State Street Scribe
by Jeff Wing
I haven’t always been this badass, powerfully attractive finger-snappin’ older gentleman riding the beach town vibe with mad panache. In 1973 I lived in Boulder Colorado, for instance. I was a frightened wallflower and daydreamer with hair like a malformed Brillo pad and a wandering left eye. I had a tiny, toxically unpopular circle of friends of the sort that, in a less civilized age, would have been banished to an uncharted atoll and left to perish. I wanted to belong, though. I straightened my hair every night before bed with my mom’s curling iron and strategically smashed my head into my pillow while I half-slept that I might have the flattened stick-straight hair and Tiger Beat bangs all my friends in school had.
What I did have was the day’s hippest transistor radio. My parents had given it to me for Christmas, along with a near heart attack when I tore off the festive wrapping. It was a cherry red Panasonic Ball radio. I could never figure out what the attached chain added to the thing (clearly a marketer’s afterthought), but I adored my spherical Panasonic almost hormonally, as some of my more completely formed compatriots were beginning to adore girls, but without the heavy petting, mostly. I kept my prize radio parked in the darkened little hutch that was built into the headboard of my mincing little twin bed. It was during this period, 14 years old, that my artistic sensibilities were coming alive, sleepily descending the double helix to knock-knock-knock at the doorway common, it seemed, to both heart and stirring groin. I was discovering both the inchoate power of music, and words like “inchoate”.
I’d bought my first LP with my own money – Mike Oldfield’s Tubular Bells – played McCartney’s RAM album till the grooves wore off, and would trance out to The Carpenters’ version of Leon Russell”s doomed groupie hymn Superstar while holding hands with my neighbor Cathy by black light; her skin a purple velour, her teeth mesmerizing phosphorescent chiclets. At bedtime every night I would lie awake in a fever of imprecise and free-floating “feeling”, marinating in the weirdly deep and inexplicable reverie that overtakes certain insomniac, newly minted, efflorescing teens in their early throes.
Gladys Knight and the Pips singing Midnight Train to Georgia was a particularly potent intoxicant for me that year, and every night it would scrape out of the little ball radio just behind my head. “L.A. proved too much for the man,” Gladys would sing, already dolorous in her delivery of the very first line. I couldn’t stop thinking about the song and I couldn’t stop feeling it. Midnight Train’s struggle parable, the pure but vulnerable artist being crushed by both philistines and “impersonal forces”, rang my bell, as did my imaginings of L.A. The very idea of “L.A.” (versus Los Angeles) made me swoon.
To this wall-starer in Boulder, shut up in his room with his St. George and the Dragon poster and shelf of nicely bound Reader’s Digest condensed classics (4 to a volume), L.A. meant darkness and power and brutality and triage and unsung heroism and stardom and all the other variegated sorrows and glories of big cities and world wars; the dank brickwork of the bowery, the benighted rag people scrabbling like Morlocks in the pitch-black alleyways beneath a starry vault swept with the announcing klieg lights of a Hollywood premier somewhere downtown, not very far away at all. Holy shit. All this proved too much for the man. Holy holy shit. How many artists and lost souls had gone to “L.A.” and been beauteously beaten down? Dragged to a soulless nub down Sunset Boulevard or burned to death trying to embrace the electric surge that ran through the town like a racing subterranean river? My ability to fall straight through to the middle of that song had everything to do with these totemic elements it so powerfully summoned, and my growing awareness, which I can mark to that year, that Earth is a rock swarming with a thrilling and finally incomprehensible cacophony of stories.
Because for some peculiar reason I’d always assumed the tune was a love song to a discouraged dad, sung by his commiserating daughter, I always pictured Pop Staples on a train platform at night, bathed in flickering incandescence, holding a weathered little suitcase and wearing a too-wide floral tie as he boards the Julep Express to head back home to a Georgia I imagined (with equal ineptitude) as an expanse of leafy sunlit nature punctuated by houses with porches where the people, young and old, sat in rocking chairs and sipped tall glasses of antebellum iced tea. I knew both L.A. and the South like the sole of my foot, but the song intoxicated me with imaginings of a penetrating true story of artistic loss and its obverse, a complex recondite glory. When Gladys and the Pips sang that song, pictures resolved out of the dark with a clarity that could bend my spirit like a Uri Geller spoon. Of course L.A. proved too much for the man! You had to be a chiseled demi-god with a dimple like Kirk Douglas (born Issur Danielovitch and the son of a poor junk dealer back east) to even survive in “that town”.
Is Heath Home?
Former football player Jim Weatherly was struggling. His songs were not lighting up the Billboard. He’d had some success with one of them, “Neither One of Us (Wants to Be the First to Say Goodbye)”, which had scurried up the charts to the delight of the song’s sole beneficiaries, Atlanta’s Gladys Knight and the Pips. Now as Weatherly labored to augment that happy accident with some solid gold, nothing was happening. Nothing. One night sitting alone in his demure little apartment in L.A. he telephoned his old college football buddy and fellow struggling artist Lee Majors, with whom he was now in a flag football league in the city, a league comprised in part of disaffected transplants.
Majors, from Kentucky, had just come off four years on The Big Valley, a major T.V. western in which he’d played opposite the frightening Barbara Stanwyck. Soon he’d be a bionic prime-time heavyweight, lifting cars with one arm while both rescuing and scaring children, but for now he was between gigs. He’d recently begun dating another transplanted hopeful, a model from Texas named Farrah Fawcett. Weatherly knew Fawcett and got her on the phone when he called, asking if Lee were home.
“No, he’s out,” Fawcett had said, sounding impatient, and after some polite chit-chat she confessed she was in something of a hurry. “Look, Jim, I’m sorry, I need to get going. When you called I was just throwing stuff into a suitcase. I’m taking the midnight plane to Houston to go visit my folks.”
“…a little bell went off when she said ‘midnight plane to Houston’. Sounded like a song title to me,” Weatherly recalled later. He got off the phone, grabbed his guitar and let fly, writing the song in 45 minutes or so. He called it Midnight Plane to Houston. “The line ‘I’d rather live in her world than live without her in mine’ locked the whole song. I used a descending bass pattern, which was the song’s natural movement. Then I filed away the song.”
Weatherly’s publisher urged him to record an album of his own tunes, as a way to get more attention from the industry and from artists looking for songs. He did just that and in short order Cissy Houston and then Gladys Knight wanted to record Midnight Plane. It was Houston (Whitney”s mother) who said something like, “Jim, do you mind if I change the title to Midnight Train to Georgia?” She was from Georgia, like Gladys, and added, “Where I come from we don’t take planes anywhere. We take trains.” Weatherly agreed, ecstatic the song was going to be picked up and stood a small chance of some radio play on some backwoods station somewhere. Houston’s record got no support from her label, though, and the track vanished. Gladys Knight heard it, and had a different idea for the song.
“I thought the song should sort of ride,” she said. “Like Al Green or something.” Her new label boss, Tony Camillo, gave it a new arrangement. Here’s hoping, they thought. It’s not known if Gladys and the Pips knew they were recording a soon-to-be timeless anthem of artistic surrender and loss. And I didn’t have the mechanism then to guess that the future, star-crossed Farrah Fawcett-Majors was a balding black man in a floral tie. All I knew every night on hearing the song was that something like a frontier awaited me, and that if I listened hard enough I might begin to understand the music and one day find a larger world. And it worked.