Halloween at "Horror Hotel"

Although set in February, the month of Candlemas Eve, Horror Hotel is a perfect movie for Halloween. From 2006, here are my thoughts on one of my favorite chillers.

The poster for the 1963 U.S. release of Horror Hotel, a tiny reproduction of which appears on the cover of Navarra’s Triple Feature Horror Classics, Volume 5, was one of the most misleading pieces of advertising ever devised for a film’s marketing campaign.

“Just ring for doom service!” the tag line reads. A key on which the film’s title is imprinted dangles from a skeleton’s hand surrounded by a grotesque face with fangs, saliva visible in its open mouth.

The poster gives no clue to the atmosphere that director John Moxey and cinematographer Douglas Dickinson bring to this tale of modern day witchcraft in the village of Whitewood, Massachusetts. A movie that basks in morbidity and sends chills down the spine is depicted as a grade B scream fest on the order of a William Castle production, something like The Tingler that inspires more giggles than groans. The Motion Picture Association of America (MPAA), which gives its seal of approval to films and their advertising, may have rejected an ad campaign that hinted at the movie’s portrayal of human sacrifice. When released in the U.K. as City of the Dead in 1960, this chiller may have benefitted from a more honest and effective promotional campaign, but I’m sure children were forbidden from attending even with parents.

By the early ‘60s, horror films were generally regarded as kid stuff in the U.S., fodder for Saturday matinees and drive-in triple features. The U.K. had a ratings system long before Hollywood introduced their self-policing system in 1969, and the colorfully gory titles produced by Hammer were frequently slapped with an “adults only” label in their native country of Great Britain. Once they traveled overseas to the States, they were open to all audiences, perhaps due to simple economics. The early Universal horror films, Dracula and Frankenstein, which established the horror genre, appealed to adults, as well as younger audiences. As the genre deteriorated into less sophisticated territory (Frankenstein Meets the Wolfman), the fan base narrowed to teens and kids.

By the late ‘50s, when Universal released its backlog of pre-1949 titles to television, Hammer was reviving the moribund genre with full color remakes. At the same time, Forrest J. Ackerman began publishing Famous Monsters of Filmland, a magazine devoted to horror and science-fiction films, soon to be followed by the competing Castle of Frankenstein whose approach was more sophisticated, geared more to film buffs who admired horror and science-fiction, and less to kids who simply liked monsters.

But the kids who liked monsters, and preferred building Aurora model sets of Dracula and Frankenstein to slapping the glue on plastic airplanes, won out, so Horror Hotel’s advertising campaign was directed at them, as were the ads for The Head, the German film that comprised the second half of the double bill when Horror Hotel opened stateside in June 1963, just in time for summer vacation and the start of the drive-in season.

I saw it at the Pearl Road Drive-In in Cleveland, Ohio with my family, and it made a strong impression on me that was only strengthened when I saw it again a few years later on the Friday night late movie hosted by Houlihan and Big Chuck on WJW-TV8. It was a mainstay on local television throughout the ‘60s and ‘70s, then disappeared in the ‘80s, its owners having failed to renew the copyright. But it continued to haunt the imagination of those who saw it on television, usually in the wee hours, the perfect time for a film that casts such a macabre, creepy spell.

Horror Hotel was finally released on home video in the ‘90s, and I checked in again in 2004 to find it every bit as effective as I remembered.

Horror Hotel is a triumph. Filmed entirely on a soundstage at Shepperton Studios by Vulcan Productions, which would change its name to Amicus for such future shockers as Dr. Terror’s House of Horrors and The House That Dripped Blood, it is unmatched for its atmosphere. The fog machine never worked harder than it did when used to create the crypt-like ambience of Whitewood. The Raven’s Inn, the private hotel built on the exact spot where Elizabeth Selwyn was burned at the stake on March 3, 1692 (a dramatic sequence that opens the film), is dark and deathly quiet except for the ticking of the clock in the lobby and the solemn chanting that visiting college student Nan Barlow tells the proprietor, Mrs. Newliss, she hears coming from beneath the trap door in her room.

