The Cost of Doing Business

Posted on August 2, 2012 by Earl B. McElfresh

One of the challenges in writing a novel such as Sidereal Days that’s set in the late 1950’s and early 1960’s is getting the costs of things and monetary issues correct. For example, how much do you have a high school band get paid for playing at a dance? How much do you charge them for a meal or for a hamburger and fries? Or for a tank of gas when they fill up their van?

There’s a scene in Book 1 when Orlando P. Jones is negotiating with the owner of Airway Motors to play in the dealer’s parking lot on a Saturday afternoon. Orlando mentions a figure of $50.00 and comments how differently the words “fifty dollars” sound when he says them compared to the way the shocked dealer says “fifty dollars!!!”

As it turns out, a fairly reliable guide to comparative prices is to divide modern prices by 10 or 11 to get an accurate sense of the price of things in the late 50’s/early 60’s. It works out pretty well in most cases. The exceptions to this general rule, and the most volatile commodities seem to be gas prices (relatively speaking much higher now by comparison with the average cost in 1962 of 29 cents per gallon), milk (much cheaper now comparatively), and college tuition (much higher now comparatively). Interestingly enough, music was more expensive comparatively in the Sparrow’s time. 45 singles at $.87 and albums at $3.67 would equate now to about $9.00 and nearly $40.00 respectively.

So Orlando P. Jones was asking the car dealer to pay his high school band, with one single gig to their name, approximately $550. And when the Sparrows spend $3.50 at Bruce Johnson’s Phillips 66 gas station, they’ve topped off their tank with 12 gallons of gas. And the Sears Roebuck Silvertone 1300 guitar that Orlando and Rudy essentially cheat their classmate out of for $10 would be $110 in today’s prices–and they would really be cheating their classmate nowadays. That particular guitar was actually an excellent instrument and is a very desirable vintage guitar. In good condition it can sell for more than $500.

Shorty Black Raincoats

Posted on July 31, 2012 by Earl B. McElfresh

In the 4th book of my novel Sidereal Days, the fictional band the Sparrows land late in the evening at London Airport in October 1964 for a month-long tour of England. They are met late at night at the airport by an unlikely duo–two Englishmen in “shorty black raincoats.” They are none other than George Harrison and John Lennon, who welcome their fellow rock & rollers to Britain.

I was contacted by a reader who thought this scenario was preposterous. Why would George and John, certainly not known as nature’s noblemen, go out of their way to welcome a middling American rock & roll band in the middle of the night to London Airport and England. It’s a fair question and one I can only answer by saying, I don’t know why exactly except that the two actually did this very thing. The timing was a little different but when America’s greatest little band of all time, the Lovin’ Spoonful, flew to Britain in 1966, there to greet them were John and George. The meeting was captured by a photographer and the photograph appeared in the great teen magazine of the day, 16 Magazine. The little gathering of musicians are huddled in a circle and appear for all the world like hip heads of state conferring about the issues of the day. The first issue was likely, “Were yellow Sun records actually from Nashville or was it Memphis?” Or perhaps John Lennon was asking John Sebastian where he got the wire rim glasses he was wearing – a question that within a year or two would revolutionize the optometry business.

It’s well-known that the Beatles were immense fans of American rock & roll and always felt that the Brits did a version of rock & roll but that the Americans were the actual authentic fountain. And the Beatles were always willing to pay homage to the original source. John Lennon was later to say that the Beatles never did anything to compare with Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On. But of course John Lennon said an awful lot of things.

Recording Peggy Sue

Posted on July 30, 2012 by Earl B. McElfresh

A favorite of the fictional Sparrows, Buddy Holly was a favorite of a pretty wide spectrum of people. John Lennon had a Buddy Holly poster in his bedroom at Mendips in Liverpool. British Prime Minister (and successor to Margaret Thatcher) John Major wore heavy black rim glasses in honor of the Lubbock flash. Cream covered Well…All Right. The Beatles mirrored the line up of Buddy Holly’s band The Crickets and became pretty much the second members of a band in rock and roll history to have individual identities.

Although Words of Love was #1 in the hearts of the Sparrows, #2 would be Peggy Sue. The story of the song is fairly well-known. Buddy wrote it as “Cindy Lou” and visualized the appropriate drum beat as being what is known as paradiddles. It’s a drumming pattern that a drummer taking lessons would learn early on. Jerry Allison, the Crickets’ stellar drummer, was embarrassed to play such an elementary beat and only agreed to when Buddy changed the name of the song to Peggy Sue, Allison’s steady girlfriend. Norman Petty, the band’s producer, suggested the song needed a chorus and came up with the absurdly simple yet incomparable “pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty Peggy Sue” based around an F chord smack in the middle of a A,D,E song.(The Rolling Stones went two “prettys” farther in 1979’s Beast of Burden.) And Petty didn’t stop there. He close-miked Buddy’s steady, down, down, down strum on the Fender Stratocaster guitar so it shows up on the recording as an intimate purring, so the recording becomes in and of itself an indelible part of the performance. (Another amazing coincidence…the fictional Sparrows’s fictional producers do the same darn thing!) Petty set it up so Allison was playing in a separate room, away from the vocals and guitars. Then he modulated the drumming, bringing it in and out of the mix, so the drums roll through the song like waves washing up on a beach. But the effect in the song was mysterious and theatrical. It was like waves on a beach at night or rain spattering on a windshield. Buddy’s normal west Texas panhandle singing voice gets tinny and effeminate on two of the verses, namely the two verses that end with his elongated enunciation of “Peggy Sue.” He draws out Peggy Sue, stretching out the three syllables in the name to twelve hicuppy syllables. Maybe thirteen. It only happens twice. Nobody else does it quite like Buddy.

