COLUMN 117, MAY 1, 2005
(Copyright 2003 The Blacklisted Journalist)


MEMPHIS, TENNESSEE---So, I'm sitting there in my loft on Centre Street, situated between the main police station and Bill Burroughs' pad, when I get this call from Tom Hoskins who's in Memphis hustling the Delta: cataloging and collecting old-time Delta blues music and musicians.

"Hey Man, we're down here in Memphis doin' the first Memphis Blues Festival and we sure would like some of that good red Leb hash y'all got there." 

Tom was a good ol' southern Huckleberry Finn clone, red hair, freckles and all, from nooneknewwhere, Carolina.   Who, maybe was found at 14 sleeping in a Washington D.C. train station by a drunk philanthropic State Department honcho.  The statesman took Tom home and raised him as a son.   Maybe he was.  Tom rode the gravy train for maybe ten years, periodically disappearing for three to six months at a time, until he lit out for New Orleans with the 14-year-old daughter of a U.S. senator and got an APB sent out with his name on it.  

Tom, upon hearing of this problem, decided that the safest course would be to mosey on home, at a leisurely pace, going up backwoods roads through Mississippi, collecting blues memorabilia and records at the same time, along with some sweet 14-year-old quim. 

On the way to D.C. they stopped off in Avalon, Mississippi, canvassing the Black area, and Tom spotted an old gentleman sitting on a porch bottlenecking an ancient Gibson. 

"I usta play real fine but now I got me arthuritis an ah caint do so good as before."

Tom put the old man in his car and headed for Philadelphia where he knew some musicologists---the old bluesman was Gentleman John Hurt, long thought dead.  He dropped lil' sweetmeat  off at her father's, who dropped the charges.  "But daddy, ah love him "n beside ah done it with lotsa people, the gardener,the chauffeur, an' some of your friends too."

Tom  was pretty cool in my book, plus I wanted to see what was going on in the South, a region that I didn't know.  The civil rights struggle was going on full force and I wanted see what I could see, to do what I could do.  There was a sort of Blues based renaissance that I thought might be interesting.  Tom seemed to have an endless supply of young tight southern pussy and besides business was slow. 

So, I caught a flight to Memphis and met Tom on Jefferson Avenue near Crump park.  First night we smoked some Hash, and I fucked this girl with tattoos named Lydia ("Oh Lydia Oh Lydia. You encyclopedia.  Oh lydia you tattooed lady") on a levee next to the river.........BROOKLYN DREAM TIME.  Second night; more of us smoke my hash and Tom gets laid.......Third more of the same......fourth night ditto and I decide to import my own talent.  So I call down Rosemary, a good "ol  gal from Highlands, North Carolina, and the next day we actually sell some hash but now the festival is over.

It was great and pathetic as well, those wonderfully talented but now past their prime black music-men who had waited so long---too long preserved by traveling FSA ethnographers during the Great Depression and then forgotten by those who came after.    I'm losing money.   Rosemary was due in two days.   We had nuthin much to do and Tom says "How'd ya like to hustle the Delta for old music stuff with me tomorrow?"

Next day found us in Tom's VW, D.C.plates, heading into Ol' Miss. We crossed the bridge into Mississippi and as we passed the "WELCOME TO MISSISSIPPI" billboard, a state trooper comes motorcycling out.

"What are you boys doin in Mississippi?"

"We jes passin' through collecting black folks' music. They sho' (Tom was laying it on thick) do make fine music.."

"Well I'm sho' glad to hear that y'all er jes passin through.  Ah hyah the nigras in awkansaw (he was thicker) sho do make some fine music.  The bridge to Awkansaw is thataways."

'thanks awfacer, we sho' do appreciate yawr good advice, suh."

As we crossed the Arkansas Bridge, Tom turned to me. 

"He saw you're a yankee by your clothes.  We gotta dress you better."

So, we stopped off in the outskirts of West Helena, Arkansas at "Chang's General Store: Alcohol, Firearms and Provisions"  Chang's General had two front doors.  One was marked "Whites only"; the other "Colored and Orientals."  Mister Chang had to enter through the "Colored and Oriental " door. 

As we pulled up we crossed paths with an old Chevy station-wagon pulling in next to us.  The car looked mean and rough, the driver meaner and rougher.  Six feet tall, thin, wiry, eyes so pale blue that you knew no color survived here.  He followed us into the store and started writing a list that he gave to the black clerk.  