“There’s nothing under there but earth,” Mrs. Newliss says, and points to the trap door’s lack of a ring as evidence. The ring later appears dangling in the window shortly before the film’s most frightening moment: Nan Barlow’s descent via the cobwebbed stairs beneath the Raven’s Inn where she meets her terrifying fate.

Horror Hotel has a few hokey moments. When Professor Barlow (Dennis Lotis) invades the witches coven below the Raven’s Inn, he empties his handgun into his foreboding colleague, the undead witch, Professor Driscoll (Christopher Lee). The bullets have no effect, so what does Barlow do? The same thing the gangsters did on TV’s The Adventures of Superman when realizing the Man of Steel could not be deterred with mere bullets: Barlow throws his gun at Driscoll! Even more laughable is Driscoll’s reaction: he ducks!

Then there’s that bookstore operated by the granddaughter of the reverend who warns visitors to Whitewood that the devil lives and is worshiped there. Considering that the aligning church has no congregation, and all of the townsfolk appear to be witches, who is the clientele? Nan Barlow (Venetia Stevenson) stops in seeking books for her college thesis on the history of witchcraft in Whitewood, but she only borrows a dusty antique volume (A Treatise on Devil Worship in New England) that she can’t afford to buy. Ken Jones’ jazz that is heard as Barlow drives to Whitewood has been criticized, but since it seems to be emanating from the car radio, it’s not inappropriate. Still, it contributes nothing to the film, quite unlike Douglas Gamely’s eerie choral music that opens the film and is heard during the witches rituals. It has the effect of a cold, dead hand on your shoulder.

The acting is excellent, much better than required for a low-budget horror show, an indication that the producers envisioned a quality project and sought only the best talent.

Venetia Stevenson, the perky blonde whose disappearance while researching witchcraft for a college assignment paves the way for the fiery climax, has an innocent charm that contrasts well with the saturnine Patricia Jessel, whose strong features attract and repel at the same time. Despite her fourth billing, Jessel is the true star of Horror Hotel, and her performance as Elizabeth Selwyn/Mrs. Newliss would have been a mere caricature of a witch in lesser hands. But Jessel was a Tony Award winner as best supporting actress in the 1956 Broadway production of Agatha Christie’s Witness for the Prosecution, and her performance suggests she did not regard her role in a “horror movie” as a lark.

When Nan Barlow asks Mrs. Newliss if Elizabeth Selwyn was really burned as a witch on the site where the Raven’s Inn now stands, Jessel doesn’t merely say “She was,” but answers with a mix of pride and pain with a facial expression to match. She conveys both the haughty delight she takes in having been condemned for her beliefs, as well as the sorrow she feels about her persecution.

Christopher Lee as her accomplice is no mere boogeyman, but a weary sort, impatient with those, like Professor Barlow, who mock and condescendingly dismiss his teachings as nonsense. Dennis Lotis, previously known as a pop singer, is also impressive, never more so than when he follows his sister’s trail and, in the cavern below the Raven’s Inn, discovers the corpse of Lotti, the mute servant sympathetically played by Ann Beach, whose attempts to warn the guests of their host’s true nature leads to her doom.

Tom Naylor as Nan’s boyfriend, Betta St. John as the heroine of the second half of the film, and Norman Macowan as Reverend Russell are also excellent.

Then there’s Valentine Dyall as Jethro Keane, who hitches a ride with Nan Barlow on her way to Whitewood, only to disappear into mist when they reach the cemetery. Dyall, a character actor with a distinctive baritone, later played the caretaker in 1963's The Haunting, a more prestigious horror film that would make for a perfect double feature with Horror Hotel.

Horror Hotel is a superbly crafted thriller that received scant attention from critics (The New York Times panned it, along with The Head, in a review so brief that I suspect the critic didn’t bother to see the movie), but it has inspired devotion among those who discovered it, quite unexpectedly, through its television airings, and now regard it as the scariest movie they’ve ever seen.

© 2011 Brian W. Fairbanks

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Bob Dylan, Art Thief?

Since when is it considered plagiarism to make a drawing or painting of a photograph?

