Sweet Baby James

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Oh, yeah. We actually referred to him that way in the early 70s. Little did we know then that the name, Sweet Baby James, was in actuality his nephew, not him.

But if we had known, we wouldn’t have cared; he was sweetness and vulnerability and sensitivity and beautifully flawed to us. Fire and Rain hinted at his inner demons but just made us love him more. He seemed real in an otherwise surreal world.

America was mired in a war fueled by greedy politicians using our families and loved ones as their personal, expendable war fodder. But contrary to what you may hear, not everyone who hated the war, hated the soldiers. Everyone I knew loved the soldiers and understood that they were doing their very best under the most horriffic of situations.

These were kids our own age and but for the Grace of God, gender, or some other anomalie, we’d be wearing camouflage and trodding through muck in a land that would rather not have us there. We here in the States were blessed and we knew it.

But being blessed didn’t mean we were complacent. We college kids at home were fighting our own skirmishes, protest by protest, to stop the war, therefore ending the carnage of our loved ones. We too, engaged in guerilla tactics, some passive, some not so passive. We tried by sheer numbers and visibility and loudness to overwhelm the American War Lords. We strove to make it very difficult, or damned near impossible, for the greedmongers to continue their self-serving war.

Night after night, kids with maimed and shattered lives and bodies, or worse, in body bags, were lovingly, tenderly toted across foreign fields and onto our television screens. Mamas and siblings and girlfriends sometimes got the devastating news of their loved one’s death by seeing on the nightly news his or her lifeless body tended to by fellow soldiers.

We all cried. And cried. And cried.

Some of us still cry.

And when our Sweet Baby James said that he had seen fire and rain, he spoke for us all.

Jacki

http://www.vintagebasement.com/James-Taylor-2006-T-shirt-1880.htm 

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Led Zeppelin Tuscaloosa 1973

Vintage Basement - the best band, concert and music t-shirts on the Web.

I was there. My Sophomore year in Tuscaloosa, University of Alabama. Several rows back, slumped low in my seat, engulfed by weed and hash smoke. I don’t remember who opened for Zep. There’s a lot I don’t remember about my college days, but I usually remember most things about music.

Music was my life. Well, a major part of my life. Bama football was also my passion. It still is.

But music was my therapist, my surrogate mate, my sanctuary. I could always count on music. It would always be there and always comfort and soothe me.

So it was Zep’s heyday. As I look back on it, it was probably my heyday, too. May, 1973. The lights dimmed; the Bic lighters flashed like frenzied lightning bugs punctuating the darkness. Plant emerged like Venus on the Half Shell in the lights and haze.

By the time Zep hit the stage, we were so mellow, the roar of applause was more of a rumble that shook Memorial Coliseum like a primal earthquake.

They kicked off the set with Rock and Roll. We were mesmerized. Singing every word and yowling every note verbatim. Some of us were deep into the music and listened intently. Eyes closed to block anything that would distract from the sheer delicious moment.

We immersed ourselves into the music. When Plant moved, we moved. When he groaned and yelped, we felt it. When Bonham beat the Holy hell out of his drum kit, we felt each crack and explosion of his wood drumsticks in our solar plexus. When Page pulled, teased and coaxed unearthly sounds from his guitar, we devoured and tasted every nuance like it was our Death Row meal.

The set list had all the good stuff: Celebration Day, Black Dog, Over the Hills and Far Away, Misty Mountain Hop, Since I’ve Been Loving You, No Quarter, The Song Remains the Same, Rain Song, Dazed and Confused, Stairway to Heaven, Moby Dick, Heartbreaker, and, yes, Whole Lotta Love.

Yes, it was a Whole Lotta Love. And still is.

Come to Vintage Basement and check out our great Led Zeppelin t-shirts.

Can you tell we love what we do?

Have a groovy day.

Jacki

http://www.vintagebasement.com/Led-Zeppelin-Classic-T-shirt-1214.htm

The Infamous Roach Clip Trump 1969

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The Summer of Love had come and gone but not without its legacy firmly imprinted into the Southern teenage psyche. I had bought into the whole peace, love, and happiness mantra and was a novice hippie in Montgomery, Alabama.

