The 60’s Revisited by Sean O’Brien
“I shouted out ‘Who killed the Kennedy’s?’ when after all it was you and me.” — The Rolling Stones
For the better part of a decade, my sister Allison worked for a non-profit organization called Riverkeeper in Ossining, New York. They were a well-known and well-respected environmental activism organization. ‘The watchdogs of the Hudson’ was a slogan of theirs. Over her time there, Allison held a few different positions. She was promoted a handful of times and had her share of supervisors. However, her big boss always remained constant, Bobby Kennedy Jr.
I had the pleasure of meeting Bobby a few times at various Riverkeeper events. Bobby was a polite, articulate, and humble guy. He was down-to-earth and easily relatable. As one could imagine, Allison and Bobby grew close as they spent a lot of time together. However, Allison was never star-struck or starry-eyed. To Allison, Bobby was just her boss; no more, no less. Our mother, however, that’s a different Oprah altogether. Ma was enamored with the entire situation, and rightfully so. Our mother was an Irish Catholic girl from the Bronx. As most Irish Catholic girls of the ’60s did, she had a disproportionate fascination with the whole Kennedy clan. To this day, ma can tell you exactly where she was and who she was with the day, the moment, when John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas, Texas.
To sum it up, ma simply loved it. She would make it out as if Allison was married to Bobby or having an affair with him at least. She would look for opportunities, even create situations to drop his name. For instance, out at a dinner party, ma’s friend, Mrs. Spencer, asked, “Will Allison and Kevin be joining us tonight, Sue?” (Kevin is my brother-in-law, Allison’s husband. He’s a great guy, he’s just not a Kennedy)
“I spoke with Allison an hour or so ago; she and Bobby were still working. So I’m not sure. We’ll see. You know, they often work late together,” she’d snoot.
They often work late together, I thought. It was barely six p.m. But that’s what ma would do. She’d lay these little breadcrumbs for her friends to follow.
If any of ma’s friends, say, Judge Duran or Mrs. Thomas, would ask how her kids were, and there are three of us, she’d only mention Allison as if Jill and I didn’t exist.
“Allison is great,” she’d say. “She and Bobby are at a symposium on the Cape. They took his private jet, which I admit, made me a little nervous at first,” she’d laugh as she’d begin to work the room, “but I just spoke to them, and they’re fine. I’m driving out there Saturday to spend the day with them.”
She’d pause for effect and then dive into the the dramatics. “A day, even a weekend on the Cape is fine, but I could never summer there. It’s simply too hot and touristy. Plus, driving back from the Cape on Sunday night is bloody murder. I won’t do it.”
Allison and Bobby would often work events together, and when they did, they’d carpool. They worked for an environmental activism organization; they couldn’t rightly roll up one by one in gas-guzzling eight-cylinder S.U.V.s. When Bobby was to pick up Allison, ma would orchestrate things to where Allison would have to be at her house at the time of pick-up. If ma wasn’t outside directing traffic in an orange vest with two flashlights, frantically waving her arms like an epileptic, waiting to greet Bobby as he pulled up, she’d be inside crouched behind her plantation shutters, peeking through her slightly pulled curtains. She’d watch as Bobby would arrive, get out, greet Allison and graciously open the passenger side door for her. Ma would melt. Who wouldn’t? In reality, it was pretty glorious. The guy is a Kennedy. Ma would just blow it way out of proportion.
I’ve even witnessed ma pull a fake phone call with Allison.
“Hi Al,” a slight pause, “sure I can hold,” she said as a curious look wrinkled her face. “Oh, I’m sorry Al, oh-oh, you’re with Bobby right now?”
Her head turned accordingly as she placed her hand over the receiver and whispered to her friends, “ah, she’s with Bobby right now.”
She then returned to the fake phone call looking proud as ever while secretly assessing and judging each of her friends’ reactions.
“Okay, honey, I’ll let you two go; send Bobby my love,” she said as she hung up the phone and returned to her seat. She’d lay it on pretty thick.
When the powers that be in New York State decided to rename the Triborough Bridge the Robert F. Kennedy Bridge, Ma was delighted.
“Robert was so handsome and smart. And such a soft touch,” she’d say.
Like she knew.
Originally Ma was a staunch Whitestone bridge proponent, but now she had switched her allegiance to the R.F.K. bridge. She’d drive twenty minutes out of her way to use it. She owned an E.Z. Pass but would intentionally wait in line and pay cash to a disgruntled toll bridge employee. When her turn came, she frantically searched her purse for money while the despondent toll attendant looked on.