Bob Dylan came under fire this week when it was revealed that several of his paintings on display at the Gagosian Gallery in New York were based on photographs, many retrieved from Flickr, and at least one of which copies the work of Henri Cartier-Bresson.

Other than Dylan's dubious claim that "I paint from real life," and that the paintings are a "visual journal" of his travels, my reaction is, so what?

Drawing from photographs is a fairly standard practice among high-school art students, as well as for artists without access to live models. Dylan is neither, but if creating a painting from a photograph is theft, then it could be argued that a photographer is a thief whenever he aims his camera at any subject other than himself.

If he photographs a bridge and doesn't acknowledge those who built it, well, he's a plagiarist, is he not?

If he photographs a building and does not acknowledge the architect, as well as receive his permission to duplicate his work on film, he's stealing the architect's work, right?

If that's the case, a photojournalist who captures a crowd scene on film needs the permission of every individual in the photo, all of whom have the right to decide if that photo can be published. They are also entitled to financial compensation if the photographer is paid for that published work. It's even been said that the camera steals the soul of its subjects. If that doesn't entitle a photographer's subject to damages, well, there's something wrong with our legal system.

If Dylan is a plagiarist, he's in good company.

Did Andy Warhol request permission from the Campbell Soup Company before creating his legendary "soup can"? Did Campbell's share in any profit that Warhol made from selling his work or reproductions thereof?

What about the manufacturers of Brillo, whose box became another memorable Warhol piece? Somebody created the original design, although it's doubtful Brillo gave him credit or anything but a flat fee or paycheck.

How about Warhol's piece depicting an electric chair? Should he have acknowledged whoever built it and been required to pay a licensing fee?

And let's not overlook Warhol's silkscreens of Elvis Presley and Marilyn Monroe, two superstars whose images are worth millions and who did not agree to pose for him. Warhol depicted Elvis in a scene from the 1960 Twentieth Century Fox film, Flaming Star, and Monroe from the same company's 1957 film, The Seven Year Itch. Not only was Warhol stealing from Elvis and Marilyn, he was ripping off Twentieth Century Fox, as well as the photographers, film directors, and even the screenwriters who might be able to claim ownership of those images.

As for music, where's the name of Lennon and McCartney on David Bowie's 1975 song, "Young Americans," which quotes "I read the news today, oh boy" and its accompanying melody from the Beatles' "A Day in the Life"?

Joe DiMaggio earned a mention in Paul Simon's "Mrs. Robinson." Was DiMaggio consulted beforehand? Did he have the right to demand that the line in which his name appears be excised? For that matter, what about all of us who comprise the “nation” whose lonely eyes Simon said were turned to Joltin’ Joe? What right does Simon have to suggest my eyes are lonely or that they are turned to a baseball player?

Dylan has written songs about several famous public figures, including Billy the Kid, Rubin "Hurricane" Carter, mobster Joey Gallo, and Hattie Carroll and her alleged killer, William Zantzinger. Do they or their descendants have the right to demand a share of the royalties as well as a credit on the songs that told their stories?

What about an artist who makes a collage using photos from various newspapers and magazines. Is he a plagiarist if he hasn't received permission from those publications?

The answer to all of the above questions is NO!

Dylan should have been more straight-forward about where he found his inspiration for those paintings, but they're still HIS paintings. Even if an old photograph was the catalyst, they are new creations. This controversy probably has less to do with giving credit where credit is due than it has to do with money, and the possibility of milking a millionaire in a plagiarism lawsuit.

Like the brouhaha over Dylan's concerts in China earlier this year, this is much ado about nothing. Oops, that's a quote from Shakespeare. "It's plagiarism, pure and simple," Rob Oechsle, the owner of that Flickr account told The Los Angeles Times regarding Dylan's use of photos posted online. "If a writer were to use a phrase from Shakespeare, and not credit him, or attribute it in any way," Oechsle said, "that's what they'd be accused of."