I think there were several actual hippies in town but I was under my formidable Mother’s thumb, so I was at this point just a wanna-be. I immersed myself into the so-called, “hippie culture” as much as I could slip past my Mom. I had the requisite board-straight strawberry blond hair down to my ass. When I wasn’t in school or in good-girl drag, I was rockin’ the puka beads and bell bottom jeans.

And in an uncharacteristically dangerous act of rebellion, risking expulsion from school, I sneaked The Great Speckled Bird into the school’s basement where a clutch of us hippies-in-waiting surreptitiously poured over it like Windtalkers poured over WWII code.

True to Newton’s immutable law of physics, to every action there is always an equal and opposite reaction, I was at the same time itching to become a business entrepreneur. I already had in-the-trenches experience working after school and on Saturdays in my Mom’s upscale import shop in Montgomery’s antique district.

While being dragged around by Mom through the Atlanta Merchandise Mart that summer, I proposed that I open a “pop culture” shop in the storage room in the back of her store. I passionately promised that I would work it after school and on Saturdays, and maintain my grades, and, of course, still help her in the front of the shop as usual. To sweeten the deal, I explained that the proceeds would go toward paying my university tuition and board next summer.

That sealed the deal: She would loan me $500 to purchase inventory at the Merchandise Mart and to renovate the storage room; I would forfeit my allowance to pay toward that debt; and I would pay $75 rent a month for the 8X8 storage room.

Three days later Bug of Soul was born. Named from the Rockin’ Gibraltars’ hit song from a couple of years earlier, it was a sight to behold. I had transformed the musty storage room into a hippie-worthy pseudo-opium den. Black walls, black lights outlining the ceiling perimeter, and mismatched carpet squares begged from the store down the street created a store like no one had seen in Montgomery before. Oh sure, there were stores like this in Sodom and Gomorrah, also known as Atlanta and Birmingham, but not here!

My inventory rolled in and in two weeks I was the exclusive merchandiser to Montgomery’s counterculture! I stocked all the groovy things: psychedelic posters, inflatable chairs, black lights, beads, headbands, flower power stickers, stretched out Coca Cola bottles, peace symbols, jewelry, and roach clips.

Yes, roach clips. I sort of sneaked them by Mom and placed them among the colorful necklaces and wristbands in hopes that she wouldn’t notice them. Beautifully adorned with brilliantly colored feathers and glass beads and dainty brass Indian bells, they were works of art!

In no time, things were trucking along smoothly. I would open the store directly after school and the kids would pour in behind me. I was racking up sales and paying off debt. Mom was telling all her friends about what a fabulous “Little Business Woman” I was becoming.

Then one day after school, I walked in the front of her store as my Mom and her bridge club were coming out of my shop. It sounded like feeding time at an aviary. They were all chattering and flaunting around about something they were all wearing.

As I got closer, to my horror, I determined that they had all adorned their scarves and collars with my fancy roach clips. They were inspecting themselves in the antique pier mirror and chatting about which of their haute couture get-ups their new scarf pins would match. Mom watched proudly as the purveyor of such a unique fashion find for her gaggle.

 They streamed out of the store, tossing out high society nuggets of, “How darling!” and “What a hoot!” as they left.

I regained the feeling in my legs and wobbled to the back. Mom smugly exclaimed that she had made three sales for me, while twirling the bells on her roach clip.

Have a groovy day.

Jacki

Trombone Boogie

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I love Chicago, the city and the band. But this evening I’m thinking about the 1970s super group. Whether it’s the drive of 25 or Six to Four, the gut wrenching agony of Peter Cetera singing about lost love in Hard To Say I’m Sorry, or the sunny day feeling of Saturday In The Park, the writing of Robert Lamm and the rest of the guys never fails to conjure up familiar images that we can all relate to.

The first time I went to a Chicago concert they were on tour with The Moody Blues. It was a beautiful day, the sky was a brilliant azure, and Chicago was on fire. Who knew that a trombone player could boogie, but there is no doubt that James Pankow can wiggle those hips and play with those lips. Parazaider and Loughnane aren’t too shabby either.

