A Cappella Gangsters of Rooftop Rock ’n Roll By Michael Disend Raised as a singing cornerboy on Newark’s west side, back when punk was a fighting word, with my adorable Mary Ann pressed tight, I got love slain by the doo wap/a capella minstrels—saintly gansters like the Moonglows, Harptones, Paragons, Del Vikings. Clovers. Elegants. Cadillacs, Jesters—light-filled concrete choirboys who sang the way early Christians prayed—pure, personal, poignant, piercing—leading us from the South 18th Street alleys of gangbangwargangs and dead-from-the-neck-up '50s dogshit with their blended vocal blessings of love, endless love, love for sale, pure love, first love, dairy love, lonely love, sincere love, dream love, untold love, love love love love and our hearts got warmed forever, even onto radioactive unlivable manana. Last week—minus my gray pants with pink side stripes, black satin jacket. and black needlenosed kicks worn even to bed—1 went home to my candystore lasagna roots to hear the music that never dies, just goes underground. “ the sound.” I got love slain again. It happened at Thomm’s Restaurant, on Newark’s north side, still a diehard Italian enclave, at the first concert given by the United in Group Harmony Association, which is dedicated to preserving “the sound” and initiating a revival of the authentic streetcorner culture. The groups they got made me cry and promise to remember and get gushy. This was the happiest concert I’d been to since Country Joe and Janis said it was alright to be human in Golden Gate Park a couple dozen post-Newark acid changes ago. So who sung alreadyO Earl Carroll and the Cadillacs sung . . . the premier New York City group. Willie Winfield and the Harptones sung . . . group harmony sages taking us on a sleighride through loveland. And the UGHA’s own groups sung: the Computones, the Ecstasies, the Copas. and humbling everyone away— five skinny awesome 14- to 18-year-old black kids from East Orange called Fourteen Karat Soul with their current incandescent WNJR top-40 hit, “Doo Wop Disco." as yet unpicked-up-on by insular New York deejays. Bobby Jay from WWRL-AM—a Earl Carroll and the Cadillacs give New York’s mean streets a special sound. UGHA member—talked like this as we watch Thomm’s get packed: “ I thought it was over—but something is happening, an undercurrent.” Bobby used to sing with the Aladdins, hung with Baby Washington, the Imperials, and the rest of the black wizards turning tenement hallways into cathedrals. “This is the real singing. Disco is a producer’s medium, made in a studio. Can you tell the difference between Chic and Taste of Honey? In those days you had to know how to sing, not only in a studio.” “ In My Diary” by the Moonglows swam over the loudspeaker as I saw a woman in the crowd who sparked lion teardrops. Cameo white skin, glossy black mane. “Beau- tifoo” as we say in Newarkese. It looked like . . . “With all the technology that’s in the studio we need to hear the human voice again. The people want it. Twenty years ago you met and fell in love on the dance floor. It was very romantic music. Maybe they do it today but they don’t touch. It’s frantic.” Al Grahnum, co-emcee of the show with Bobby, joined in: “That era was multiracial. The Impalas, the Del Vikings, were integrated. It’s sad this atmosphere isn’t around now. When we fought we hurt each other . . .” Before Bobby got pulled away by a lady dressed for Vogue, he said: “ It’s going to take convincing the powers that be that when you reach 30 to 35, people don’t stop buying records.” They wouldn’t need much convincing if they’d seen the lines around the block waiting to get into a doo wop concert that had absolutely no formal advertising. Just word of mouth and the UGHA. At 7 o’clock waitresses were still throwing down red tableclothes for the 800 people who streamed in, young and old, black and white. Thomm’s was totally unprepared. People had to eat shrimp salad standing up, and the concert was delayed an hour. So I circulated among the tables. Then I saw the woman sitting at a table with a guy and two other couples. “Mickey!” I was practically in his lap when the big guy, black blow-dry pompadour, recognized me and started laughing. Christ, it was unreal. Dino. And Carmine. And . . . Mary Ann! I haven’t seen these people in years, but Dino recognized me. “Hey! Hey! Hey! Ma- donne!!!” A whole bunch of hugging and wet kissing from the guys on the corner and I joined their table. “You look just the same Mickey.” They don’t. Bellys. Gray flickers at the temple. But I love them. How the hell have they done it? Still a clique, and me, I’ve known a thousand people since Newark with just a few friends the whole while from out the crowd. “Are you married, Mickey?” Mary Ann asked softly. I was barely able to look at her. Her husband was with her. A Newark cop. Right away I wanted to stomp him. Jesus, 1 loved that girl. “ In the Still of the Night” in West Side Park, flattening the grass beneath us, grinding . . . No, I’m not married. “Mickey’s become an old bachelor.” laughed Dino, playing clown. Weird to them, my age, no kids, still Manhattan gaming in the night world. The rules sit still back there. Upgrade the income $10,000, a lounge full of softball trophies, and a lot of bam- binos. How to explain the junkie years, the four bodhisattva ladies that got it hard again, the Asia hitchhike, Zen, writing, the restlessness? All we have in common now is “ the sound.” “Look, I’m working now. Love ya. I’ll come back,” I said, and made it back to the table where I’d been sitting with the Cadillacs’ ladies. My heart was doo sopping. Memory Lane’s got muggers. Johnny Brown from the Cadillacs sat next to me, bald brown head, white dashiki, duck pants, said to my question about the music: “This was real soul music. Everything came out of your head. The only formal training was learning harmonies.” Eood_ Front cooperative grocery mostly natural and whole food fresh produce open 7 days a week 11am -7 pm 2635 N.W. Thurman everyone's welcome. OREGON'S LARGEST SELECTION OF SOCIALIST BOOKS AND PERIODICALS ALSO RECORDS, POSTERS, CARDS NEW TITLES U.S. Military in South Africa Jack London’s People of the Abyss Jamaica, Caribbean Challenge UNITED FRONT BOOKSTORE 2701 S.E. Belmont 233-9270 MON.-FRI. 11-8, SAT. 11-5 WHAT'S THE FBI GOT ON YOU? Personal, organization, or public info files from any federal agency: acquisition and analysis. Attorney Jack L. Schwartz 233-0838 30
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy NTc4NTAz