Well, not really, Mr. Oechsle, or "Okinawa Soba" as he calls himself. (That sounds a little like Kimosabi to me, and Mr. Oechsle does not acknowledge Tonto or the Lone Ranger on his Flickr page.) Many of Shakespeare's phrases are so common that it's possible to quote him without knowing it, just as I don't know the origin of the phrase I quoted earlier about the soul-stealing capabilities of a camera. I've heard it plenty of times, and never from anyone who cited its author. Some quotes are so famous that attribution isn't necessary. In jest, a film buff might quote Clark Gable's famous line from Gone With the Wind ("Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn") or the line many people believe Humphrey Bogart said to Dooley Wilson in Casablanca ("Play it again, Sam") without mentioning the films, simply because it's assumed everybody knows them. And naming the movie might not be enough for Mr. Oechsle. You'd also have to list the screenwriters and the author of the original book or play from which the screenplays were adapted, and maybe the director and film company, too. Of course, to do so would be utterly ridiculous, much like the controversy over Dylan's paintings.

If the Gagosian Gallery were presenting an exhibit of Dylan photos, and it turned out those photographs came from Flickr or the portfolio of Henri Cartier-Bresson, that would be a scandal worth examining. But paintings from photographs? If a picture is really worth a thousand words, it's also worth a painting or two, and when the painting is by an artist of Dylan's standing, the photographer should feel complimented.

(By the way, the accompanying photo is an ink drawing I made of Dylan 21 years ago from a photo I found in a book. I don't know who took the original photo. If anyone does, let me know and I'll give him credit, lest I piss off Okinawa Soba.)

© 2011 Brian W. Fairbanks

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FIve Easy Pieces and the tone of the times

Before the 1992 release of A Few Good Men in which Jack Nicholson delivered the much quoted line, "You can't handle the truth," his most famous screen moment was probably in 1970's Five Easy Pieces, the first film in which he claimed top billing since being noticed with his supporting role in the previous year's Easy Rider. It's the chicken salad sandwich scene that was chosen to represent the film during the clips from the best picture nominees at that year's Academy Awards.

Nicholson and Karen Black, as his sort-of girlfriend, stop at a diner with two hitchhikers they've picked up. Nicholson orders toast which is not on the menu, and a contentious exchange follows in which he explains to the waitress how she can fill his order without breaking the rules that she insists on following.

"You have bread, and a toaster of some kind?" he tells the frustrated woman, then instructs her to "hold the chicken," bring him a check for the chicken salad sandwich "and you haven't broken any rules."

"You want me to hold the chicken?" she asks in a tone of defiant sarcasm.

"I want you to hold it between your knees," he sneers.

With that remark, the waitress orders Nicholson and his companions to leave, and points to a sign that states the management's policy ("We reserve the right to refuse service").

"Do you see this sign?" Nicholson says, then violently clears the table of its glassware and metal utensils.

More than 40 years later, Nicholson's character looks more like an obnoxious boor than the rebel he may have seemed originally. He's a rude bully abusing a low-wage employee who is, after all, only doing her job. In 1970, when the film was released, it played a little differently, its rage colored by the tone of the times. To the young people of what would have been called the "counterculture," Nicholson's character wasn't merely abusing a waitress, but taking on Nixon, Vietnam, the assassins of JFK, RFK, and MLK, along with all the pointless rules of our straight-jacketed repressed society. He was "stickin' it to the man," challenging the "system," kicking the Establishment's ass, and putting down the whole rotten "scene" (add a "man" after "scene" for added hipness, 1970's style).

Nicholson's character was the rebel seizing his freedom and ignoring the "sign" that the waitress points to in her defense. A hit song by a group called the Five Man Electrical Band titled "Signs" that hit the airwaves in summer 1971 ("Do this, don't do that, can't you read the sign?") may have even been inspired by the scene. Once Nicholson and his companions leave the diner, one of the hitchhikers praises his miniature act of rebellion. He's less impressed with himself than she is, and recognizes the futility of, shall we say, fighting the system. In regard to that toast without the chicken, he says, "Well, I didn't get it, did I?"