I found some used workman clothes, including a Texaco filling station outfit with 'sARGE" embroidered over the pocket, and headed for the cash register.   As I got to the register "blue eyes" stepped up in front of me, pulled a long barreled .38, put it under my neck and said, "Watcha doin hyah yankee?"

"Well I'm not jumping the line on you, sir."

He grabbed me by my hair, "You sure got long hair."

I grabbed his hand and pulled it off my head.  Tom jumped in. 

"We're down here collecting old black folk phonny graff records.  Buy em fo' fifty cents.  Sell em fo twenty five dollas.  Workin our way through school."

The black clerk leaned over the counter.  "I think that you better put that gun away, sir"

"It's a pretty big gun, ain't it, boy."

"Yes sir, but I've got one home just as big."

Tom explained to me that blue eyes was a Mississippi dirt farmer and therefore not allowed to punish an Arkansas "darky'"..States Rights.....but could report the behavior to the local white citizens council. 

Being that Mississippi was a "dry" state and blue eyes was in Arkansas buying hooch to smuggle back, this was not advisable. He could shoot us, though, but he would lose his stash and wouldn't do that.   Besides, he was just "funning".  Then this southern psycho turns to me and says,"Hey any a yew fellas ever take that LBD stuff"   ( HUH "??)  Ah done read all bout that stuff in the Satday evnin' Post an sho do sound crazy."

Tom brightened like a winner.  I could feel the tension rolling right off him.  MAN WANTS DOPE....WHY YOU DONE COME TO THE RIGHT PART OF TOWN.......STEP INTO MAH PARLOR.

"We sho nuff have done that sir. Evry Friday night boys in our Frat house---FRAT HOUSE....TOM IS 32 YEARS OLD....BUT THEN AGAIN MAN WANTS DOPE WILL BELIEVE ANYTHING!---chip in and buy that stuff...hire in some dark poontang an do it all weekend.  Stuff gits yer pecker up better "n two quarts a bourbon.  Caint hardly get it down for two days.  Them darkie gals sho do earn their five-dolla bill."

Blue Eyes perked up like like a houn' dawg smellin' possum. 

"Well let me interdoose mahsef.  Names Gerald Malinger an ah owns fifty acre an a duck pond down the road.  Next time you boys pass by this way you bring me some a that stuff n we'll sit on my back porch n shoot some game.  You'd be supprised what you kin find bottom a my duck pond." 

So after assuring Mr. M that our very next acid trip would be with him, I changed into my new down-home outfit, and we took off for West Helena, Arkansas.               


Sleepy riverboat town, typical southern medium size...divided into sections: rich white, po'white, main street shopping and courthouse, railroad, black and shantyville black.  People on the street (mainly white) minding their own business.  We made the pro forma visit to the local "Music n Victrola" shop.

"Naw ,we aint got none a those old nigra music left.  German fella come round bought up all we got.  Pay me dolla a piece sell em for ten.  I reckon got some old Bing Crosby singin White Christmas if'n y'all want.  Wouldn't go down to nigraville if'n I were you.  They got nuthin anyhow."  

Tom told me:

'they always say that.  Tomorrow he'll send his clerk down there to buy up at a dime a piece."

It was getting to be late in the day so Tom brought us into the black barber shop---Queen of Sheba's Pomade: straightens nappy hair  and informed the folks that we would be paying Fifty cents a piece for "Ol' timey phonny graf records."  "You know the big black ones with the little hole."

Just so the folks know that we ain't intergrating (and they don't sell what they have for ten cents to the music store), on the way out of town we stopped off at the town pharmacy and lunch counter.   (Whites Only)  Got ourselves some Arkansas Razor Back Hog Bacon and Tomato sandwiches---which are the best in the world---chatted up the cutey-pie soda jerk, Miss Hawg Caller Queen 1963. 

"You come up to Memphis.  You are model material for sure.  My friend here in the Texaco work shirt is a world famous photographer," And so on.

Headed back to Memphis and Rosemary.   Rosemary's bus came in late the next day and by the time she unpacked and knocked off a couple bum-fuck quickies, it was past noon.   Rosemary was a farm girl and her sex education came from observing the beasts of the field.  Rosemary's previous and only boy friend had been convicted  for bestiality---chicken fucking---and was called the "pluck n fuck kid."  When the judge asked him how he could do such a thing, he replied:

"Don't knock it until you tried it yo'sef," and drew a max nickel (five years).

