It would be hard to think of a more universal touchstone for baby boomers than the Howdy Doody Show. Say kids, what time is it? It’s Howdy Doody time!!!

There came a time when just about every local TV station had a kids show (the one I remember was Ranger Andy), but Howdy Doody got there first. And the show didn’t just entertain us boomers — it sold TV sets, cereal, lunch boxes and a lot of other products. Advertisers definitely took notice.

It all started with New York radio NBC affiliate WEAF, where Big Brother Bob Smith was the voice of a ranch hand on a show called The Triple B Ranch. He would greet the audience by saying “Oh, ho, ho, howdy doody.” Just the kind of nonsensical wordplay children love to hear, and love to repeat.

It was a short leap from there to the Howdy Doody Show and a whole cast of characters who lived in Doodyville. That named seemed rather benign when I was 7 or 8 years old, but in retrospect it sounds like a weird place to live. Buffalo Bob talked to the marionettes as if they were real, so even though we could see the strings on the puppets as plain as day, we began to think of them as real people. And what a collection of characters– Phineas T. Bluster with his flying eyebrows on separate strings, along with Flub-a-Dub and Dilly Dally. And the live characters were just as interesting. Chief Thunderthud of Kawabonga fame and Princess Summerfall Winterspring were pretty captivating. Clarabell Hornblow provided some of the slapstick and was played by Bob Keeshan, who most of you should remember later became Captain Kangaroo! He sprayed seltzer on everyone and we all laughed like the chuckleheads that we were.

I had forgotten that the show originally came on in the early evening, but I do remember that it came on just after Gabby Hayes. When the show came to an end in 1960, it was after airing 2,343 programs. It had its educational moments and teaching opportunities, but mostly I remember the slapstick, some goofy songs and the spraying seltzer, along with an unexplainable yearning for Princess Summerfall Winterspring (I began to think of her as pretty hot looking just as I hit puberty).

Who didn’t want to be in the Peanut Gallery bleachers when the Princess was in town? I guess when I was more interested in the Princess than the puppets, my Doodyville days were over, but I still remember them fondly.

Jay Harrison is a writer and creative consultant for DesignConcept. His mystery novel, Head Above Water, is available on Amazon and Kindle. You can also visit his author page here.

Just a few bars of Mr. Soul and I get instant flashback in the time machine to somewhere around 1967. My allegiances were split between the Motown Sound and the new music that was coming out of San Francisco. But Buffalo Springfield took everyone by surprise. They only made 3 studio albums before everyone went their separate ways…and don’t forget that Buffalo Springfield begat Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, plus Poco, and then Loggins and Messina.

Despite the briefness of their time on the scene, they sure had a long lasting impact on musical genres. Neil Young, Stephen Stills and Richie Furay were all singers, songwriters and guitarists from the folk and country traditions, but they melded this background and their talents into a new kind of rock sound that no one had ever heard before. The Byrds, Flying Burrito Brothers, Jackson Browne and the Eagles all have acknowledged their debt to the band’s influences on their work.

Neil Young may have been the most interesting lyricist, but Stephen Stills played great guitar, and Furay had perhaps the most pleasing vocal sound. Maybe it was the timing of trying to break through at the same time the Beatles were dominating rock music, but for some reason people did not truly appreciate the Buffalo Springfield sound until the band broke up. It’s one of the few cases where a band got more airplay after their demise than in their prime. Still, they deserve the credit for practically inventing folk-rock and country-rock.

Going back to listen to some of their prime material, such as For What It’s Worth, Expecting to Fly, Bluebird and Kind Woman, you can foretell that everyone is going to go their separate ways, but it does not in any way diminish the pleasure you can get from listening to ground-breaking musicians like these.

There’s somethin’ happening here,
What it is ain’t exactly clear.
There’s a man with a gun over there,
Tellin’ me I gotta beware.
I think it’s time we stop,
Hey, what’s that sound,
Everybody look what’s going down.

For What It’s Worth, Stephen Stills, 1966

Jay Harrison is a writer and creative consultant for DesignConcept. His mystery novel, Head Above Water, is available on Amazon and Kindle. You can also visit his author page here.

 

In the early 80’s, I was playing with the Bernie Pearl Band and one night we opened for Smokey Wilson at The Music Machine out on Pico on Los Angeles’ Westside. Smokey was a real showman; he fronted a 7 piece band with a horn section and sported a powder blue 3-piece suit with a cowboy hat to match. He’d hit the stage after his band warmed up the audience with two or three tunes.

