Lights dimmed. First set by the Ecstasies, a Philly-fine group formed in 1959 who scored with "Lucky Old Sun” in 1961. Came alive again in the mid-'70s, very very smooth R & B classics rendition. Remember please Jerry Blavatt—“ the geeter with the heater” —pioneer radio hipster deejay who turned Philadelphia out, produced albums with definitions of words like “cool” on the back. The Ecstasies launched into “Chapel in the Moonlight,” softening us with a Catholic love affair, and onto “ I’ll Never Tell” and a standing ovation from those 35- to 45-year-old housewives with beehive hairdos and a lot of makeup, but, man, they’re still sexy, women in their primetime as they re-climb those mountains of squeeze. Wise in love, vintage hearts. The Ecstasies, except for their tubby black bass lead, all look like linguistic professors but they warbled together like fingers in a glove, moving through the Flamingo’s “You're the Dream of a Lifetime”— Wooo Wooo Woooo—and climaxing behind “60 Minute Man,” leaving the romantics shouting for more. Followed by the Computones and” It Was a Summer’s Night.” They did it so well, got a rush of me and Dino and Carmine and Butchy striding up South Orange Avenue in white athletic T- shirts thinking we were God’s bulletproof gift to the local ponytail tender- oni set, daughters of butchers, daughters of firemen. The Computones’ lead and second tenor Russ Havriliak has a love call that’ll make you suck your breath in. A white group, four men and Brenda Mitchell, first tenor, the Computones have been together less than a year and hail from the Bergen County area of N.J., where they looked up in order to sing for a UGHA amateur night contest. They’re all young and work for Western Union in Mahwah on computers: hence, Computones. They won the contest, and they sing real tight, with pride. Pride. You can tell how close a harmony group is by how they look at each other. It’s pride in the singing. Everybody has to do their part for the music to succeed. They really turned the heat up at Thomm’s with “This Is My Wedding Day,” and Al G. called them'back— “ Instant sweet repeat, here they come with the fascinating beat”—and the Computones scored, encored, and closed with a devotional ballad called “Stay As You Are,” Then we had greatness. We had the Harptones. We had 800 people standing up and cheering and trying to see lead singer extraordinary Willie Winfield—50 years old—proving once again that this music isn’t, as one reviewer put it, “quasi-spiritual,” but a high native American art form, an authentic urban folk music, deserving study in schools and resurrection in record companies because it’s as genuinely spiritual as the sound of Coltrane or Bird, if spiritual signifies, as it should, a generation of black and white youth practicing, as the Persuasions put it. in “subways, in lobbys, and in halls/singing doo wop to the walls,” practicing to perfect their life tones, like monks working a koan, singing to themselves and giving to us realizations of vocal love harmony that stay timeless. I call learning to sing that way “ spiritual work.” I call the men and women who accomplished it “artists.” So how the hell can you call the choice voice of Willie Winfield singing “Life Is But a Dream” a fucking “golden oldie,” like it was a Coca-Cola poster from 1941? Yeah, so time has reduced the Harptones in size from their original six members to four, but their guru and pianist-writer-organizer Raoul Citta is still at the keyboard, along with two new singers, Linda Champion and Lowe Murray. They opened with a standard R&B tune, “Wonderful One,” all flash and filigree in red suits and white shirts, and maybe some of the older white guys were a little uncomfortable about the way Willie moved his body—Harlem warrior hips churning—and they felt better with “Life Is But a Dream.” which I think is the Buddha-dharma set to sound, and had the room wildly, 1mean wildly, raving and applauding and Willie was so happy on stage because undoubtedly he hasn’t gotten a response like this in 20 years. Willie Winfield took a ride north from Norfolk. Virginia, in 1953, and found his natural love with a Harlem streetcorner group called the Harps, founded by Citta earlier that year. Inspiration was coming in those days from harmonizers like the Five Keys, the Larks, and the Swallows. Before long some of the Harps got tight with some members of the Skylarks, and the Harptones were birthed. They’ve been at it ever since and— sister, if you met two scientists researching some kind of hideous microbe germ dilemma for 25 years together you'd have respect, right? Well, it's deserved more so for Raoul and Willie totally in blesh, singing “Only You,” the best of the Platters, and then on to that masterpiece which belongs in the Smithsonian Institution of Soul, a song for which I regret having only human words of praise for: “ I Want a Sunday Kind of Love.” Willie’s voice hungers and thirsts and goes blue-black and consecrated. becoming everyone who ever yearned for that perfect love Life teaches us must always end in parting. I still hear it, still want it. . . . And maybe a few other citizens, gone sour behind the price of vegetables and the Wisdom of Carter and the compassionate eyes of the Ayotollah, still have affection for this whippoorwill world, still want to hear “A Sunday Kind of Love” instad of dryice disco music all about getting off in 40 ways and the hell with whoever did it for you. It took a while for Thomm’s to go calm after the Harptones made their exit. Then Al G. made the archivists scream when he introduced Zeke and Jake Carey of the Flamingos, still looking pretty, bophats tilted to the side. Then Al said, “There was a group from Brooklyn they thought were white back then. And now. for the first time together in 23 years, the Four Fellows!” and they wheeled Jim McGowan out in a chair, where he’s been for 20 years, on and off. Behind him the other three Fellows, looking shocked and crying, because those doo wop lovers welcomed them with heartfelt yodeling. whistling, clapping. You could see McGowan didn’t know anybody would remember him or even think his music was important. They got pushed into singing a few bars of “ Fallen Angel” but then forgot the words and smiled, embarrassed, not killing this precious moment at all. This is called history in the making. Especially when Al G. introduced Warren Scuttles of the original 1946 Ravens, the pioneer group that started it all with “O1 Man River.” You needed those wax subway earplugs to handle the cheering. Then the Cadillacs wheeled in, triumphant, fish-tailing, swerving into your lap off "onetwentythoidandeight- havenoo.” This was only their third show since they reformed last August for a Subaru commercial. They proved old guys can be sexy, banging out an up-beat choreographed dance version of “Gloria.” Earl “Speedo” Carroll was back with them for the night — borrowed from the Coasters. Funky, crooked-teeth crazy Earl in a white cap, bill pulled off to the side. And Earl “De Wolf” Wade, who came in on the Cadillac’s third release. "Sympa thy” ; and my tablemate Johnny Brown — formerly of the Five Satins; and flashy, funny, scrawny Bobby Phillips, an original bass. All of them doing it physical behind “Well they often call me Speedo but my real name is Mister Earl,” the famous first line of their biggest hit. The Cadillacs were dancing, prancing, wheeling, kicking, joking. The dancing was rusty, but they made up for it with sheer hand clappin' finger snappin’ contagious happiness. “They call you Speedo, but my name is Torpedo.” This is a jump tune group, mainly, and jump they did, maximum '50s black only-way-to-ride hipness, first group named after a car rather than a a bird. Ronnie “The Eye” Italiano sat down at my table. Ronnie, who has his own show “Just for U.” at midnight on 105.9-FM. is the driving force behind the UGHA, which has produced five a cappella records since it began in 1976. “Black people haven’t lost their voices,” Ronnie said. “White people have lost their ears.” And then a UGHA group for which I’m no flak but feel an artistic duty to say are so incredible that for them to vanish without becoming nationally famous would be like Elvis or Smokey and the Miracles or the Temptations remaining undiscovered. Fourteen Karat Soul did only five songs that night but left the audience in sheer ecstacy. The greatest teenage singing group in America. They broke loose with an a cappella “Why Do Fools Fall in Love.” a brilliant version. The special guys are Glen T. Wright — age 18, lead, tenor, arranger and leader of the group — and Reggie “Brizz” Brisbon — age 18. booming bass and lead. I mean, these boys are accomplished'. Like Steuben glass, sweetheart. Like the bells of Saint Peter. Then it was “ I Wish That We Were Married” and “Boogie Woogie Bugler" in a version that would have sent Bette Midler back to the baths. After that, a song I'd only heard twice before on Don K. Reed’s Doo Wop Shop, but which sent me through the ceiling, their single on Catamount. “Doo Wop Disco." 1 could have listened to Fourteen Karat Soul for the rest of the night, but another group — the Copas — followed and nobody alive can follow Fourteen Karat Soul and look good. They came on stage apologizing. The Copas are an older, white ballad group from Long Island, wearing tuxedos that have seen a thousand miles and doing reasonable renditions of numbers like “Florence” by the Paragons and “O1 Man River." The second set was to follow, but it was getting late. I got up to go. and passed by my old friends and my old flame without saying good-bye. They were engrossed in the music and didn't see me leave. But I knew I'd meet them again, if only on some street corner in my mind’s eye. looking for trouble, song, and love. And I felt content with the youth of my youth and the age of my age. Reprinted by permission of the tillage Voice and Michael Disend © News Group Publications Inc. 1979. In the words o f an old ballad. Otherwise completely lost: Life’s a rec ipe-less sa lad That’s foreverbein^ tossed. ADDEE q o R R W Y . The Postcard Poetess NO PLACE FOR THE COMMONPLACE ASSORTED ART POSTCARDS SKIDMORE VILLAGE CHILDREN'S BOOKS 5 0 S W 3rd Ave 31
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