A movie, like any creative work, does not exist in a void. It reflects its time, but time moves on while the work of art is static, frozen on canvas, on a page, or on frames of film. If its truths are universal, the art transcends the time in which it was made and communicates as effectively to its own generation as it does to those that follow. Five Easy Pieces, like that previous Nicholson movie with "easy" in the title, is probably a satisfying film to watch even now, four decades after its release, but its power has almost certainly diminished. In 1970, some of its strength was in its symbolism, which may not have even been deliberate, but what it symbolized for many members of its original audience has changed. Nixon is gone, Vietnam is over, and our government, though actually more oppressive than ever, is seen as less corrupt and authoritarian, certainly by filmmakers, most of whom lean left politically and are inclined to see a democratic president as a man in a white hat, especially when he's black.

© 2012 Brian W. Fairbanks

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The end of the world is not being televised

As of 3:48 p.m., the end of the world is not being televised. Maybe there’s a network on cable that successfully negotiated with God - or the devil - for exclusive rights, or maybe Hurricane Irene’s arrival on the east coast has been delayed, or maybe it arrived on schedule but had already weakened once it reached New York. All I know is that life goes on, or television does, and there’s been no mention of cataclysm on NBC where golf is being televised, or ABC which is presenting the Little League World Series (I’m not kidding), or Fox where a Major League game has just concluded. The digital convertor box on my analog TV set isn’t picking up the signal from the CBS affiliate, so I have no clue what’s going on there.

When I went to bed this morning, I was fully expecting to wake up to live news coverage resembling the tornado sequence in the Kansas prelude to The Wizard of Oz, and now I’m wondering if, like Dorothy’s stay in Oz, it was all a dream.

© 2012 Brian W. Fairbanks

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Elvis Remembered

Thirty-four years ago, August 16 also fell on a Tuesday. A hot, muggy day throughout most of the Midwest, by afternoon the news went forth that Elvis Presley had died. The hip-shaking Southern boy who made rock 'n' roll an international sensation that would soon become the dominant force in music, was found on the floor of his bathroom at Graceland, the gaudy mansion in Memphis, Tennessee that is now on the National Register of Historic Places, visited yearly by fans from around the globe.

It's a bit mind-boggling to realize that Elvis has been a dead icon for much longer than he was a living one. By the time of his death in 1977, he had spent twenty-one years in the spotlight, and now thirty-four years have passed since he proved he was always as mortal as the rest of us. It would also be difficult for the generations that followed to realize the impact Presley had on the world way back in 1956. A clue can be found in the complete episodes of The Ed Sullivan Show, released on DVD several years ago and reviewed below:

Elvis: The Ed Sullivan Shows (2006)


Elvis Presley made no less than nine network television appearances before performing on The Ed Sullivan Show the evening of September 9, 1956, but most of America first saw him then. Despite a stiff demeanor and tendency to pronounce show as “shoe,” Sullivan was the ringmaster of American entertainment. His Sunday night variety program was an institution in the days when television was still a three channel proposition. Appearing on his show was an important break for any entertainer. It was tantamount to receiving the show business seal of approval.

But Sullivan originally did not approve of Presley and vowed he wouldn’t touch the singer with a ten-foot pole. Despite selling more records faster than any recording artist in history, Presley was more than hot. He was scorching. The swivel hips that earned him the nickname “Elvis the Pelvis” (which he despised, calling it “childish”) and his expressive singing style made him a lightning rod of controversy. One journalist compared his stage act to that of a stripper. However, when Presley appeared on The Steve Allen Show which was scheduled opposite Sullivan on Sunday nights, the ratings went through the roof. Sullivan reversed himself and offered Presley a then record $50,000 to make three appearances on his show.

Just how shocking Presley was in 1956 was never apparent in the frequently recycled clips of his performances. Now, thanks to Image Entertainment’s 3 disc DVD set, Elvis: The Ed Sullivan Show, his performances can be seen in their proper context.

Ironically, a car accident prevented Sullivan from being present that first night. Charles Laughton, the brilliant British stage and screen actor (and husband of Elsa Lanchester, The Bride of Frankenstein), was the guest host that night, kicking off the proceedings by reading some poetry followed by limericks. The Brothers Amin, an acrobatic act, came next, then Dorothy Sarnoff performed a song from Broadway’s The King and I. After a commercial, Laughton, standing before a wall of Presley’s gold records, introduced the man whom a record 72 million views tuned in to see.

