There are 32 years between my dad and me. He was a childhood survivor of the Japanese occupation of the Philippines during World War II, and I was destined to be a self-absorbed '80s punk rock preppie. I had everything and he started with very little. Yet because of his force of personality he imprinted me with a love of cars, a love of aircraft, a readiness for conflict, a facility towards tenderness, and an inclination towards forging deep relationships only.
I don't think he ever understood the skateboarding, the aggressive drums and guitars, the comic books, or the foul language, but I also know he let me be what I wanted, within gentle parameters. It's what makes me stand aside scratching my head as I watch my son chart his own way.
We are exactly alike yet so different. It's precisely why when we did something together, father and son, it was always rare, bitter and sweet, and indelible in my mind. I remember him taking me to see an aviation movie when I was 8. I remember him grimacing when I confided in him that I thought I had a girlfriend at the age of 13 (I was wrong, but he let me figure it out on my own). I remember him taking me to see the Blue Angels. I remember him sitting through some ridiculous Japanese superhero stageshow that came into town. I remember going with him to the Academy of Sciences Museum at Golden Gate Park while my mom sat in a medical seminar. I remember getting a Tad's Steak with him in Midtown, because it was what he did when he was still flying.
And I remember going to the Hawaii Raceway Park in 1971 in a rented Chevy Camaro to do some laps. I had a pink plastic F-104 Starfighter in the pocket of the shorts he and mom brought back from Amsterdam. I was wearing Chuck Taylor knock-offs from Manila. See?
Incidentally, I think he's none too please with how close I am to the dirt. Sorry, Dad. Love you.
Spent New Year's Eve with friends. Suspended a disco ball from a palm tree and danced 2012 away on their deck.
Found a beat up Eames chair replica on Craigslist for such little money I'm not embarrassed to have it. Consider it a place holder until I accumulate the disposable income necessary to obtain the genuine article.
Went downtown for cocktails one night to discover the Club Hubba Hubba strip bar sign from the 60s/70s/80s re-hung and re-lit. Thankfully, it's just a remnant, with no such establishment in operation. Nothing wrong with strip bars, but that one was skeevy.
Discovered my new favorite place. Fancy cocktails and fancier ramen. Lots of pretty, intelligent women on a saturday night.
Enjoyed the sunset view from the bar at the Elks with my son and his cousins.
Napped with son in my living room.
Backyard camping with the best of friends, part I.
Backyard camping with the best of friends, part II.
Backyard camping with the best of friends, part III.
Son's room.
Resolving issues with the Mid-Life Crisis.
Trusted someone enough to let her borrow one of my surfboards.
Yesterday, I think I did my typically cursory job of summarizing Paul Weller's musical career. His prolific musical output spanning four decades notwithstanding, it was his Eighties collaboration with keyboardist Mick Talbot, The Style Council, that drew me in so many years ago. Although the music was certainly the main draw, their public image came a close second in captivating me. They allowed fans to imagine they were jet-setting across the globe, sampling this world's urban delights -- coffee, jazz, clove cigarettes, Alfa Romeos, and bedding Chanel women and befriending Miles Davis men.
The Style Council image was carefully crafted through the images which appeared most frequently on their album covers, singles' picture sleeves, and in their press kits. One felt that Francois Truffaut had volunteered to capture their lives on film, to be reproduced on record jackets for some label from North Africa which specialized in bebop jazz, Egyptian soul, Beat poetry, and Style Council remixes. That it was probably all staged and not candid, premeditated and not spontaneous, was meant to be ignored. We could then co-conspire in the conceit that we were all style councilors and we were merely receiving the latest message from our pals abroad.
The first album, My Ever Changing Moods in the USA, and Cafe Bleu in the UK, let everyone know that this was no longer Paul Weller's punk period. This mod was growing up. (One of my best friends, a beautiful painter, framed the top picture for me decades ago. It still hangs in my house now.)
Their second album, more dilettantism for Paul and Mick. I had a poster of this on my dorm room wall and I studied it until I found out what every detail meant, who every person in the background was, what every artifact signified.
Blue blazers, white socks, and black loafers.
Japanese e.p. Which came first, the sweater around my shoulders or the sweater around Paul's?
Ditto.
"Have you heard the latest from those cats, the Style Council? It's out on the Swine Rouge label from Algiers! Dig it!"
So cool, he needs shades on stage, but he's too cool to wear them anywhere but around his neck. Mick cuffing his trousers.