“Ma’am, you’re supposed to have your money ready. There are signs everywhere. Not to mention having plenty of time to do so while waiting in line.”
“I know, darling, I’m sorry, forgive me. I must have left my cash at home. However, my daughter, Allison, works with Robert’s son, Bobby Jr., you know, the guy this bridge is named after.”
“I’m aware of who the Kennedys are, ma’am.”
“Good, I’ll just give the money to Bobby then when I see him later. I promise,” ma said.
“Ma’am, it doesn’t work that way. The money doesn’t even go to them; it goes to the state.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” she barked back as she tossed a crisp twenty-dollar bill at her.
I worked with Jimi Hendrix’s brother, Leon, for a season. In fact, not to drop names, but I’ve worked with a lot of celebrities, guys like Leon and Bobby Brown. However, you won’t find ma out at dinner parties bragging about me.
“Sean says he’s working closely with Bobby Brown, but I suspect he and Whitney Houston are out smoking crack together. I don’t like it. I’m devastated,” I imagine her saying.
“Oh Sue, I’m so sorry,” her friends would sympathize.
What a crock.
Truth is, I’ve smoked weed, drank, and partied with folks like D.M.X., Jadakiss, the guys from Sublime, The Blues Travelers guys, Winona Ryder, Uma Thurman, I could go on and on…. I’ve spent many late nights drinking and doing blow with Kim Deal of the Pixies.
See, I, too, can drop names all day, but ma frowns upon my stories.
“Meh, I don’t want to hear it, Sean,” she’d say as she’d wave her hand disapprovingly at me. A signature move of hers.
Much Like Allison and Bobby, Leon and I got close. At the time, the profession I was in required the disclosure of personal and intimate experiences: both hilarious and humiliating. I don’t care how much other professionals claim boundaries; they’re full of shit. As humans, we can’t help but become close to the people we work with. The trick is to remain professional and objective and to realize it if we lose that along the way. That’s where professionalism comes in.
During our time together, Leon shared hundreds of interesting stories. He shared stories of Jimi’s initial issues and roadblocks he encountered with being a left-handed guitarist. Hilarious and cool stuff.
“Back in the late ’50s, when Jimi began playing guitar, it was difficult to find left-handed guitars, if not impossible. That’s why he turned a right-handed guitar upside down and played it that way. It was forced upon him out of necessity. He was a resourceful southpaw,” Leon said. “Things are much easier for lefties these days.”
“Not really,” I interjected. “My sister, Allison, is a lefty, and she has always had a hard time with that.”
“How do you mean?” Leon asked.
“Well, first off, she’s left-handed. Secondly, she’s a female and a pretty one. Now most employees who work at music stores, the Guitar Centers of the world, are usually men, yeah?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he replied as he nodded and lit a Lucky Strike cigarette.
“Well, as soon as she walks into the store, these salesmen, they don’t take her seriously. Most times, they just hit on her. I’ve actually witnessed a guy lean in towards her, flip his hair back and ask, “what can I do ya for foxy lady?”
As if he was exactly the type of guy she was looking for. An ugly and out of shape failed musician with long dyed thinning hair in tight jeans and a Motley Crue Girls Girls Girls t-shirt. Please, get real. These guys, these salesmen, they’re amateurs.
“I’m looking for a Gibson or a Gretsch guitar, left-handed, something with feeling, with grit,” Allison asked.
“I don’t think we have any left-handed guitars in stock, and they can be difficult to find, sweetheart.” He actually called her sweetheart. “But you can just use a right-handed guitar and turn it upside down, ya know, like Jimi did.”
“Sure, why not?” Allison fired back. “Why not just hang me upside down from the ceiling too? Just shackle my ankles in chains so I dangle there, and I’ll play guitar that way. Plus, this way, instead of trying to look down my shirt like you’re doing now, you can just look up it as I dangle from the ceiling upside down. Sneak a peek that way, you fucking creep. In fact, next time you’re on a plane, why don’t you tell the pilot to fly that upside down? Tell him Denzel Washington did it in the movie Flight. I mean, why not, right?”
