John Plays Mac Rebennack.”

That album and a follow-up release titled “The Brightest Smile in Town” (1983) captured Dr. John’s first and only solo recording sessions on piano. Professor Longhair, James Booker and other masters of New Orleans piano get their due, but the solo albums mostly serve notice that Dr. John has a wonderful style that’s all his own – and very few living peers when it comes to “radiating the 88s.” Here’s a stunning original that he wrote for his mother: Dorothy

As he points out in his excellent book “Under the Hoodoo Moon: The Life of the Night Tripper,” the solo project for the small Clean Cuts label was something he initially dreaded because “it reminded me of my greatest professional nightmare – that I’d end up a solo-piano lounge act, staring at Holiday Inns or bowling alleys for the rest of my natural life.”

The sessions ended up having a liberating effect on Dr. John, who had grown tired of playing the same old stuff. “The audiences loved those earlier [New Orleans/Mardi Gras] songs, but I found they were also ready for music on a higher plane, sounds that appealed to a spiritual awareness, not just that low-down meat level. But I tried to keep the old street-side New Orleans flavor in there, too…” which is especially apparent on this original, a tribute to his father: Big Mac

In an earlier release called “Dr. John’s Gumbo,” he brought together some of New Orleans’ finest (including the first-class horn section of Lee Allen and Melvin and David Lastie), to cover a number of Crescent City classics… songs like Iko Iko, Big Chief, Little Liza Jane and this one, a favorite back in the day at Angola State Penitentiary: Junko Partner Despite the grim subject matter (“the anthem for the dopers, whores, pimps, and cons,” as Dr. John puts it in his book), Junko Partner has that funky, joyful vibe that seems to pour out of the best New Orleans R&B.

With the Clean Cut sessions, Dr. John mostly avoids the usual New Orleans fare in favor of more unexpected standards like Hoagy Carmichael’s The Nearness of You, the traditional Wade in the Water, and this Latin-tinged number by Brazilian composer and cavaquinho player Valdir Azevedo: Delicado

Dr. John with North Side Skull & Bones Gang, Mardi Gras '08 (photo: James Quine)

The sessions have a very informal and organic feel to them, like Dr. John just plopped himself down at a piano in an empty hotel lobby and started running through every song he’d ever learned. “I probably prepared less for those two Clean Cut albums… than for any other I’d ever done,” he said. “I just had to go in there and wing it; because of my fear of performing solo, I knew if I thought about it too much, I’d have frozen.”

The stripped-down sessions took place at a small studio near New York City’s Chelsea neighborhood. Just the basics – baby grand piano, a two-track recording system… and Dr. John, of course. Hard to miss with that combination.

Dr. John on video… Here’s a solo performance from 1981, the year Clean Cut released “Dr. John Plays Mac Rebennack.” Oddly enough, it’s part of a skit from Second City Television (SCTV), the Canadian sketch comedy show that first introduced viewers in the U.S. to John Candy, Catherine O’Hara and Eugene Levy, among others. Dr. John also acted in this sketch – ”Polynesian Town,” a takeoff of the movie “Chinatown”:

And here’s a curious artifact from the Night Tripper years – a performance of Zu Zu Mamou from the album “The Sun, Moon & Herbs.” “What I wanted was entertainment for the eyes as well as the ears, and I knew the minstrels were the best there was at laying down a show,” Dr. John writes. “It was a kick to bring back the idea of showmanship to the rock and roll era, where at the time there was little old-style show biz happening.”

On March 14, Dr. John will be inducted by John Legend into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Had to throw this in… new video for The Black Keys – Howlin’ for You. Insane.

Here’s an idea I stole from our good friends at iCrates: What’s the first record you ever owned? (Kristian at iCrates described the joys of receiving Guns n’ Roses’ “Appetite for Destruction” as a Christmas gift.)

Depending on how old you are, maybe that should read “stole” instead of “owned.” Or it could reference any of the following: 8-track, reel-to-reel, cassette, CD, mp3, mp4, streaming audio, youtube or telepathic transubstantiation (new technology we’re working on here at RCR).

For those of us who grew up in the Sixties, it boiled down to one of two formats – 33 or 45 RPM. And my first buying decision was informed by a small transistor radio that I had perched on the sill of my bedroom window.

Up until I was about 10 years old, that radio was primarily used to broadcast play-by-play coverage of Cleveland Indians games, which I listened to religiously even though the Tribe rarely won. Meanwhile, my first real exposure to rock music involved sitting outside the closed door of my brother’s bedroom while he and his buddies played early albums by the Stones, the Animals and the Young Rascals. God knows what they were doing in there – and I wasn’t really willing to find out. Entering that room would surely lead to great ridicule and maybe even physical abuse. I was all about listening to the music… from a safe distance, of course.