I myself once met a guy named Pigfucker Mc Duff Junior.  It seems that Pigfucker's dad was doing time in Folsom State Farm, which had a piggery.  Senior fell in love with this three hundred pound sow named Mable.  Unfortunatly Mable decided to sit down at an inopportune moment, pinning Senior underneath.  

As punishment, the warden changed Henry Mc Duff to  "Pigfucker Mc Duff" and Henry was called Pigfucker ever after.  He liked it so much that he named his first-born Pigfucker Jr.  So it goes.

 Sex with Rosemary was somewhat adventuresome but fun nevertheless.  She quacked like a duck. I guess that's what turned her ex on.  We got to West Helena late that afternoon and started canvassing the better-off black section.  Tom taught us The Drill and we spent the afternoon canvassing, to no avail.

We would walk the street and if we saw an old Black Lady rocking on the porch, we'd approach her and say, "Howdy ma'am, how are you today?"

"Why I'm jes fine, suh, and how are you?"

"Why I'm jes fine, thank you Ma'am.  Maybe you're wondering what we're doin' here......"

"Well, a bit."

"Why we're here to help you change some of your old throwaways to money.  We're lookin to buy some of those old time phonny graf records.  You know the big black ones with the little hole.  Blues fellas like Charley Patton "n Robert Johnson.  Pay you good money for what you got in your attic collectin dust.  Maybe fifty cents apiece."

And the lady would shake her head and say:

"Why I'm sorry that I caint help you.  We used to have a whole bunch of those fellers.  Folks that me and James, he's dead now, danced to when we were courtin before we got married but the chillun moved to Dee Troit after they was growed and took some with them and when the gran chillun came down to visit they took the rest and scaled em across the lake.  I do have some Bing Crosby singing White Christmas.  You look peeked.  Would you care for some lemonade?" 

And we would move on. 

It was starting to get dark and we were hungry and tired so we decided to have a last BLT and chocolate malted and head for home.  We stopped off at the day before's luncheonette.  Miss Home Coming Queen was agitated. 

"You're nice fellers.  Maybe I'll get in trouble but they got a roadblock set up outside of town.  Take the back road." 

When we hit the street we noticed that it was deserted, empty of people.

"Let's go fast," Tom said.  "It's real bad trouble." 

We jumped in the car, me driving, Tom and Rosemary in the back seat.  Tom said if they saw a southern girl sitting with a Yankee, they might get offended, but if they were two southern kids out for a good time we stood a better chance. 

Later on I discovered that they would be more likely to shoot a single person driving  in the front then someone sitting with a Southern Lady.  I took my Randal Bowie Knife out of its sheath and laid it beside me on the front seat.  Twilight was falling.  We got about five miles out of town when we got jack-lighted from the back and blocked in front.   Deputy sheriff:  Flashlight in my face, then Tom's and Rosemary's, then back on me and then on the knife.

"You folks are going to come along with me.  That knife's illegal."

"No, it's not officer.  I know the law.  I wouldn't break the law in your state."

We both knew the law.  You could carry a knife in Arkansas.  Not taken aback,

"Well I think it's illegal.  So we're going to the Station house and find out."

We drove back to town.  He took the knife into the station house telling us to wait in the car.  He came back an hour later: it was night---dark!

"this knife's alright but you must keep it in your glove compartment out of sight.  Knife like that might frighten somebody."

He put the knife in the glove compartment. 

"Now have a nice night.  Drive careful."

We drove off.  When we were out of sight, I took the knife out of the glove compartment and laid it, in plain view, on the seat next to me.  We drove about a mile.  Road block.   Deputy Sheriff....Flashlight in my face and then on the glove compartment.

"It's right here officer.  In plain view.  Carrying a concealed weapon is illegal in Arkansas."

He laughed. 

"Drive careful and don't come back." 

We did, we didn't.

I had bought this old Chevy in Bryson City, an old thunder-roader---'56 Chevy hemi, 365 cc.   Could get up on its hind legs and whup the shit outta any V8 Ford.   Drove Rosemary back to Highlands.  I could tell ya some stories about that Chevy.  It only had 97 thousand miles on it---according to the fella in the straw hat who sold it to me for a hundred odd bucks. 