Somewhat laughing but far more annoyed by this point she started tapping her middle finger loudly on the display case. “See this finger,” she asked as the tapping got more aggressive. “Well, how about I turn that upside down, sweetheart, and you can go and fuck off,” she said as she stomped out of the Sam Ash music store in White Plains. You don’t want to piss my sister off; she’ll hammer you. “And maybe invest some of that minimum wage, commission dependent paycheck of yours into breath mints, a nose hair trimmer, Rogaine, and a box of Just for S’men, you short little fuckface.”
As most professional musicians do, Leon did a lot of traveling. When Leon would come into town, I’d pick him up at the airport. I love airports, always have, always will. The hustle and bustle, the excitement, the confusion. Different cultures, ethnicities, and language mixing; it’s exhilarating. It reminds me of New York City, which I still miss at times.
Austin-Bergstrom is one of my favorite airports. It’s small and efficient, warm, friendly, and has a good vibe. I’ve flown in and out of Austin a lot myself over the decades. Austin is where my son, Killian, was born in 2012. Austin is where I currently live and breathe. It’s special to me.
As you descend down the escalator into the baggage claim area, you’re greeted by a handful of dinosaur-sized, neon-lit guitars and randomly placed signs welcoming you to “Austin, Texas — The Live Music Capital of the World.” I’m not sure how official that title is, but I’ve always equated it to a 40’s something male wearing a ‘World’s #1 Dad’ t-shirt. As foreshadowed by the dinosaur-sized neon-lit guitars and slogan, everyone in Austin is a musician. However, they’re mixed in with a deluge of hipsters wearing mesh hats and bright-colored cheap sunglasses. You can’t always tell the difference between the two, either.
Whether a hipster or a musician or both, they’re all on their phones texting their managers (they haven’t played a gig yet, but they have a manager) or googling something absurd like ‘vegan guitar string makers’ or ‘who makes ear gauges large enough for an owl to live in.’ There’s often a guitar slung over their slouching -not a push-up done- shoulder or a pair of drumsticks weakly grasped in their frail hands. Like how hard do you play if you can survive an entire gig or rehearsal on one pair of drumsticks? It’s not even pretentious; it’s lame. It deserves a punch in the throat.
After I picked up Leon from the airport one afternoon, we first headed downtown to eat and discuss business. Then if time allowed, we’d hit a meeting before he’d shove off to rehearsal or to play a gig that evening. I’d usually take Leon to either Casino El Camino, Counter Culture, or Arlo’s food truck to eat. He liked Arlo’s the most. We’d invariably cross paths with other musicians who’d stop and chat with us as they’d recognize Leon, or in a few instances, me. One afternoon after eating at Arlo’s, we proceeded down Red River to Sixth street. We ran into a hipster musician wearing a Jimi Hendrix Voodoo Child t-shirt and a blatantly counterfeit Big Boys hat, his guitar in a gig bag which was strategically slung over his limp shoulder. After being stopped, and Leon and I introducing ourselves; I sarcastically quoted the movie Airplane!
“Oh, a guitar, you play?”
He responded in an overly rehearsed and unauthentic Austin slacker fashion, “Yeah, man, music is my life.”
This time I quoted Bob Dylan, “Music attracts the angels in the universe.”
“Right on, dude,” he cooed and nodded.
“Right arm,” I replied. “What kind of axe you rocking there?”
“A sweet blizzard white 51’ Telecaster”
“Sweet indeed,” Leon interjected, “an original?”
“Well, no,” the deflating hipster replied, “it’s a re-issue. Originals are too expensive.”
“You’re telling me,” I said. “I own an all original 1973 Fender Precision bass, a 1983 all Walnut Fender Special, a 1989 and a 1991 Fender Precision Plus basses, a.k.a the ‘boner bass’ as it has an elongated jazz neck with 22 frets as opposed to 20, a precision body, fine-tuning knobs on the bridge, and Fender lace P&J pick-ups. They all play and sound like a dream. Plus, I own a set of Inveran African Blackwood bagpipes from Scotland. Those, my friends, cost bank. But the 51’ re-issues are cool too, I guess.”
Then I hit him with a line that hit harder than crack did in ‘86.
“Want Leon or me to show you how to play it?
“Fuck you,” he yelled and stormed off into the gusty November winds. He was maybe a buck twenty and looked like a strong gust might knock him into Louisiana. Poor kid.
Yeah, fuck me is right, I thought, what I dick I can be.
I felt terrible.
I am terrible, I know.
It’s a terrible life we’re forced to live, but it’s worth living if you can learn to laugh.
