Music

By Jeff Katz

Holy Grail Acquired

When I heard Sting sing “Turn on my VCR, same one I’ve had for years/James Brown The Tammy Show/Same tape I’ve had for years,” I was flummoxed. I did know what a VCR was. After all, it was the fall of 1980 and we’d had a bulky Quasar model at home for almost a year. What was that other line about? Was it James Brown on The Tammy Show? Who was this Tammy? Did she have to do with the Debbie Reynolds/Sandra Dee movies? Or was it James Brown, comma, The Tammy Show? But that would make it two tapes, wouldn’t it?

It took a few years, but I got to the bottom of it. It was T.A.M.I. The Teenage Awards Music International; think the Nickelodeon’s Kids’ Choice Awards without the slime. The “show” was a full-length feature film, released at the end of 1964 with a roster that would blow you out of your socks. Keep on reading to find out who the performers were.

There had never been an official release not on video, or laserdisc, or DVD, or CD or any other medium since the mid-‘60’s. So how did Sting have a copy for years? Hmmm. Lucky for us, the DVD of the entire concert, complete with the oft-missing Beach Boys segment, can now be yours to own. I’ve got mine right here and just spent two glorious hours watching.

Jan and Dean are the hosts and the opening sequence is way cool. There’s the SoCal twosome singing the narrative theme and biking towards the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium. There’s Lesley Gore on one of those playground spinning rides. Motown artists come running out of their L.A. hotel, Gerry and The Pacemakers riding a bus. Jan and Dean sing about the “Stones from Liverpool.” Fact checker, please! (They’re from London). There are The Supremes getting all dolled up, as is James Brown. Jan and Dean switch to skateboards, then go-karts, then skateboards again as they roll onstage. No “Deadman’s Curve” for these boys; it’s a straight shot to their seats.

Chuck Berry leads off accompanied himself on guitar while smothered in obligatory sixties swinging dancers who will appear throughout the show. Fabled studio musicians, The Wrecking Crew, sit stage right, out of view though not out of earshot. Berry’s footwork is only matched by his exaggerated eye movements. The Go-Go girls and guys launch into the herky-jerky dance moves that Ann-Margret made famous (at least to me) in Bye Bye Birdie. Chuck plays “Maybelline” and the camera pans over to Liverpool’s Gerry and The Pacemakers who begin their own take on the classic. It’s not a flattering segue. The gap in talent is too huge, an ocean’s worth.

Gerry and lads come into their own with “Don’t Let the Sun Catch You Crying.”A bit of back and forth between the two acts shows off the strengths of each, but when Berry launches into “Nadine,” the bikini clad girl behind him took all my attention away, her breasts flopping furiously, suggestively and, somewhat shockingly. And I’m talking by 2010 standards, not 1964 mores. The Pacemakers clap along, appreciating the great master and the wonderful rack.

Northern England gives way to Detroit as Smokey Robinson and The Miracles take their place. Oh, that Smokey. There’s none better. The foursome is spiffy in their dark jackets, light slacks and white shoes. Smokey’s got on huge cufflinks! Almost overshadowing the great voice is some funky dancing. During “You Really Got a Hold on Me” the group of crouching Detroit tigers squats down as if shooting dice. Nice. All bets are off during the wild gyrating during “Mickey’s Monkey.” Ties come off, except from the cool neck of Smokey, jackets are dropped and it’s time to get down to business. They dance around the pile of dropped coats, with Miracle big man Bobby Rogers, his thick black glasses removed for safety, going wild. A bit of see-no-evil, hear-no-evil, speak-no-evil pantomime ensues and Robinson is a dynamo. I always think of him as stoic and smooth. Not here. No, not here. Oh my! I thought my head was gonna ‘splode.

Marvin Gaye has always been tops with me, the number one main man out of Hitsville, USA. Oddly, he has no stage presence. Sure, there’s a finger snapping bit, a little hitchhiker thumb action, but, man, Marvin is a downright terrible dancer. So what. That voice, that voice rules. The T.A.M.I. Show is so chock full of talent that Darlene Love, the great Darlene Love, barely stands out as one of a trio of Marvin background singers.

I’ve always had a weakness for Lesley Gore, probably ever since I saw her on Batman. She was “Pussycat,” one of Catwoman’s henchgirls. Man, she was cute, in her little cat ears and tight pink sweater. As a teenager I bought The Golden Hits of Leslie Gore and I played that record as much as any. She’s so cool and she rocks! Lots of attitude with this chick. Arms crossed, a head bob here, a finger wag there. I was utterly transfixed and so want the “Go Go Gore” sweatshirts that Jan and Dean wore when they introduced her. Lesley was only 18 when she strutted onstage and belted out her hits. As she delivered “It’s My Party,” singing from a very crooked mouth, all the previous stars came out to join the bash. An awkward handoff of the mike to the surfing hosts, who tower over the barely five-foot Gore, and it’s off to the second half of the set.

