STICKY DOORKNOBS

Michael Jackson: There was a reason he was dubbed the King of Pop

We tend to over-dramatize a person's significance in the immediate wake of their death. Prominent world figures and newsmakers most especially. 'We' meaning everyone, but certainly the media tops the list of worst offenders. When TV heads began addressing issues of what happens to Michael Jackson's kids and who will get Michael's money (if there is any left) Friday morning on the network morning news cartoons, the story of the death of Michael Jackson quickly went from valid news item to the charade these things usually turn into. So Friday morning came with no real surprises.

Having acknowledged that, I will say a couple of things. Yep, Michael Jackson had serious issues in life. Like most of the rest of us, he was flawed. His tabloid life was sordid and if even 10 percent of what was alleged was true, he was a dark and deeply troubled individual.

But there is no mistaking what he was from a professional and creative standpoint: as big a musical giant as the other giants who came before him. And you can start the name dropping with Elvis and the Beatles. In the pantheon of cultural icons, he rests alongside both those names for many reasons, not the least of which was his ability to draw the masses into collective ogling at mere mention of his name. More importantly, though, was his contribution to popular music. He had several massively successful albums. Two of them, "Thriller" and "Dangerous," were nothing short of pop excellence. And within the other CDs he released through his 40-year tenure were pop jewels which became legitimate additions to the history volumes of modern music.

Within the context of the 1980s, Michael Jackson wrote, sang and performed perfect songs. They simply got no better than "Beat It," "Billie Jean" and "Thriller" in that era. Proof of that comes even today, 27 years after "Thriller": How many millions of people can still successfully conjure up the melodies in their head at the mere mention of the song title. Cliche though it is, he defined a generation and along the way he changed the music industry by showing how powerful music's message could be when supplemented by video. It's up to you to decide whether that's a good thing or a bad thing. There have certainly been worthy videos. Personally, I think video, slick imaging and marketing has destroyed country music.

Even Michael Jackson's professional contributions when it comes to the music video and his stake in that sub-genre are not without asterisk for purists, but be certain about one thing: he was the very best at what he did. His dark side must be acknowledged simply because it is part of his entire story and for that reason his impact and death should be kept in proper perspective. He was no god or messianic figure and should never be thought of as such. But when you focus solely on his craft it's hard to deny his impact.

One of my favorite quotes since the news came yesterday, a sad day that also saw the loss of Farrah Fawcett, herself an icon of the 1970s, was made by a New Yorker who like many people grew up in the iconography of both Michael and Farrah: "These people were on our lunch boxes."

Maybe not on my lunch box or yours, but on enough to prove the point. You don't often make it on a school lunchbox without being someone who people will remember for quite some time.

Often times, the funniest stories are the true stories

   This happened more than 20 years ago, so I think it's probably safe by now to retell it. In the late 1980s, we had, much like today, a great sports department at the Midland Reporter-Telegram. We had knowledgeable sports junkies who could spit out stats of athletes who had died decades earlier; guys who would sit for hours on end drinking warm beer and watching games in their 'me' time.
   One of our sports writers was particularly brilliant and had a knack for remembering the most trivial information you could possibly imagine. He kept an obituary in his wallet of a dead baseball player no one had ever heard of because it was one of his favorite players growing up. This particular writer, though he was a sports genius, was, how do you say, automobile challenged. His philosophy in life was to pay cash for really old and used cars and drive them until they would simply no longer go anymore. When they no longer clunked, he would plop down a few twenties for the next one he would drive and soon bury. This, as you might imagine, would ultimately present problems no matter the car owner.
   One of this man's vehicles was a Rambler, and at one point during the brief life of this particular car, his brake lights quit working. Knowing little about cars, the man asked one of his coworkers if he wouldn't mind helping him do a quick repair job; he had no desire to be pulled over for faulty brake lights. His coworker agreed and began work on the vehicle, but sometime during his fix 'er upper, he apparently became lost in what he was doing and somehow he accidentally crossed wires and he attached the brake light wire to the horn connection and the horn wire to the brake light connection.
   This all happened prior to a Friday night in the fall. As most Friday nights are that time of year, this one was quite busy and we all looked forward to clearing the paper and stepping outside for a break while we waited for the press to run.
   The sports writer who drove the Rambler came out on the stoop briefly, thanked his coworker for the repair work, and drove away. It was probably 1 in the morning. The rest of us stayed on the porch of the paper talking as the writer drove away. And as we talked, we could literally hear him pulling farther and farther away from where we were because each time he would come to a blinking red light on Illinois St. as he headed home, he would step on his brakes. And his horn would blare. And with each passing red light, the horn became more and more distance, quieter and quieter. When he cleared 'A' St. we never heard him again that night. But 20 years later, I still have a good chuckle about it from time to time.