Wearing a plaid jacket and a guitar slung over his chest like a machine gun, Presley blasts his way into “Don’t Be Cruel” and it’s a little like Moses parting the Red Sea. Prior to Elvis, entertainment didn’t have to be rated with letters signifying what age group should be permitted to watch. Families watched TV and listened to music the same way they went to the movies: together. Now Elvis came to drive them apart.

Teenagers love him, of course, especially the girls, and what was there not to like? Handsome, but in a way men had not been before; threatening, yet still somehow tame, as if his mask of menace was only meant to conceal a wounded heart. He is, after all, very well-mannered, saying “Yes, sir” and thanking “Mr.” Laughton. What was one to make of this guy with the unusual name, the pompadour, and the long sideburns?

“He just does this,” Ed Sullivan would say while shaking his body on the October 28 show, “and everybody yells.” Presley looked a little more sinister this time in his dark suit, and he offers reprises of “Don’t Be Cruel,” “Love Me Tender,” and “Hound Dog” while also introducing one of his sultriest numbers, “Love Me.”

What did Dorothy Sarnoff think? And Senor Wences, who was on the bill the same night Presley appeared a second time?

Clearly, show business had been rocked into a new dimension.

His third and final appearance for Sullivan came on January 6, 1957 on a show that also featured Carol Burnett, one of the few stars on these episodes whose wattage would increase in future years. By now, the country was clearly divided into two camps: those who championed the King of Rock and Roll, and those who condemned him. Sullivan was now in the former, surprising audiences and Elvis himself by proclaiming him a “good, decent boy.”

But there was no turning back. Soon, people would be talking about the “generation gap” and, later, “youth culture.” The gap would widen in the ‘60s with even Presley taking his place among the old guard, but the gap started here. With the release of Elvis-The Ed Sullivan Shows on DVD, it’s now possible to properly assess the earth shaking impact Presley had in the more innocent era of the 1950's.

© 2011 Brian W. Fairbanks

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Other posts on Elvis:
Remembering Elvis
August 16, 1977
Elvis Is Everywhere

Bob Dylan at Jacobs Pavilion at Nautica (Saturday August 6, 2011)

It was pretty exciting to catch a glimpse of that hat Bob Dylan wears as he climbed the stairs in back of the stage of Jacobs Pavilion at Nautica where he performed Saturday night. You suddenly realize that he's really here, and then . . . HE'S THERE, in front of you, at the organ and singing "Rainy Day Women # 12 & 35," the boozy kickoff to his classic Blonde on Blonde album. The audience let out a roar, and they cheered again when, after "To Ramona," he moved to center stage, stood before the microphone, and sang "Things Have Changed," his Oscar winning song from the 2000 film, Wonder Boys. He followed that with an even more famous song, "Tangled Up In Blue," from 1975's Blood on the Tracks, but with a radically different arrangement than the original. Occasionally, he'd strap on a guitar, and he thrilled the audience every time he blew on the harmonica. For the most part, though, he was behind the organ, leading his incredible band through a diverse sampling of his massive songbook..

"The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll" was given a dramatic reworking, and he also hauled out "The Ballad of Hollis Brown." There were a couple of songs that I couldn't identify, probably from Modern Times and Together Through Life, which are not as implanted in my brain as securely as the others, but there was "Mississippi," "Highway 61 Revisited," "Simple Twist of Fate," and the climactic "Ballad of a Thin Man" whose ominous intro, now powered by Charlie Sexton's guitar, elicited another roar from the crowd. After addressing the clueless Mr. Jones for a final time, Dylan and his band left the stage to a thunderous ovation. The ovation continued until he returned and ripped into "Like a Rolling Stone" before concluding with "All Along the Watchtower."

