The Boy Who Cried Freebird: Rock & Roll Fables and Sonic Storytelling


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How about gently probing missives on fringe artists like Gong and Albert Ayler? Check and check. This is sort of the problem with "The Boy Who Cried Freebird," really -- it's all corner points with very little center. Myers' writing is always smooth, and occasionally verges on greatness, but it doesn't really draw you in. Definitely worth reading for music ge Like mildly snarky rock 'n' roll fables? Jul 16, Stevo devo rated it liked it Shelves: music. A series of short stories about rock folklore. Some of them are more based in fact than others but that's hardly important.

They range from curiously interesting to downright eerie tales about rock personalities, classic albums and rock-fan fantasies. It's a fun book for anyone who has ever believed that there's more to music than just the music. Mitch Meyers is a pisser. Even his fictional short stories are a riot.

The boy who cried Freebird : rock & roll fables… — Kalamazoo Public Library

I really enjoyed this book. Jul 01, Jodi rated it did not like it Recommends it for: masochists. Shelves: rock-roll-bookclub. This book was so poorly written that I had to stop reading it, because the juvenile stories made my eyes bleed. Aug 01, Jamie rated it it was ok. While some of these stories are enjoyable - the journalistic pieces are four star pieces of writing - the fiction wallows in cliche. Jul 05, Joseph rated it it was ok Recommends it for: pretentious rock bitches.

Shelves: idonereadthisshit. This book is lame.

The writing isn't great. The rock references are often all too heavy and pretentious. That's all I have to say. Jul 04, Jill rated it it was ok. Some stories were enchanting and others fell super flat. Loved the title and loved the title story. Sep 17, Jesse rated it liked it. Nothing groundbreaking, but perfectly entertaining. Aug 02, Mark LaPorta rated it really liked it.

Loving yet tongue-in-cheek semi journalism on early rock reminiscence. Fun and easy. The title story is telling. Brenda Love rated it really liked it Jun 14, Max McDevitt rated it it was amazing May 10, Jessi Gervais rated it liked it Apr 02, Angie rated it did not like it Jul 19, Music writer Myers is knowledgeable not only about rock but also about blues, jazz, country, folk, metal and electronic sounds, and he is also extremely funny a potent combination that makes this collection of essays an insightful and entertaining look at popular music culture.

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Three of his best narratives include the decidedly mixed results of Black Sabbath's song "Paranoid" becoming the world's only defense against alien invaders; the adventures of a teenage Grateful Dead fan from who time-travels back to to see his heroes play in San Francisco; and a man driven to shout "Freebird" at every concert he attends.

But Myers also displays excellent straight journalistic skills in looks at artists ranging from Doug Sahm, whose legendary psychedelic-country-rock-Mexican fusion, Myers shows, helped shape modern Texas music, to saxophonist Albert Ayler in an elegiac study of how his "hovering, stream-of-consciousness meditations" made him one of the most brilliant musicians in the s free jazz movement.

Despite the alienation, Adam clung to his strange pursuit and took pride in his behavior. He even had a few accomplishments that he bragged about. One such incident occurred during a Keith Jarrett recital in Philadelphia. The pianist had just received a thunderous ovation from an appreciative audience intent on an encore. Jarrett bowed before quieting the crowd and sitting at the piano. Hidden in the darkened auditorium, Adam yelled Freebird! The pianist froze, then stood up, and walked offstage without saying a word—refusing to return.

The following day, Adam found mention of the event in the daily paper. He clipped out the article and envisioned compiling a scrapbook of similar achievements. Naturally, country-rock gigs were out of the question. Adam had other concerns as well.

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This irked Adam to no end. There were implicit dangers, too. One night, at Red Rocks outside Denver, Colorado, three zealous Iron Maiden fans cornered Adam and threatened to thrash him within an inch of his life if he opened his mouth again. All this embittered and emboldened Adam Coil.

It was a Thursday, and the Sex Mob—a group from Manhattan—was performing. Adam took the BART out to Oakland and arrived around , where he managed to get a table near the front of the stage.

