“Picklebilly Proud”

c. 2007 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(6-07)


Writing is often portrayed as a glamorous profession. Gifted wordsmiths in the style of Hunter S. Thompson or Mike Royko have made the craft seem effortless. Yet it requires earthy qualities such as vigilance and skill. Typically, there are few bright lights or accolades on the way to journalistic excellence. Instead, good writing usually is the byproduct of basic persistence and intuition.

I pondered these truisms recently, while researching local bands for a music feature. My intent was simple enough – find information about two local outfits that would be playing our area in the future. Then, compose a brief feature about each group. A phone call started my quest for enlightenment. But then…

Another call transpired. And another. No one was available to speak on the subject of these regional entertainers. I gathered numbers for additional contacts, with a similar result. Everyone had previous commitments. Not a single tidbit of news appeared from my search. All I had were two names: ‘Kingpins’ and ‘Blues Project.’

An Internet overview only offered confusion. The name ‘Kingpins’ produced results that included a local act from Northwest England, a Canadian ska band from Montreal, and a rockabilly quartet from Reading, Pennsylvania.

‘Blues Project’ was even more perplexing. In addition to the famous 60’s collective by that name (featuring guitarist Danny Kalb, and keyboard wiz Al Kooper) a list developed that included New York bluesman Don Brewer, a North-of-the-border ensemble from Fredericton, New Brunswick, and Clevelander Collin Dussalt.

A week later, I was still stumped.

With my deadline approaching, I began to concoct alternate ideas. Perhaps an empty spot in the newspaper? I imagined a logo that said ‘This space under construction.’ It wasn’t an appealing sight.

Finally, a message appeared on my voice mail. My primary contact was a busy teacher, volunteer, and musician. While on the run, he called to mention that he would be attending a free show scheduled for that night. The event would include classic cars, a prize raffle, and high-calorie foodstuffs.

I immediately agreed! But the location was at least forty-five minutes away.

After visiting an American Cancer Society charity walk, I left for the outdoor festival. It was already near 7:00 PM. I still had no idea which band would be performing. Or what they might include for a musical repertoire. My tools were few – a reporter’s notebook, and digital camera.
The distant village was crowded when I arrived. Revelers were everywhere and no access had been left to the downtown area. A raucous street celebration was already in full swing. I backed my pickup into an empty space behind a blue, cinder-block restaurant. It seemed likely that no one would pay attention with so much activity afoot.

Walking around the eatery, I heard live music echoing with tempting force. Had I been so lucky as to find my target without hunting through the crowd? I tingled all over while the band played ‘Be-Bop-A-Lula’ by Gene Vincent. Their interpretation of the tune was gritty and authentically energetic.

I was mesmerized. Were these The Kingpins?

The trio throttled-up their instruments, for a powerful electric joyride. The truck-trailer stage they had inherited literally bounced off the tarmac! A string of familiar tunes developed, touching on work by a number of iconic 50’s performers. Dancing spectators lined the sidewalks. Quietly, I considered quizzing someone that displayed a connection with the group.

Then, the frontman shouted over his seafoam-blue guitar. "We’re the dirtiest pickles you ever saw!"

I shrugged. "Dirty Pickles??"

The band played a rollicking original tune called ‘My Baby Loves Rock ‘n’ Roll.’ Afterward, the unusual moniker was repeated for emphasis. "I’m Matty B. and we’re The Dirty Pickles!"
I was elated and perturbed at the same instant. The picklebilly sound had me craving more… but where were The Kingpins? Or the fellows from Blues Project?

Elated with the stripped-down music selections, two girls appeared from the crowd. They wore matching black and white polka-dot dresses. While the pickle-sonic vibrations echoed, both began to dance.

I reached for my camera.

A bearded fellow standing next to me observed that they were Joy and Amanda, two colorful friends of the band. He spoke through an aromatic haze of after-work refreshment. When I mentioned being a music journalist, he immediately scrambled to tell the young ladies. "Hey, this guy writes for a newspaper…!"

As I fumbled for my camera, Amanda put a finger to her cheek, playfully. It made for a perfect shot.

While The Pickles took a break from performing, I decided to walk around the car show. About one block from the stage, new sounds appeared with tantalizing energy. Then, I turned west. The strange music continued to swell. Another block of vehicles led to my original target… The Kingpins!

I chatted with bandleader Jim Fuller, after a rousing version of ‘Mustang Sally.’ The yield was enough information to complete my preview, and fill out an extra article mentioning the pickle-power of my new favorite band:

"VLASSIC ROCK IS ALIVE AND WELL - At the Hometown Sock Hop on June 15th, there was no reason to stand still. In fact, it just might have been impossible.

Vintage cars were everywhere, as were aromas of hot dogs, hamburgers, and fresh pizza. It was the kind of street fair only a close-knit community like this could muster.
Participants were entertained by live music from two different stages, and two different generations, at the colorful event.

Jim Fuller and the popular local group Kingpins provided a dramatic lesson in Rock history. "I was lucky to grow up in that era," he said. "We all were."

Fuller played keyboards in the group, and handled lead vocals. Dave Koski played bass; Jimmy Atzemis played guitar; and John Leombruno kept the backbeat going, on drums. Each was a cultural historian at work.

For Matty B. and The Dirty Pickles, the years might have been fewer. But their love of Rock ‘n’ roll was no less intense. They rendered a stellar list of songs by artists like Buddy Holly, Gene Vincent, Bobby Fuller, and the heroic Link Wray.

"We love this stuff," Matty said with a grin.

Matty B. played guitar and sang lead vocals in the band. Ben Jammin played bass. Marky G completed the trio, on drums. Throughout their performance, their truck-trailer stage bounced up and down. Onlookers were impressed by the group’s energetic interpretation of classic Rock anthems.

The automobiles displayed ranged from primitive early models, to big-motored performance cars from the 1960’s. There was literally something for everyone. Products from GM, Ford, and Chrysler were well represented.

A Volkswagen Microbus from Pennsylvania boasted V-8 power, mounted amidships, in the vehicle’s interior. The VW amazed nearly every passer-by - not an easy feat, considering the variety of cars available to view.

Local residents Joy and Amanda wore matching polka-dot dresses to the Sock Hop. They were a festive sight, dancing between rows of custom, chrome chariots.

"This is great!" Amanda observed.

Undoubtedly, everyone else at the Sock Hop would have agreed."

The day ended with a return to Chardon. I paused for groceries, and my own ration of adult beverages.

My cell phone rang as I was standing in line with a basket of goodies.

Liz had been shopping with her mother. But their excursion ended several hours ago. It was after 10:00 PM. She had become a lonely wife. "Aren’t you finished looking at cars?" she pleaded.

I answered with a grin. "Don’t worry, I’m almost home."

"Were there any pink flamingos at the show?" she warbled.

My brain was fatigued. "Hmmm… I can’t remember one but there must have been. I think it’s a law."

She sighed. "So do you have ideas for your story?"

"Yeah," I replied. "The article will be called ‘Vlassic Rock.’ I think our readers will find it interesting."

"Vlassic?" Liz squeaked. "Like… a pickle?"

"Exactly," I said.

She was stunned. "Okay… why would you write about that??"

I paid for my groceries, and walked outside. The night air whispered a subtle blessing to finish the pickle-delic adventure. "It’s a long story, sweets. Wait till I get home!"