Now, there’s a lot of debate as to who had the tightest horn section during that era. Some say Blood, Sweat and Tears were the baddest group around, but others might go for the Tower of Power when they lite into Oakland Stroke, but I think they were all great in their own way.

For raw power and smack-you-in-the-face horns, I’d probably have to give it to BS&T. Chicago was definitely the most commercial as time went on, and Tower of Power, well, they were hands down the funkiest horn section around for my money.

You’ll find all kinds of great music on vinyl and 8-track in the Vintage Basement’s Musicana categories. So, swing on in and check it out.

I’ll be there waiting for you with my groove on.

Alley

http://www.vintagebasement.com/Buffalo-Springfield-LP-492.htm

Moody Blues Psychology

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It was the early 70s, and, officially, my major was Psychology. My minor was Journalism. Officially.

Unofficially, de facto, my major was, uh let’s just call it social chemistry, and my minor was definitely music.

My grades weren’t just struggling, professors were circling overhead about to administer them the Last Rites.

Then The Moody Blues came to town. I loved the Moodies. Somehow I could rattle off from memory The Day Begins soliloquy from Days of Future Past, but couldn’t remember what structuralism was or why I should care.

Cold hearted orb that rules the night

Removes the colors from our sight.

Red is gray and yellow white.

But we decide which is right

And which is an illusion.

Pinprick holes in a colorless sky

Let insipid figures of light pass by.

The mighty light of ten thousand suns

Challenges infinity and soon is gone.

Night time to some, a brief interlude

To others, the fear of solitude.

Brave Helios, wake up your steeds

Bring the warmth the countryside needs.

They were going to play at Foster Auditorium, just about two football fields away as the crow flies. Football fields; that’s a standard measurement term at The University of Alabama.

The problem was that at 8 am the next morning, I had a Psych of Learning mid-term. In whose infinite wisdom schedules The Moodies the night before mid-terms? Anyway, in a last-ditch-effort to breath some life in my grades, I made the supreme educational sacrifice and decided to skip The Moodies concert and study instead.

As The Moodies struck their first chord, I was sitting in my dorm room window, three stories up, with my legs hanging over the side, textbook in hand, taking in the cool Southern breezes.

Then I heard a roar erupt from Foster Auditorium. They were on! I leaned overboard trying to scarf up any stray sounds that were surfing the soft breezes.

Hah! Music! I heard them!

Lovely to see you again, my friend.

Walk along with me to the next bend…

The sound was faint, but I could make out the songs. I sang along and applauded each offering with my luckier friends who attended the concert on site.

For the next hour and a half, from the first chord to The Lost chord, I soaked up the concert, straining and leaning precariously outside the window, using my Psychology of Learning book as a pad between my tush and the uncomfortable aluminum window rails.

I don’t remember how well, or poorly, I did on the mid-term. But I sure remember stealing ethereal music from the Southern night air and that no matter what the educational outcome, it was worth it.

Jacki

http://www.vintagebasement.com/Moody-Blues-T-shirt-1386.htm

Porcelain God

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We all have fond memories of our high school and/or college days. Some we’re not too proud of, but we recall them and laugh just the same.

I often grimace when I think about my freshman year at The University of Evansville in Indiana and my inevitable 1.8 GPA that was evidence of my greater interest in the social aspects of college than academic pursuits.

My mother and father did not go to college, but joined the work force instead, and like most couples of the era, they saved and scraped to send me off to school. Even so, I had to do my part by securing a music scholarship in trumpet and classical guitar. Knowing that I would have to come home if I screwed up, my parents warned me to avoid partying and Greek Life. They strongly advised me to concentrate on my studies and classroom performance to ensure the continuation of my music scholarship and pursuit of a Bachelor of Arts degree.

Like most freshmen, I felt I knew better than Mom and Dad, and was eager to prove this by rebelling. I frequented all the sororities during rush and eventually found a home in one. I followed this up with uncontrolled drinking binges and a failure to appear on parent’s day after my folks had driven four and one half hours to spend the day with me on campus.

When they found me, I was asleep in a sorority house after a hard night of partying. They were less than pleased.