Jan and Dean go from hosting to singing and if their MC’ing was insipid, their stage performance is stiff, bland and boring. It’s the only downer of the show. When they croon their paean to skateboarding, the execrable “Sidewalk Surfin’,” (The Beach Boys’ “Catch a Wave” with curb-appropriate lyrics), it’s time to move on and, mercifully, we do. Boys, make way for the kings!

The Beach Boys appear and, having seen Brian Wilson twice in concert in the last few years, I was moved by the utter happiness on his face as he took the center position and wailed on his bass. It’s easy to forget how wonderful he was. Paul McCartney has mentioned how Brian taught him a thing or two. When he hits those crystalline high notes, it’s ethereal, delicate enough to break, and when the opening strains of “Surfer Girl” begin, the crowd gets eerily quiet. It’s a transcendent moment and the coda calls of “little one” are a glimpse of heaven itself.

Another group of Scousers, Beatle compatriots Billy J. Kramer and the Dakotas follow. Their dark suited visage cast a funereal pall coming on the heels of The Beach Boys’ bright stripedness. I have a weakness for Kramer, though not for “Little Children.” His string of Lennon-McCartney throwaways – “Bad to Me,” “From a Window” and “I’ll Keep You Satisfied” (especially “I’ll Keep You Satisfied”) are the best songs the Fab Four never cut. While aware of these faded gems, I did learn something. Billy J. Kramer had a unibrow problem.

I could always take or leave The Supremes. That may be heresy, but it’s so. They do groove, though Diana Ross is no Lesley Gore. Not by a long shot. Wait, there is one thing the girls do better than anyone. No one, NO ONE, can shake their shoulders like Diana, Mary and Flo.

How did The Barbarians get an invitation to this show? “From their cave in old Cape Cod,” these garage rock archetypes blast through “Hey Little Bird.” They’re the type of mid-60’s caricature that cartoon bands like The Way-Outs, the mod band on The Jetsons, were patterned after.

One thing about this group. Their drummer, Moulty, a whirling blur of hair and sticks, has a famous niche in rock lore. On the classic album Nuggets, the 1972 compilation of forgotten garage rock, there’s a tune called “Moulty.” In it, the lead singer talks his way through his life, a sad case of losing his hand in an accident, feeling lost, and then finding music. I always thought it was a goof, truly ridiculous. (You can find it on YouTube). Turns out to be totally true! So there’s Moulty himself, his left hand replaced by a drumstick prosthesis. With his stickhook, he bangs away in fine style.

Dean sprays Jan with a fire extinguisher as a lead-in to James Brown and The Flames. Get it? It’s a riot! When JB is done, the whole auditorium needs a hosing down. Nothing tops this.

Highly pompadoured, in checked coat, satin shirt and short peg pants, Brother James combines voice, music and dance into a frenetic, heart attack inducing tour de force. Those feet, those feet have a “sole” of their own. They move independently of anything happening above knee level. True fury, with the occasional glide and hints of a moonwalk thrown in to change the pace a bit. After a slow ride on “Prisoner of Love,” JB drops to his knees (doesn’t that hurt?). You know the act. His handlers come out, drape the sweat-covered singer in a flowing cape and escort him off stage. But wait – James isn’t going. “I’m not comin’ off,” and he returns to the mike. Over and over, the same – drops, drapes, walks, returns. “Can you do it some more, brother?” Oh yes he can. JB is in top form, showing these little kids how it’s done. I‘ve seen that shtick a million times and it’s still thrilling.

“Night Train” ends the set, but not before some fierce dancing, Brown’s scuffed pants are on display as he gets in line with The Flames for a few moves, then, on one leg, slides his way across the stage. With a split, he’s gone. Nah, he’s not. A few more splits and gyrations, a brief exhausted sitdown at stage side, and then some more moves thrown in for good measure. Even the band erupts in applause for the “Hardest Working Man in Show Business.”

The poor Rolling Stones. They have to follow this. They knew it would be a problem and begged to go on before James. The executive producer would have none of their backtalk and sent Mick and the boys out last. By their third tune, “Time Is On My Side,” I finally had Brown out of my mind and I could appreciate the Stones. They are so young; Keith Richards has a chipmunk cuteness to him that has long passed. Mick dances around, and daring though that is after the master has put on a clinic, Jagger cuts his own unique figure. Bassist Bill Wyman is absent from the screen for minutes on end, but ends up squeezing in. I love how he holds his bass like an upright. It’s the style I’ve adopted for my forays into Rock Band.

With “It’s All Over Now,” the great guitar interplay between Keef and Brian Jones is front and center. It’s always been their finest moment of, in a sense, a double lead guitar. By the end, Mick has gained control of the audience, not through force of music, like JB, but by his personal magnetism. The show ends with every performer, every dancer, letting it all hang out for a run through “Let’s Get Together.” Mick and Diana do a little hip bump, which is pretty neat and a nice cap to the film.

How often are the greatest of expectations exceeded? Never, right. Except, during the two hours I watched my very own copy of The T.A.M.I. Show. My holy grail, my ark of the covenant, is finally mine and the having far outpaces the wanting.