On the way, we stopped off at the State Fair in South Carolina.  I got hassled by three young black militants because I was white.  So after being close to killed by white bigots, and beat up by black bigots, I decided to take refuge a while with Tom at Cliney Lee's Blues Commune in Whittier, North Carolina about twenty miles or so from Highlands, adjoining Cherokee Indian Reservation in the heart of The Smokies. 

The commune thing was just getting under way in America at that time and Cliney Lee, descendant of the aristocratic Lees of Pennsylvania had established this farmhouse music commune in one of America's great but forgotten areas: Appalachia, a section of America famous for rebellion, tolerance, music, bootlegging hooch and feuds.  


After a week at Cliney's dropping acid and turning on the crew, I got THE MESSAGE FROM CLINEY: 

"Nat, we like you but having you in a cabin is like having a 16-man marching band in a kitchen."

So, I decided to leave.  But before I went, I figured to register the Chevy in Georgia, which then allowed out-of-state mail-in auto registration and had no compulsory auto insurance laws. Highlands, N.C., where Rosemary lived was on top of a mountain.  Macon, Georgia was at the bottom so after breakfast  at Rosemary's restaurant, I drove down to Macon to register the Chevy. 

Mountain top to valley, the American south,  pleasant temperate to beastly torrid, back of neck sweaty gnat bites, Pastoral scene of the solid south/ The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth.

Macon town square: confederate flag, courthouse, loafers, statue of some Johnnie Reb slaveholder general, sword in hand, facing north.   I pull up into a parking spot and enter Motor Vehicle Office:

"Hours 10AM to 12--2PM TO 5." 

It is 2:15.  Over head fan, peeling green paint, shirt sleeved clerk, beady eyes, pale blue. Did they all have the same daddy?

Approach locket.

"What can ah do fer you?" 

An inquiry, not a question.

"I've come to register my car."

"Caint register your car unless you have a residence address in Georgia."

"I've got a residence.  115 Patillo Way  Emery, outside Atlanta.  My son lives there."

"then go there.  It's a different county."

"It's the same state and the law says that I can register my car anywheres in the state."

"I don't know that law besides the office is closed.  Come back tomorrow."

Puts up "closed" sign.  Slams locket window.

Hit the street.  Get in car.  OH, OH. DEPUTY SHERIFF WITH HAND ON .38 CALIBER S&W.

"Afternoon, officer.   Did I do something wrong?"

"Gonna find out.  License and registration."

I hand this scum bag with a badge and gun my papers.  He takes out an unofficial note book with handwritten notations, and grubby finger at point, goes down a list of names.  No Nate Fitts.   Humorless rictus smile,

"seems you ain't done nuthin---YET.   Gonna make sure you don't. Git outta my town."

"What's the speed limit, officer?"

"35 miles per hour."

"I'm driving at 34?"

"Good idea.  Don't come back."

When I got back to Cliney's, there was a message from Black Star: could I stop off in Frankfurt, Kentucky, where they were burning Beatles records because John Lennon had insulted Jesus?  

"the whole country's going nuts---I'm getting out," I decided. 

Summer was ending.  I had a bit of cash---which I figured to invest in hash and acid---and then drive out to the west coast, double my money and winter in Ol' Mexico.  So, I called Rosemary and she's up for it. 

"Great, Rosemary.  We can share the driving."

"Hurry, I'm real bored here."

I hurried.  ##


"A masterpiece!" --- SALLY GROSSMAN, widow of Bob Dylan's brilliant original manager, Albert Grossman.

"This book is a must-read for all rock 'n roll aficionados!"---EAR CANDY

"An essential reference for demystifying what the author refers to as: 'one of the most self-destructive binges of creativity in cultural history.'"---HAMMOND GUTHRIE, COUNTERPUNCH MAGAZINE

"Required Reading for anyone and everyone who considers themselves fans, followers, students, or those just plain curious of the Golden Age of Popular Music"---GARY PIG GOLD, FUFKIN.COM.

"I love the book. I love the way you can open it to any page and start reading and it keeps you reading. The book is just fun to read." --LEVON HELM, Drummer of THE BAND from Big Pink.

"Ellis Paul and I love your book."---RALPH JACCODINE, Ralph Jaccodine Management.