To this day, we laugh about it. Well, I laugh about it every time I recall those early days and the campus frivolity in which I was an active participant. I still can’t smell Captain Morgan’s Peach Rum without getting nauseated.

I eventually learned to drink responsibly and in moderation. I certainly enjoy a drink or two with friends to this day.

Check out Vintage Basement’s great Breweriana category and tell us about your time at the throne of the porcelain god.

Alley

http://www.vintagebasement.com/Coors-Light-Beer-Hoodie-7183.htm

Up In Smoke

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I was 15 years old. I had just joined my first garage rock band and smoked my first cigarette. Life was changing, I was changing. I was a rebel and my cause was rock n’ roll.

Standing in the driveway outside of my parents’ house, I anxiously awaited the arrival of our drummer from the Shop and Rock General Store less than a mile from our rehearsal. He brought me a pack of Marlboro menthol cigarettes and I took my first drag. I wouldn’t kick the habit until 13 years later when I quit cold turkey in favor of the ability to breathe.

Smoking, for me, always conjured up images of James Dean, Dean Martin, and singers like Lola Albright. They were sophisticated, classy, and oh so cool! And, even though later I embarked on a journey of tobacco abstinence, I would still remain a lifelong follower of everything hip.

It’s not hard to understand why companies like Philip Morris, R.J. Reynolds, and U.S. Tobacco have enjoyed so much success over the years. They are all pioneers of what many in the ad business would refer to as “marketing geniuses.” From characters like Joe Camel and Fred Flintstone, to real life studies like the Marlboro Man, tobacco companies know how to attract an audience and to groom eventual buyers.

To this day, I still love collecting tobacco signage, products, playing cards, and ashtrays. Despite the stigma associated with smoking and chewing tobacco, the swag remains vogue and a must for anyone’s hipster home or bachelor pad.

So, take a trip down into the Vintage Basement, where you’ll find the best Tobacianna and Breweriana stuff on the web.

I’ll see you there!

Alley

 http://www.vintagebasement.com/Iron-Horse-Head-Standing-Ashtray-7117.htm

130.286 and 10.6 Seconds

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Some of my earliest memories of growing up in Middle Tennessee were formed on weekends spent at Union Hill and Beach Bend drag strips. When we weren’t there, we were at Nashville Raceway watching the early careers of Alan Kulwicki, Sterling Marlin, Mike Alexander, Terry Labonte, Davy Allison, and local favorite, Darryl Waltrip.

Dad had been a founding member of the Road Knights car club in Terre Haute, IN and was an avid drag racer in the early 1960s. Along with his buddies, he would build a rail that set records at speeds like 130.286 mph, traveling a quarter mile in just 10.6 seconds. That run put dad and his car club just one heat away from facing “Big Daddy” Don Garlits in the feature.

So, not surprisingly, as a little girl I idolized the first female drivers in racing. I worshiped Shirley “Cha Cha” Muldowney long before Danica Patrick and Ashley Force made the scene. Of course, I also followed Don “The Snake” Prudhomme and Ashley’s father, John Force, in the Blue Max.

Eventually I expanded my racing attention from watching just NHRA drag racing and NASCAR to also follow Indy Car and Formula One racing, as well. In 1978, I was introduced to the Indianapolis Motor Speedway in a visit with my family to the time trials. I watched A.J. Foyt in the Gilmore Coyote, Tom Sneva, and the family favorite, Mario Andretti.

Today, thanks to DVR, satellite television, and broadcasts in high definition, I rarely miss a race. Networks like SPEED occupy a large part of the viewing time in our household and I’d be lying if I said I always drove the posted speed limit.

If you’re a modern day racing fan, the swag is endless, but vintage gear remains sought after and even elusive. Not so in the Vintage Basement! We have all kinds of vintage race gear and collectibles and, by far, the most varied and cool racing t-shirts and baseball caps on the Web.

Take advantage of the next caution and make a pit stop in there. You’ll be glad you did!

Alley

http://www.vintagebasement.com/Dale-Earnhardt-Sr-In-Memory-T-shirt-1206.htm