In between his final two numbers, Dylan introduced the band, the only time during the 90 minute show that he spoke. He's often criticized for his refusal to chit-chat. "What the hell is there to say?" he told Rolling Stone in 2009. "That's not the reason an artist is in front of people." His message is in those songs, so take it or leave it. Dylan isn't known for his stage movements either. He did, however, dance a little, kicking his feet in time to the music. He seems pretty spry for a 70-year-old man, but I never think of Dylan in terms of his age. Even when he was young, he seemed to be a thousand years old, a time traveler who has inhabited many periods of history and whose songs report on the times that never really change at all. It's not hard for me to imagine Bob Dylan strumming his guitar and singing any of his songs at a fairground during the Civil War, or even entertaining an emperor in Ancient Rome with a ballad or two.

Yes, that damn eye was projected on the black curtain behind Dylan and his band during the final numbers. Dylan once said it "don't mean nothin'," and I read somewhere that it was designed by an artist in his employ. Having had kind words to say about Masons on his radio show, he must know that the symbol is tied to that secretive sect. Maybe he dismisses the belief that the symbol, like Freemasonry in general, has its origins in the occult. It's supposedly the all-seeing-eye of God, but which God? The God of the Old Testament in whom Dylan has always professed belief, or the lowercase god of this fallen world?

Leon Russell, riding the wave of his recent comeback, was the opening act. He didn't speak either, but sort of waved to the crowd with a finger as he walked on stage supported by a cane. During his 45 minutes on stage, he ran through a batch of songs without pause, including the Beatles' "I've Just Seen a Face," the Temptations' "Papa Was a Rolling Stone," and a pair of classics from the songbook of the Rolling Stones: a funky "Wild Horses" and a rocking "Jumping Jack Flash." In a mellower vein, he offered "A Song for You," the ballad that was once covered by The Carpenters.

Dylan's set list from bobdylan.com:

1. Rainy Day Women # 12 & 35 (Blonde on Blonde)
2. To Ramona (Another Side of Bob Dylan)
3. Things Have Changed (The Essential Bob Dylan)
4. Tangled Up in Blue (Blood on the Tracks)
5. Beyond Here Lies Nothin' (Together Through Life)
6. Mississippi (Love and Theft)
7. Ballad of Hollis Brown (The Times They Are A-Changin')
8. The Levee's Gonna Break (Modern Times)
9. The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll (The Times They Are A-Changin')
10. Highway 61 Revisited (Highway 61 Revisited)
11. Simple Twist of Fate (Blood on the Tracks)
12. Thunder on the Mountain (Modern Times)
13. Ballad of a Thin Man (Highway 61 Revisited)

ENCORE
14. Like a Rolling Stone (Highway 61 Revisited)
15. All Along the Watchtower (John Wesley Harding)

I'm really not much of a concertgoer. I prefer to listen to music the same way I would read a book - alone, without distraction, where I can really "listen," which I think one must do to fully appreciate Bob Dylan. Of course, those whose tastes run more to American Idol, KC and the Sunshine Band, Aerosmith, or (insert the name of almost any "pop" or "rock" group that you'd like) might be mystified by that approach. So, this was my first Dylan concert, and, yes, I was there more to see the "LEGEND" than to hear the songs. Observing the behavior of some of the audience was a reminder why "concerts" are really not my thing, and why it takes an artist of Dylan's stature to bring me out for one. Some of the audience struck me as unworthy of being in his presence. They included the folks who left early, before the encore, and even before "Ballad of a Thin Man." They were probably in a rush to get to their cars and beat the traffic on the way home. It's a little rude, I think, but I guess fairly typical of Joe Average who goes to the movies and chats throughout, and is racing toward the exit before the closing credits. If getting home is your priority, why not stay there?

I had to chuckle, silently, when visiting the men's room before the ride home. A guy made a reference to a drunk woman who was walking around in front of the grandstand, pointing an accusing finger at no one in particular. The guy said something about how ironic such behavior was while the guy on stage was "singing about peace." Hmm. Of course, Bob Dylan will never escape his association with the 1960s, and for many people that era brings to mind flower children and psychedelia, a world of which he was never really a part. He was more likely to sneer at such nonsense. Still, he's the most potent symbol of the "Sixties" that we have, so those who haven't really followed his music through the years don't know that he is more than a symbol, but a living, breathing, still vital artist. And he most definitely does not sing about "peace." "You can reload your rifle," he once said, "and that moment you're reloading it, that's peace." He doesn't need a rifle. He's got those songs. One of the most potent is "Ballad of a Thin Man," and it's appropriate that he still sings it. Many in his audience don't know what's happening any more than Mr. Jones did.