Twenty five years ago, I was fully beneath the sway of the Style Council, a pseudo-collective of self proclaimed modernists led by one Paul Weller. Like him, you can bet that I was frequently shod in the versatile black beefroll loafer. I wore them with shorts. I wore them with jeans. I wore them with pegged chinos. Mostly without socks. Utterly without irony I once wore them with my first purchased tuxedo, a shawl collar from Jos. Banks. I refused to shell out for the useless patent tux slippers to go with them, and couldn't afford them anyway.
Weller started with the Jam during the first wave of punk in the late 70s. Here he is at the close of the Jam era, dressed much like I was in a button down oxford, chinos with surcingle belt, white sox, and the aforementioned black loafers. At least I'm about 95% certain that's what he's got on his feet, as anything below his Rickenbacker is obscured by the crowd.
I was too disconnected to be a Jam fan contemporaneously, but when Weller disbanded them for a new, more mature, jazzier and more soulful project, I was on board from the get go. My trajectory as college punk morphing into urbane intellectual followed his. Known as The Cappucino Kid, Weller and the rest of his councilors cultivated an air of cafe culturalism steeped in Godardist politics and style, and seasoned their records with britpop versions of soul, vocal jazz, piano jazz (Weller's collaborator at the time, Mick Talbot, was a huge piece of the puzzle), and eighties era rap. Without a doubt the Style Council writ a blueprint followed later by groups such as Oasis and Vampire Weekend. Now, Weller knew that I knew that he knew he was posing, but nevermind that now. Here they are, dressed well and bringing it all together in style.
As you can see, towards the end of the video, what is Mr. Weller shuffling around in rather stylishly but a pair of beefroll loafers, probably in black to match the checks.
Anyway, in short order Weller closed up shop on the Style Council and moved on to his third act, the solo career. He has turned out a truly monumental catalog of solo work of depth and quality, more focused than his Jam or Style Council years. His voice too has matured and the anger of the 70s, and the flash living of the 80s, have caught up to him and thus imparting, what - more gravitas? We should all mature as well. Perhaps it's the black beefroll loafers he no doubt - here - pairs with his take on the 70s slim look.
I described one of my Greatest Dates previously, but I am reminded of another on the day the news breaks that Jazz Immortal Dave Brubeck passes.
It was 1998 and I was a datin' fool. Perhaps the reason I can't elevate this night to the Greatest Date ever is because I can't remember my companion's name. But she was a pretty attorney from across the table who at some point during a gravely inconsequential litigation commented to me that she was a classically trained concert pianist. One deposition turned into three and the timing became right for me to ask her to see Dave Brubeck and his sons when they came to play at the Blaisdell Concert Hall here in Honolulu. She leapt at the opportunity, probably more for the performance than for the companionship, but in the end ... well I'll show you rather than tell you.
It was a wonderful night that started with drinks at a nearby saloon to loosen us up. Fortunately, we had tested the waters with a pre-date and we knew that nothing awkward would ruin our intended night of listening to Mr. Brubeck's odd time signatures. (I think the previous week, we had Thai food and saw "Titanic"). As we were standing in the lobby waiting to enter the concert hall, I spotted an old friend scurrying around, and I quickly remembered he was in the entertainment business, so I hailed him over. Understand, I never miss an opportunity to show a romantic interest that I am Kind of a Big Deal. Sure enough, he was involved behind the scenes in the production.
So my pal comes over, we chit chat and I introduce my date. He gives her the approving once over and we finish up with more small talk and then proceed to our seats. She is pleased to find that I haven't gone cheap. Our view is spectacular, eight or nine rows back and just off center. When the time comes, we'll be able to see Mr. Brubeck's fingers.
The lights dim and Brubeck leads his sons out and they take their places. They are dressed timelessly in white jackets and black bow ties. My date and I share the intimacy of beautiful music, and at one point I lean over and confess to not understanding the time signatures. As a self-trained rock drummer (really, I am), I am unaccustomed to counting to anything beyond four, four times. So she leans over and places her ten fingers on my thigh and, with her fingers and whispers, counts fives and sixes, for a few bars as the Brubecks are playing.
So the intermission comes and we decide to keep our seats and continue our music-oriented conversation. We are busy impressing each other with our knowledge when my pal suddenly appears. He slides in one row in front of us and says he's been looking for us.
He looks at my date and says, "How'd you like to present Mr. Brubeck with a lei onstage before the encore?"
"Would I?"
As the final piece of the set started, my pal came and got us and led us backstage, my date pulling me excitedly by my hand, me trying to act as if I had made all of this happen, feeling like Kind of a Big Deal.
And that is how we found ourselves standing not 20 feet from Dave Brubeck's piano as he played his iconic Take Five, with a luxuriant green maile lei draped around his neck and falling to the floor.