Then I started hanging out with a friend down the street, whose older brother had a curious mix of rock and jazz albums that seemed to capture the spirit of ’67 – The Doors, Thelonious Monk, Jefferson Airplane, Coltrane, Cream, The Beatles (Sgt. Pepper’s)… My friend’s brother made me feel a little more welcome, probably because he was way too stoned to care that a couple of 11 year olds were rifling through his record collection. I also spent a lot of time at the local recreation center, where I heard the song “Light My Fire” about 1,400 times. Literally. (72 summer days x 20 listens per day… my wife checked the math.)

Given my newfound interest in hippie rock, I started to tune out the Tribe games on the radio and tune in to CKLW, also known as “The Big 8” – broadcasting out of Windsor, Ontario. Now I don’t mean to give short shrift to the birth of free-form FM radio in Cleveland with progressive rock stations like WMMS and DJs like Billy Bass, “the classical gas, the man with the special stash.” But that little phenomenon didn’t begin to take hold until more than a year after the Summer of Love. Before then, you had to really scour the dial to come up with something worth listening to. And even though CKLW was technically a Top 40 radio station, those wacky Canadian DJs would still manage to weave in a few soul and Motown nuggets – not to mention an acid-fueled rock song or two. Eventually, the station was forced to add more Canadian content (known in the biz as “CanCon”) at the expense of American soul. Goodbye Marvin Gaye… hello Gordon Lightfoot.

Anyway, I probably still had a couple of fresh box scores on the bedside table when I first heard Jimi Hendrix on my Japanese transistor. And I distinctly remember the experience (so to speak). It was like I’d accidentally dialed up a transmission from a distant galaxy, where advanced lifeforms had developed amplifiers powerful enough to vaporize our entire planet. The opening riff of Purple Haze was like nothing I’d ever heard before… It sent a jolt right through me. I kept a watchful eye on my Sony, expecting it to burst into flames at any second: Purple Haze

I had to find out right away who it was. The DJ never mentioned the artist, and the founders of google were about five years from taking fetal classes in computer programming. Luckily, the words Purple Haze were now seared into my skull. So I walked over to my friend’s house to ask his brother. “Oh yeah, that’s Hendrix, dude… he’s heavy.” Haze, Hendrix, Heavy… Time to scrape together all the change I’d gathered from around the house and head down to the O’Neil’s department store with my dad, who’d let me roam while he “rubbernecked.”

O'Neil's, left; Polsky's, right

In 1967, O’Neil’s was the epicenter of downtown Akron – a massive structure that housed every basic item you’d need for the modern American lifestyle (and if you couldn’t find it at O’Neil’s, you simply walked across Main Street to shop at the store’s doppelganger, Polsky’s). O’Neil’s had a record department on the 6^th Floor, and you’d get there by taking a series of escalators that became increasingly narrow and rickety as you neared the summit.

I survived the climb and walked over to a young, crisply dressed man who looked like he managed the New Christy Minstrels. “Do you have anything heavy by Hendrix? Purple Haze, perhaps?” He looked at me like I had a third arm growing out of my forehead, then suddenly remembered the exotic artifact that somehow got filed next to Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass. On the cover: an odd-looking black man flanked by two even stranger-looking white guys, all three with afros. Inside: some of the wildest sounds ever committed to wax.

I plopped down my four or five bucks – which, if you account for inflation, would mean you’d need to secure low-interest financing to purchase an album today – and made the precarious descent to the first floor, ready to defend my new purchase from any form of assault. If I had somehow lost my balance and fallen head-first, I would’ve sacrificed my face to get that record home in one piece.

I barricaded the door to our family room, carefully took the record out of the sleeve and delicately placed the needle on “Are You Experienced.” And it opened with that classic riff from Purple Haze. Clearly, I was being way too careful with my new find. This damn thing could protect itself… maybe I should’ve been more concerned about dad’s cheap Heathkit hi-fi.

I could go on endlessly about the many pleasures of Hendrix’s first album. And not all of them had to do with powerful, mind-melting riffs.

The Wind Cries Mary – one of the most beautiful and lyrical rock songs ever written… The Wind Cries Mary

Third Stone from the Sun, which took thousands of impressionable young teenagers on a trip across the galaxy (and we didn’t even have to leave our bedrooms)… Third Stone from the Sun

Hey Joe – a truly great blues song, right up there with anything by Muddy or Wolf… Hey Joe

And Manic Depression – Mitch Mitchell’s ultimate throw-down to any rock drummer who followed… Manic Depression

As you can probably guess by now, I went on to buy hundreds of albums, even more CDs and enough mp3s and 4s to fill an 80GB iPod. And I have a wall of cassette tapes in a closet that I’m afraid to toss, because one of them might hold that long-lost piece of music that I’ll never be able to get back. But “Are You Experienced” remains my greatest find, and I don’t think I’ll ever feel as transformed by a new sound as I did when Purple Haze first melted the plastic cover off my half-watt Sony.

Jimi Hendrix live – showing off a couple of tricks he probably learned from watching Earl Hooker: