My First Book

                                          THE SEER, THE SEEKER AND CERBERUS

                                                                    May 5, 2025

It was mid-June, early in my Olive Drab career. My surroundings were literally foreign as my just-turned twenty-year-old body maneuvered the German landscape. The Army base abutted Kitzingen, a town famous for something, surely. Being on a military base is being on imported America. There might be a few local trappings, but basically one’s boots trod on home turf. It’s analogous to the Transylvanian dirt in Dracula’s coffin. Still, I felt alone. My fledgling Infantry career consisted of four months training in Fort Ord, California, two weeks of temporary duty in Phoenix, and two weeks leave which left quickly, as did I immediately thereafter.

And that’s how I found myself, twelve hours settled into my new barracks—Bravo Company of the “Can-Do” Battalion in the 3rd Infantry Division in the land of Liebfraumilch and liverwurst. What was this waif to do but recon the lay of the land in the tiring sea of fatigues? So, off I trod.

Much of the horizon contained innumerable barracks, identical, with windows belching cigarette smoke and swear words. Flanking that was the Motor Pool with loads of Heavy Metal Thunder. I opted for the only promising path and soon stood in front of the PX (Post Exchange). Being a newly minted Spec 4 (Specialist fourth class), I was not burdened with massive wads of cash. However, Uncle Sam saw to my living expenses, including meals (of a sort), so a buck went pretty far in the Wonderland that is the tax-free PX; the distance a dollar traveled was about to be discovered.

In this year of our Lord, 1971, a pack of cigarettes cost 21¢. Why? Because charging a quarter would be gouging a G.I. The shelves were overflowing with underpriced goods. Passing GO and receiving $200 in Post Exchange Monopoly would allow an enlisted man to feed a family of four for a month—even if both kids smoked! My eyes flitted about, soon landing on an oasis for this musical nomad. There were hundreds of albums, their Sirens’ song beckoning. The lithe LPs awaited my perusal, their shimmering groovy vinyl cloaked in slipcovers that might—dare I dream—contain the lyrics. I could hear angelic voices. I expected rose petals to begin falling from the acoustic-tiled drop ceiling. “Steve!” they sang. “Here thou shalt stand/Existing outside of Time/Take yon vinyl in hand/Make a chosen few thine.”

Oh, such a sweet sound! And not just the angels’ voices. It was the methodical “thwip, thwip, thwip” of albums sequentially thumbed, exposing their artwork to my lusting eyes. This activity has ever been my transcendental joy. Truly, an LP is the perfect size for a creative concept to come alive. The medium is sturdy, so the viewer can thwip quickly through the less eye-catching offerings or snatch up the stunner and scrutinize its visual bounty. I loved it. One at a time. Scan. Flip. Linger. Nah, Flip. Flip. OH! Pull that one out. Cool Cover. Who’s on it? No one I know; but they used an M.C. Escher print, so it’s a maybe. Put that aside for now. Flip. Flip.

This would go on until I had laid eyes—and sometimes hands—on all of them. It was never boring. It had to be done. Somewhere, there might be a gem. Even when the records were grouped and/or alphabetized, they had to be individually screened. I couldn’t miss out on an obscure album because some stoned metal-head forgot his ABCs. Or worse, go empty-handed because some devious person with my weird taste hid the Love Sculpture British release between the Carpenters and the Cowsills. One could never take that chance. So, I never did. This day, in the PX, was no exception because never means not even once.

To my everlasting delight, I was rewarded. Even at this remove, I can visualize the moment. Having worked my way through the regularly priced pablum, I commenced searching the cutouts. There weren’t many, but there was one. Oh, goodness me! I was giddy, for in my slightly trembling hands was Songs for a Tailor by Jack Bruce. I know! Who could have guessed? It was his first solo album released in 1969 after Cream had separated (so to speak). Bruce had created a masterpiece that did not sell well. Well, it would be selling on this day. And how much would this cost me? I swooned. 75¢. I giggled and clutched it to my heaving chest. Then, while returning the “maybe” stack of LPs, I came across a Moody Blues 45 for 15¢, which seemed a little high, but. . . 90¢ and no tax later, I exited the building feeling a little less lonely.