Community band preparing for 4th of July concert full of desire, enthusiasm and ability. (Well, the old dude on bass drum may not be able to count anymore, but otherwise ...)

The most oft-repeated sentiment I've heard this week has been the adage "It's like riding a bike. Once you learn, you never forget ..."

Unless you fell off the bike 30 years ago and bumped your noggin, got a concussion, required stitches and spent a month in physical rehab. Like it feels like I did.

I had the crazy idea last week and took Lee HS band director Randy Storie up on his offer to come play with the recently re-formed Community Band. Since The Boy is also a part of it as a percussionist I thought it'd be fun to stand side by side with him on the "drum line" as it were, and pound out a few bass drum beats and cymbal crashes practicing for the band's 4th of July Concert at the Museum of the Southwest next Saturday at 11 a.m. And playing in a band with your son is really a cool thing. I would encourage anyone to do that. But I did learn a few quick lessons after having been away from music for so long.

Lesson No. 1: Nothing is so noticeably out of place as an ill-timed bass drum beat. (like AFTER the last note of a song for instance).

Lesson No. 2: Except for an ill-timed cymbal crash. THAT is much worse.

In all reality, standing in as a member of a band after not having done so for just a shade over 30 years did feel good again. I asked a guitar player in a local rock band last night why he gives up his free time and relaxation several times a week to play music at a local bar and he told me "It is my relaxation. It feels good to make music and spend time with friends." And after just one night's rehearsal with the community band playing "Stars and Stripes Forever" and "The Music Man" and "America The Beautiful," he didn't have to tell me that. I had already felt it again myself, and remembered again how it felt when I was a kid.

If you were in a high school band and have ever had a hankering to pick it up again, there are still two rehearsals left (the next one being Monday night at the Lee High School band hall. And I can tell you this much and probably be somewhat correct: the hardest thing to re-remember is how to count. You go in thinking what can be so hard about counting in 4/4 time, or 3/4 or even 6/8, my favorite time signature. (OMG, he has a favorite time signature? What a geek!) Counting during time changes and 25 measures of rest is not as easy as it was. Nor was it easy to remember exactly again some of the symbols common to a piece of sheet music. I do remember what 'F' means and there are plenty of fortes in marches which is good because it's really all I know.

I played an assortment of percussion instruments in the marching band back then. I was actually a bassoonist who dreamed of being a bigtime professional bassoon player one day (something you don't hear too often), but when it came time for marching season, the double reeds were given drumsticks and told to stay on tempo. Bassoons are large, heavy, long, and cumbersome and you wouldn't want to jab the reed into the roof of your mouth while marching lest the football field become blood-stained (and who really wats to see blood on a football field?). Mostly back then I played timbales. In the old days they only mounted two or three drums (tim-toms) on the same body harness for marching drummers. Today, The Boy plays the tenors. Five drums on the same harness. Glad I was a kid when I was.

One other thing from way back then (Nimitz High School, Class of 1977): I don't remember the cymbals being quite so heavy when I was 17.