". . .perfect for our times."---WOODSTOCK TIMES

"Adam Duritz (he's the lead singer and writer for the famed Counting Crows). . .was at my studio and couldn't put the book down."---STEWART LERMAN, RIGHTEOUS SOUND INC.

". . .a must read for anyone who loves, music, loves life, loves rock and roll."---TSAURAH LITZKY, author of The Motion of the Ocean, Baby on the Water, and  Goodbye Beautiful Mother.  


".  . .It is a fascinating, insightful read. You are such a wonderful writer."---STEPHANIE LEDGIN, Music Journalist.

"I could not put this book of yours down for a minute."---ED GALING, POET LAUREATE OF HATBORO, PA.

"Quite simply, Al Aronowitz is a living legend"---JOHN FORTUNATO, THE AQUARIAN.

"Every student and fan of The Beat Generation, Bob Dylan, The Beatles and The Rolling Stones will want to read this book"---RON WHITEHEAD, POET

"Volume One Of The Blacklisted Journalist is the kinda tome what a fella can dip into at any given point and find oneself hooked within a couple paragraphs"---DUKE DE MONDO, BLOGCRITICS.ORG.


The sometimes scattered chronicles of the rock journalist's friendship with a few of the most recognizable music icons in rock and pop history.

It certainly takes a bit of hubris to say that "the '60s wouldn't have been the same without me." But coming from Al Aronowitz, the former music columnist for the New York Post who was often called "the godfather of rock journalism," such sentiment is perhaps justified.  Here, in a compilation of many of his unpublished manuscripts, Aronowitz describes in candid yet affectionate detail his friendships with Bob Dylan and the Beatles.  As a music writer and fan who recognized the musicians' limitless potential early in their careers, Aronowitz decided to bring them together for the first time, in a New York City hotel in 1964, a meeting that also involved the Beatles' introduction to marijuana. His prescience was soon bolstered by the 1965 releases of Dylan's Highway 61 Revisited and the Beatles' Rubber Soul, both seminal albums that altered the landscape of pop music.  This landmark moment is just one of Aronowitz's colorful memories and musings of being a hanger-on with these legends and their associates, including The Band, Beatles manager Brian Epstein, poet Allen Ginsberg, deejay Murray the K and others.  Specifically provocative are the accounts of Dylan's erratic behavior and short temper, which often led to fitful confrontations and even the ending of friendships, including that between Dylan and the author.  It's also evident that Aronowitz was particularly fond of George Harrison, and the two remained friends until Harrison's death in 2001.  Most remarkable is the close proximity he maintained to these gods, whether he was at their homes, hoteI rooms, recording studios, or concerts.  Though his personal life certainly had its share of woes (particularly bankruptcy and his wife's death), Aronowitz exhibits a marked sense of pride---and rightly so---for playing a key role in music history,

An enticing backstage pass to the meeting of arguably the two most influential acts in rock history.

"BOB DYLAN AND THE BEATLES: Volume One Of The Best Of The Blacklisted Journalist is a golden stash box of Al's You-Are-There history of two thirds of rock's Holy Troika"---MICHAEL SIMMONS, LA WEEKLY.

". . .Amazing stories in this book" ---JAY LUSTIG, NEWARK STAR LEDGER

". . .Aronowitz has a place in the annals of history that nothing can erase"---DAVID DANKWA, GAZETTE LEADER

". . .Aronowitz has a simple, straightforward writing style that makes the reading go fast. . ."---JEFFERY LINDHOLM, DIRTY LINEN

"Aronowitz. . .witnessed things that most rock fanswould give an arm and a leg to see"---REGIS BEHE, PITTSBURGH TRIBUNE REVIEW

"The best of Aronowitz's writing. . . offer riotous and rambling time capsules comprising detailed vignettes and told in a voice that's direct, disarming and self-deprecating"---MIKE MILIARD, BOSTON PHOENIX

". . .Addictive reading" ---GOLDMINE MAGAZINE

". . .If you are truly interested in the 'behind the scenes' events of people who spawned an entirely new direction in the time we identify as the sixties, this book is truly for you!"---JOHN ANDERSON, HOST OF THE "ON THE HORIZON" RADIO SHOW




". . .A highly entertaining and informative read"--HAMMOND GUTHRIE, THE THIRD PAGE

". . .Its 43 chapters provide snapshots of Darin's brief, sensational life>" ---GOLDMINE MAGAZINE



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