The cover of Jack Bruce’s album was not what sold me on it. Bruce was the lead vocalist, bass player and main composer for Cream, one of my favorite bands. A discussion on them in general and Jack in particular would be its own blog entry. I saw them live in the Phoenix Star Theater—the present-day Celebrity Theater before the stage rotated. I own ten or so Bruce albums and have seen him live with various bandmates. I am a fan. So it didn’t bother me that Songs for a Tailor sported naught but a photo portrait of the musician. The back was equally simple—black with a listing of the song titles. The bonus here was that each track listed the respective players.

Knowing the musicians on individual records was paramount to finding excellent new material because bands of that era had the half-life of the lead singer’s unbruised ego. One had to know that the 17-year-old Stevie Winwood wrote, played organ and sang lead on “Gimme Some Lovin” by the Spencer Davis Group, so one would buy the Traffic albums (only two studio offerings). Those fabulous tracks would then lead a person to purchase the sole Blind Faith album which was actually one too many. The system wasn’t foolproof.

Another method of seeking vinyl worth owning has been alluded to throughout this entry—Cover Art. It too was subject to error but a good starting point nonetheless. The thinking was that any band or person(s) connected with them who had the artistic wherewithal to bring said cover into being, probably had musicianship/lyrical prowess to warrant an earnest audition. In other words, we hoped that their taste wasn’t all in their mouth. Anecdotally, I admit to this working more often than not. That, combined with the reasonable cost of an album, led me to some memorable discoveries. Telling that tale might make a fun, future blog entry, but. . .

The time has come to directly address the impetus for this blog. A few days ago, Myrna looked at the piece of original art hanging on our wall which served as the cover of Old Dogs, New Licks by my band, Decades Too Late. Its existence is a paean to that beloved cover art from the halcyon days when a group’s double album often meant there was more stuff to look at when spinning the usually bloated disc.

My special buddy, artist Auni Beeson*, created the Old Dogs image. Auni is a singularly talented seer who transforms my conceptual verbiage into compelling visuals. The accompanying image is the mesmerizing result. When Myrna asked me to explain the concept, I said something like the following: A seeker has traveled to gain entrance to the underground via the cave (shaped like an ear). The old dog guarding it is Cerberus who seems to be on holiday from his usual gig of protecting the Underworld for Hades. The seeker bears gifts to buy his passage and at least one of the heads is interested. A few other details of note: The path that brought our pilgrim hence is bucolic, natural, unrefined, but the path leading into the cave is sleek, high tech, and not unlike a track on a record. The vinyl being offered already exists as recordings, so it is “old music.” It is put forth in trade. The seeker (musician) has already absorbed those influences; he needs to go deeper—go underground—where undiscovered sounds can still be perceived. Also note that he is not fearful, and Cerberus is not threatening. Making music is, after all, collaborative. If the proffered record isn’t sufficient to afford him passage, he has another behind his back in reserve. Maybe it’s “Hound Dog” by Elvis. Maybe not. Auni and I aren’t talkin’.

*Auni’s website address is: andreacaretto.com 

The Pathetic Peripatetic

The What? 

The PP. 

Excuse me! 

I know! It's so puerile!

So what?

Puerile? From the Latin, puer, meaning child. In English, the word means silly, childlike, immature. Let's skip the pronunciation because you are reading the word. Oh, you might want to use it aloud to impress your friends or intimidate your enemies? No? You would simply like to "pronounce" it in your head if you come across it in your reading (as you just did!). [pyoorəl] There. Now, we can both say it. 

With that out of the way, we can begin to explain the name of this blog. Here goes: Pathetic is used in the sense of having or being full of pathos. I am thinking of its ancient Greek meaning of feelings and emotions, not that of pity and suffering. For Peripatetic, we harken back to those Athenians again--Aristotle and his ambulating students strolling around the grounds, thinking out loud and pondering the questions of the day. Yeah, those guys. They were collectively known as the peripatetic philosophers. 

I put those concepts together because we are all walking around philosophizing--trying to make sense of the world by learning things about it. It's that learning that this blog will be about. Confession: I also put those words together because they are alliterative and playing with language is fun. Yes, it is. No, it is not puerile. Puns possibly are puerile, but not alliteration. Tsk! Tsk! 

With that, I beg you to read a blog or two. They will explain more than merely the title. Get your two cents ready. You will soon be sought to add your thoughts to this blog. Won't that be edifying? And fun!!