Marshall and the Moonwoman

 

Today is one of my favorite anniversaries. Way back in 1991 THIRTY YEARS AGO (Wow!) I met Jill McLane Greene. She had recently come to work for James Irwin and I and our EDGE Magazine as our ad sales rep. She was going through a divorce. I was smitten with her from day one and fell in love fast and hard. By January 1992, I got up the nerve to ask her to go with me to see Johnny Winter in Clemson. There’s a whole story that goes with that special event, but I will save that for another time.

 This anniversary melded with my thoughts of my dear friend and she-ro Marshall Chapman, the great singer songwriter from Nashville who was originally from my home town of Spartanburg, SC. Jill and I were married in 1996, and I had a ball turning her onto music she had never heard. One weekend I recall in particular, I was pulling out LP’s one after another. I had just played her Jessie Winchester’s “Gentleman of Leisure.” When the song “I Wave Bye Bye” played, she broke down crying. She loved it. Before long, I added it to my set list. Nearly every show I did, she asked for that song. That and Don Dixon’s “Givin Up the Ghost” and anything by John Prine. Then I broke out Marshall Chapman’s “It’s About Time,” recorded live at the women’s correctional facility. Jill loved that one, especially Marshall’s rap between songs and the part where she recalled a night when wrote one of her songs. She told the captive audience, “I was ovulating that night.” Jill loved “Goodbye Little Rock and Roller.” 

But there was one song by Marshall on another album that particularly resonated with us both. The song was “A Mystery to Me.” That song hit both of us squarely in the heart. Just a great song about two lovers who are completely different, but somehow come together. Sounded like us. In the song, the guy works on his computer all day and the girl plays guitar and writes songs. With us, I was on the computer writing or out playing gigs, while her whole world revolved around teaching kids to swim and being a professional astrologer. So, the one line in the song that made us smile, and these days can bring me to tears, is ‘While he sits and stares at his screen saver, she stares at the stars.” And it goes on to say “How these two lovers ever got together remains a mystery to me.” 

 One day I told Jill that Marshall was scheduled to do a book signing (and play a few tunes) for her excellent book Goodbye Little Rock and Roller at the Open Book in Greenville, so we made a plan to be there A couple of weeks before at that very same store I had just introduced her to another of my favorites, Pat Conroy. He even had his father The Great Santini in tow. Dang, I miss The Open Book!

 Jill was tickled to death to meet Marshall, and Marshall’s overwhelming kindness and wit cemented Jill’s love for the artist. For a brief period, I found myself without a car. Jill had a brand spanking new Saturn. When I told her that I had a chance to drive to Nashville to meet with Charlie Daniels one day and Marshall Chapman the next, she insisted I take her brand new car, although it meant that she would be stuck at home the entire weekend. That road trip was very special in many ways, not the least of which was sharing lunch with Marshall at the old Vandyland Restaurant, spending a few hours with Charlie Daniels in his log cabin office, and meeting Vince Gill by accident at the Nashville Deli. 

 But I digress. My main point, and I really do have one, is that there are a handful of songs that I keep close to my heart. Songs that remind me of my late love. Sitting high atop that list is “A Mystery to Me,” from the album Love Slave by Marshall Chapman. Happy dating anniversary Jill. I still think of you every day with love. Always…

-Michael

In Memory of Sylvain X2

 

  

    Sylvain Sylvain One of the true innovators of punk rock has died. Sylvain Sylvain (real name Sylvain Mizrahi) passed away on Wednesday, January 13, 2021 at the age of 69 after a nearly three-year battle with cancer. Syl was born in Cairo, Egypt before emigrating to New York with his family as a child. 

    He was a member of the New York Dolls (the group took their name from the toy repair shop, New York Doll Hospital) which formed in New York City in 1971, and set the stage for the upcoming punk movement that followed. The band worked hard and built a large cult following through their many show s at CBGB’s and Max’s Kansas City in New York. The Dolls were self-made legends, with their androgynous clothing and makeup and stacked heels, performing rowdy garage band music that was part Rolling Stones, part Iggy & the Stooges with a bit of Bowie and a dash of MC5. They bridged the gap between punk and glam rock. The band broke up in 1977 but reformed in 2004, splitting up again in 2011. The group’s self-titled 1973 debut album remains a landmark in rock music, with Rolling Stone naming it to the 500 Greatest Albums of All Time list. “Glammed-out punkers the New York Dolls snatched riffs from Chuck Berry and Fats Domino and fattened them with loads of attitude and reverb,” Rolling Stone wrote at the time. “Produced by Todd Rundgren, songs like ‘Personality Crisis’ and ‘Bad Girl’ drip with sleaze and style.… It’s hard to imagine the Ramones or the Replacements or a thousand other trash-junky bands without them.” 

     And certainly there would have never been a KISS. 

     New York Dolls front man David Johansen, now the only surviving member of the band's original lineup, said on Instagram: "My best friend for so many years, I can still remember the first time I saw him bop into the rehearsal space/bicycle shop with his carpetbag and guitar straight from the plane after having been deported from Amsterdam, I instantly loved him. "I'm gonna miss you old pal. I'll keep the home fires burning. au revoir Syl mon vieux copain." 

     Sylvain lived in Nashville but will be buried in New York. 

    If I may, I’d like to wax nostalgic (as I so often do) for a moment. I’ve written it many time before, but it bears repeating. My “coming of age” in rock and roll peaked during my High School years. 1972-76. In those pre-internet days, when our television set only got three channels, most of my rock education came via monthly issues of Creem, Circus, Rock Scene and sometimes Rolling Stone and Crawdaddy magazines. Those periodicals changed my life. Combined with my weekly dates with late-night TV, In Concert followed by The Midnight Special on Friday and Don Kirshner’s Rock Concert on Saturday, they were my only exposure to the great rock bands of Great Britain and yes, New York City. I can still remember seeing the Dolls for the first time on The Midnight Special. By then I had read all about them in the magazines, so I was ready to hear what they sounded like. I loved it. The Dolls were one of the handful of bands that helped me to bond with my father. Dad was a career “produce man” at

the Community Cash grocery store, who also studied to become a Baptist minister. He was always working, so we had very little time together other than our vacations, many of which took us across the country by car to visit his family in San Jose, California. I always left my rock magazines that I was currently reading in the bathroom, and Dad started reading them. Then he started asking me about the bands. I ended up playing him records by Alice Cooper, David Bowie and yes, the New York Dolls. Sure, it was a bit surreal, but he truly appreciated my exposing him to new music. It’s one of my happiest memories of Daddy. So, when I heard of Sylvain’s passing, my thoughts hurled straight back through time to my Dad and I, listening to Too Much Too Soon on the 8-track player in the station wagon, in between tapes by Merle Haggard and Johnny Cash. 

    The power of music never ceases to amaze me. It can bridge cultural gaps. It can bridge generation gaps. It can be “I Walk the Line” or “Personality Crisis.” No wonder I love it so much. Rest in peace, Syl. 

 -Michael Buffalo Smith