© 2011 Brian W. Fairbanks

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A tale of two Anthonys

I never heard of Casey Anthony until last week when she was being discussed on Bob Frantz's morning radio show on WTAM, here in Cleveland, Ohio. Why, he asked his listeners, was there such an interest in her saga while Anthony Sowell's trial, now in progress, is being ignored by the national media?

For those as clueless as I was until a few days ago, Casey Anthony is a 25-year-old Florida woman acquitted this week on charges that she murdered her daughter who was inhibiting her freewheeling, party-hearty lifestyle. She's probably guilty, but there was, as they say, "reasonable doubt," at least in the minds of the jurors.

The other Anthony, Mr. Sowell, is the alleged serial killer whose home on Cleveland's east side was the scene of numerous grotesque slayings. One of his victims - luckier than most in that she managed to get away after a visit to smoke some crack with her host - reports that she saw a dead body, its head cut off, lying on the floor of his bedroom. During the initial search of the house, a head was discovered in a coffee can in the basement and there were bodies buried in the backyard. That initial search was a long time in coming. The police apparently ignored reports through the years about the foul stench emanating from the house, as well as turned a blind eye to eyewitness accounts of the carnage that took place there. Finally, just as 2009 was about to gasp its last, the police paid a visit and discovered that Mr. Sowell was a sort of real life Dr. Hannibal Lector, lacking the good doctor's charm, perhaps, but sharing his appetite for blood, death, and sadism.

The Sowell story was big news for awhile, locally and nationwide, earning the top spot on Time's list of the top 10 crime stories for 2009. Now that his trial is in progress, it remains a local story, but the networks, both broadcast and cable, are apparently not taking much notice, whereas Casey Anthony's trial was a cause celebre, and its aftermath warranted a special hour long edition of Nightline. As of this writing, the ABC news program has spent two consecutive nights on the story, and there was also a prime-time special for those who either don’t stay up late, or can’t wait until 11:35 for their Casey Anthony fix.

Many of the callers to Frantz's radio show blame racism for the media's relative lack of interest in the Sowell trial. Casey Anthony and the daughter she allegedly murdered are white. She is also young and attractive, enough so that she was offered the lead in a porn film after her acquittal. Sowell and his victims are black, and the women he allegedly murdered were from the wrong side of the tracks - crackheads, hookers, and the like. There's a tendency to think they got what they deserved, shameful as it is to think such a thing. Caylee Anthony, the daughter who died under highly suspicious circumstances, was an innocent victim.

I think location, not racism, is to blame for the lack of interest in the Sowell case. The Casey Anthony trial took place in sunny Florida. Sowell is in gloomy Cleveland, the economically depressed rust belt city, and no one wants to hear about Cleveland any more than they’d want to visit it. Whoever decided to ban the national media from providing wall-to-wall coverage of the Sowell trial certainly wasn’t thinking about what’s best for the city. Think of the boost that the local economy would have gotten if Court TV and the like descended on the town? Ah, but coverage of a murder trial, especially one as tasteless as this one, might be bad for Cleveland's image. That might make sense if Cleveland had an image worth protecting, but is that true of the city once called and perhaps still known as "The Mistake on the Lake"?

I’m surprised there’s any interest in either story. Haven’t we seen it all before? Didn’t the O.J. trial satisfy everyone’s lust for tales of jealous rage and sensational murder? Didn’t the Amy Fisher and Monica Lewinsky business feed their appetite for a salacious sex scandal? The media always has a freak show in progress to keep the populace distracted from more important matters, such as those wars in Iraq, Afghanistan, and now Libya that are adding to America’s crushing debt, but serve no other discernable purpose. The two Anthonys are just the latest “stars” of this long running show. The names change and so do the faces, but once the Anthonys leave the stage, other freaks will emerge to take their place.

© 2011 Brian W. Fairbanks

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