The Midland community band is made up of what seems like equal parts students and geezers, the younger people obviously being the ones to keep everyone in key, on time and decent sounding. Which is not to say the older members can't carry their own. Walt, the percussionist next to me was doing a fine job handling the snare part while helping me find my place on the sheet music, and Joe Moore, an 85-year-old trumpet player obviously still has a healthy set of lungs.

All of the former students in the band, really, were doing exemplary work at playing their parts and helping pull everyone together, save for the weak link in the bass and cymbal lines. (When you miss your single note crash solo in "The Music Man," it's really hard to explain and sorta embarrassing).

Although each of the 50 or so members of the band played to varying ability, they all had one thing in common, and it is perhaps the one thing that pulls most community bands together: desire. Everyone plays with an enormous amount of enthusiasm, and a determination to sound good for the 4th of July holiday concert.

I invite everyone to the Museum of the Southwest at 11 a.m. on July 4th. For a bunch of old people and teenagers thrown together, we're not too shabby.

It's not about the money: Wink, Walt won't ever let people forget the legacy of Roy Orbison

WINK -- I've always liked people who go after what they want and Walt Quigley is a guy who goes after what he wants.

Unless you live in Wink, you've probably never heard of Walt before. He and wife Sandy split their residences between WInk in the summer and Lake Havasu City, Az., in the winter.

I don't know what Walt does to make ends meet, but his avocation, according to his business card, is Roy Orbison Vocal Tribute Artist/Celebrity Specialty Act.

I've known Walt for a few years and he is a polite, kind, unassuming man completely committed to carrying on the legacy of Orbison, Wink's most famous son. There's not a lot of money to be made in Roy Orbison karaoke acts, but that doesn't stop Walt from doing what he does, and doing it well. And he does it so well because his heart is all the way into it.

Friday night at the Roy Orbison Festival in Wink, Walt turned on his band box, programmed his tunes and sat back and sang in a manner that Orbison would have no doubt smiled at. Roy himself was polite, kind and unassuming, no doubt a big part of the reason Walt has devoted so much time to carrying on his name and sound.

I asked Walt a few years ago what he liked about Roy so much that he would devote a significant chunk of his life into perpetuating the man's legacy and he told me though he had never met Orbison he always seemed like a gentleman. He never cursed in his music or sang about matters Walt would deem inappropriate, he was soft spoken and seemed like a truly good and decent man. And he was a dreamer. Listen to Orbison's songs and a good many of them talk of dreams and dreaming, no doubt what helped him make his way out of the oil patch and into Nashville and stardom.

Walt has requested and received approval from the Texas State Historical Commission to place a marker in Wink denoting the boyhood home of the famous singer. He expects to receive the hardware sometime this fall.

Rain chased away a lot of people from Friday's events at the festival. Only about 25 caught Walt's karaoke act. Two of them came all the way to Wink from Nova Scotia just to see Walt's show. Another couple reportedly came in Saturday from California.

Friday night only six vendors lined a half city block in downtown Wink with funnel cakes, hot dogs and assoted knick knacks. It wasn't nearly the magnitude of an Old Sorehead Days, for instance, but size doesn't always matter.

Walt and the people of WInk are remembering Roy. He is not honored in the way, say, Elvis is with lavish Vegas productions and 50 impersonators jumping from airplanes. But to many, he was just as influential.

One of the first pieces of advice seasoned writers give newbie, would-be published authors is that you can't write if your end objective is merely to collect a paycheck. You've got to write because it is what you love to do.

Maybe Walt and the people in Wink who remember their most famous former resident have heard from those same seasoned writers. They're not getting rich doing what they're doing, but they know it's something they have to do, and they'd love for you to come along and be a part of it if you'd like. They'll do it again next year, you can be sure of it.

Not remembering Roy and his dreams is not an option. Keeping his memory and his music alive will never turn Wink, Texas, into a burgeoning music Mecca. But the people here realize it's something they must always do.

Top photo: Walt Quigley as Roy Orbison
Bottom photo: Two people from Nova Scotia traveled all the way to Wink for the Roy Orbison Festival.