In those days, Smokey traveled in a trailer. At some point during Bernie’s set, my girlfriend Lynda took him out there for a little taste. I don’t know how much of our set he actually heard but when we came off, he told me he liked my playing and invited me to sit in for his set. We had a drink at the bar and he said, “once the band gets going you come up with me”. We had a couple more shots and I asked him what key the band would be in when we hit the stage. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Son, I play so many keys”.

As we walked toward the stage, I still didn’t know. We passed the horn section on the way to my spot and, in desperation, I asked them for the key. The trumpet man said “F#”. F#! A lot of harp players don’t carry a “B” harp which is what is needed for cross position in F#. Smokey strapped on his guitar, grabbed the mike, looked at me and said, “take one”. We’re in F# and he puts the spotlight on me right out of the gate. But the trumpet man saved my ass. If no trumpet man, I’m punked in front of a full house. I tore up that solo and Smokey ignored me until his final song. It was ok with me because fitting in with a solid horn section is one of my favorite things.

Smokey’s gone now, but he taught valuable lessons for harp players that night: be prepared for the flats and sharps, beware of a guitar slinger in a powder blue suit and always make nice with the horn section.

For the record, according to L.A. bass player Ron Battle, that trumpet player was, most likely, Joe Campbell. This many years later, thank you Joe. Smokey will never know.

Rick Smith is a musician and harp player (that’s a harmonica folks) from Helendale, California.

You left your pride in the horrors,
The desolate errors
— Giuseppe Ungaretti

See, evening’s shadow quickly turns to night,
and we are still hungry for love.

*

We are not fecund, not firm, our infirmities even more
bounteous, but we still fancy riding the wild horse!

*

Progress wreaks havoc with courtship,
our life stories reduced: “How I spend Friday nights,
My favorite movies, Six things I could never live without;”
I weep, no good can come of this.

*

Beware, you women, of images of shirtless men baring
bulky bellies, or missing the tops of their heads due
perhaps to a purposeful camera. Shun too the juveniles
sending come-hither messages, secretly wishing to marry
their mothers: No good can come of this.

*

Lo, here is a man with promise,
plan an hour meeting where others congregate;
I lament, I tire: the odds are slim,
and what purpose, this?

*

We are keen for company of a kindred spirit,
the full spray of love’s pleasures.
Pray, what does the Oracle say this day?
Go, see the illuminated screen, swipe right.

Joanne Brown is a strategic communications consultant, writer, and poet. Her corporate work can be found at joannebrown.com, and her poetry has been featured in Persimmon Tree and Evening Street Review.

A R T S   If we are going to make music together there definitely need to be some ground rules. First of all, we will get along much better if you wash your hands, not sometimes, but as a matter of course whenever you are even thinking about touching my body parts. Who wants germs and/ or lunch fragments coming between us in this relationship? We might not be curing cancer here, but I know that you know that I know that we are going to be intimate. So let’s start off clean shall we?

Your first assignment will be to give me a name. Just do it. B.B. King, Eric Clapton and Willie Nelson all have names for their guitars. Anyway you don’t want to be in a relationship where you don’t have a name for the other party. Imagine a life of being referred to as hey you. The wrong name is like a wrong set of strings. It will mess us both up.

So listen, while its’s technically true that I am Gretsch Boxcar Model 9200 serial number CAXR 165214 that you bought off the internet, can you fit all of that into a name? Meanwhile, before you commit, try using endearments such as “Good morning, beautiful. Are we ready to set the musical world on its ear today?” Yes indeed, you will need to talk to me the same way you talk to your golf balls or chocolate chips. It’s a relationship. We have to relate, Partner.

What a guitar has to say and the way it gets said is the foundation of a relationship with the human voice. Every guitar, of course, has its own particular sound, and it is important to not get in a hurry making demands or blaming each other when things aren’t exactly right between us. Does that sound impossible? Ask your teacher if you need clarification on any of this, and by the way, how’s it going with choosing a name? If you get stuck, consider Carmine, not spelled like the opera, but mysterious, a little wild, and red is the color of your true love’s finish.

I’d kind of like to wrap up this first occasion with an overview: in a relationship, the essence is in the relating. Remember the four agreements: “be impeccable with your word, don’t take anything personally, don’t make assumptions, and always do your best.”

So, same time tomorrow?

Anne Animas lives, writes and hides out in Southern Colorado.