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Adam could feel it in his bones—this night would provide him with a perfect opportunity to do his Freebird thing. By the end of the first set, Adam was ready. The band was quite good and their leader, trumpeter Steven Bernstein, kept yammering between tunes. Adam could hardly contain himself. They had just finished playing an old James Bond movie theme and Bernstein was giving another long spiel when suddenly, Adam shouted… Freebird!!!! Onstage, the band did not look amused. The trumpeter stared directly at Adam as the quartet huddled near the back of the stage.

A moment later, they resumed their positions and Bernstein counted off the next tune. It took Adam a minute to realize that the brooding introduction was actually the melody from Freebird.

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He listened in amazement as the song took shape and built in intensity. The saxophonist took hold of the second verse, and his solo was sad, gently urging and poignant. People in the audience were going wild. Many of them had their lighters out and they were standing and cheering while the band played faster and faster. Meanwhile, there at the foot of the stage, Adam Coil was crying.

The song ended and there was a big round of applause. The trumpeter thanked the crowd for coming out and encouraged everyone to stick around for the second set. But for Adam, the night was over. He made his way back home on the BART and went to sleep round about midnight. A few years ago, I was in Los Angeles and found myself at a quiet bar in the middle of the afternoon. There were just two guys shooting pool and an older fellow drinking by himself. The older fellow had long sideburns and wore a fringed leather jacket.

I barely contained my sarcasm.


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Man, you must have sat in on some pretty heavy sessions. Let me tell you something, I worked on one of the greatest recording sessions of all time. With that, he strolled over to the old-fashioned jukebox in the corner, dropped in some quarters, pushed a few buttons, and returned to his seat. He said that his friends called him Harvey the K. Then Harvey leaned back on his barstool and explained a few things, Phil Spector was a young hotshot when he first saw Ike and Tina Turner perform in L.

He picked the groups, gave them their songs, and directed their every move in the studio. And get this—the entire offer is just so he can produce one song with Tina Turner. They were working on this disjointed love song about a little girl and her rag doll that Phil had written with a couple of his cronies from Manhattan—Ellie Greenwich and Jeff Barry. Phil had even convinced Ellie and Jeff to come out to L. Ike fronted a nine-piece road band and had Tina singing along with three Ikettes. I remember Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys was watching us the whole time and Mick Jagger kept walking in and out of the control booth.

Would you believe Dennis Hopper was there, taking photos? It was positively orchestral with four guitarists, four bassists, and three keyboards, all going over this killer arrangement written by Jack Nitzsche. Nitzsche was always in the studio with Phil, and so was engineer Larry Levine.

Jack, Larry, and Phil fussed endlessly with the sound that day—adjusting each microphone and cranking up the echo and reverb beyond anything that I had ever heard before. We were falling all over each other, but the sound was huge; there were saxophones, trumpets, and trombones. Phil threw them all together until the instruments reverberated into one giant roar. Later, he would add an entire string section and a battalion of backup singers. So, Phil rehearsed Tina for another week before finally recording her vocal track.

That day, there was hardly anyone in the studio—just Phil, Larry, and me. It was fantastic. Some said it was overproduced, others thought it was just too far ahead of its time. Besides, Phil had alienated a lot of people in the music industry and many of them were happy to see him fail. He became reclusive and hardly made any records at all for about three years. When the song on the jukebox ended, Harvey the K stood up and said that he had to get going.

The Boy Who Cried Freebird: Rock & Roll Fables and Sonic Storytelling The Boy Who Cried Freebird: Rock & Roll Fables and Sonic Storytelling
The Boy Who Cried Freebird: Rock & Roll Fables and Sonic Storytelling The Boy Who Cried Freebird: Rock & Roll Fables and Sonic Storytelling
The Boy Who Cried Freebird: Rock & Roll Fables and Sonic Storytelling The Boy Who Cried Freebird: Rock & Roll Fables and Sonic Storytelling
The Boy Who Cried Freebird: Rock & Roll Fables and Sonic Storytelling The Boy Who Cried Freebird: Rock & Roll Fables and Sonic Storytelling
The Boy Who Cried Freebird: Rock & Roll Fables and Sonic Storytelling The Boy Who Cried Freebird: Rock & Roll Fables and Sonic Storytelling

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