In any hit parade, this song is marching just behind the flags.

Words of Love

Posted on July 25, 2012 by Earl B. McElfresh

In my book Sidereal Days, the fictional Sparrows, to a man, are fans of Buddy Holly. The common bond that unites all of them when they make their first tentative efforts to form a band is that they all love Holly’s song Words of Love. I also think this very early Holly song is one of the greatest songs in rock & roll’s repertoire.

In the novel, the Sparrows perform a version of the song but it’s described as being a less jangley, twangy version of the song than the one Buddy Holly recorded and released with his band, the Crickets.The fictional version of the song, as described in the book, is actually based on the version recorded and released by another band a bit later, too late for the Sparrows, in the sequence of the novel, to have heard or been aware of. The other band members were also, to a man, huge Buddy Holly fans.

It was October 18, 1964. In a residential suburb in London located near the northwest corner of Regents Park, the Beatles had already recorded I Feel Fine and Chuck Berry’s Rock & Roll Music and a number of other songs. John Lennon and George Harrison were playing 12 string Rickenbacker guitars, Paul was playing his Hofner bass and Ringo was playing on a guitar case. They were finishing up the days work at close to midnight.

The Beatles had played Words of Love as part of their live performances since 1958. Holly had sung both lines of the song’s two-part harmony on his recording, double tracking his voice, an innovation developed by the venerable Les Paul. When the Beatles performed the song in their live appearances, the harmonized vocals were shared by John and George. On this night, three Beatles, John, Paul and George, gathered around a single microphone in Abbey Road Studio number 2 and in three takes finished off the only Buddy Holly song they ever formally recorded and released. The 12 string guitars created much more of a chiming rendition than Buddy Holly’s gritty west Texas version and the Beatles, with John’s dominant, breathy voice, produced a much more romantic and more “mature” version than Holly’s, if that’s the right word for a song that’s more sensual, soaring and romantic. More like the version that the fictional Sparrows perform in concert. Such a coincidence!

Jerry Lee

Posted on July 24, 2012 by Earl B. McElfresh

We sent out postcards announcing the e-publication and availability of our first title, Sidereal Days, The History of Rock & Roll, A Romance. The postcard hoped to pique recipient’s interest by posing a few esoteric/obscure r&r trivia questions. The answers to all questions are of course embedded into the novel itself.

In the mean time here are some answers…..

Jerry Lee Lewis heard Elvis’s first recordings and saw the Sun Records label and determined to travel to Memphis and showcase his song to producer Sam Phillips at Sun. Jerry Lee was apparently completely broke at the time but he was a man in a hurry. So he hustled around, managed to sell 13 dozen eggs, pocketed the money and made his way to Memphis. Phillips, luckily for the future of r&r, was an accomodating and accessible guy and invited Jerry Lee to pull up a piano and show what he had. Ten seconds of Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On was enough to convince Sam Phillips that it would be a hit. Right again.

Blog 7/12/12

Posted on July 12, 2012 by Earl B. McElfresh

When: Dec. 1963.

Where: Parade Magazine, Youth Beat column.

What: Postage stamp-sized photo.

Who: Four English musicians.

Why: Causing a musical sensation in Europe.

How: Playing rock & roll music.

Result: Seeing is believing. Never having heard a note of their music, simply a 13 year old seeing their look, I instinctively knew, “Well, whatever this is, this is it.” I absolutely knew it. And it was. They being, of course, The Beatles.

Determination: Not quite sure yet.

Ambition: To be a rock & roll star.

Problem: Limited vocabulary on guitar. Very.

Interim: 1967. High School junior by appointment with guidance counselor Ed Kustra. Studying the form I had filled out, Mr. Kustra offered two bits of wisdom: the word “writer” is not spelled with two t’s and your middle name ends “l-e-y” not “l-y.” Both valuable things to know.

Interim: Spring 1971. St. Lawrence University. Phi Sig living room. Writing a play at the request of Don Kilpatrick for use in his directing class project.

Result: Marvels of Modern Man is staged at the Black Box Theater at St. Lawrence. Great success, held over for additional performances. Attendance approaching 1,500. Even a bit of frenzy.

Observation: “Not bad. Not bad at all.”

Interim: Spring 1972. A reading of play #2, Amid Planetary Music, at Black Box Theater.

Result: Disappointing. Can’t reheat a soufflé. (Jean Paul Sartre or somebody.)

Observation: “Mmm.”

Interim: 1973—1988. Cold, cruel, wonderfully happy world, NYC.

Result: Many plays are written, few are chosen. Best of them, Honor Luck, gets some attention, arouses some interest, receives a reading.

Question: “What’s it all about?”

Answer: “All I did was write it. The characters speak for themselves. Or not. As the case may be.” Play guitar professionally (i.e. for loose change) on the streets of Manhattan.

Observation: “Mmm.”

Interim: 1989 – 2012. Olean, NY. Life does begin at forty! Wife, children, house, maps, book, lectures, articles.

Sudden illumination: rock and roll ambitions overlooked too long to be viable.

Result: In his own right hand writing—haphazardly at first, seriously at last—Sidereal Days, The History of Rock & Roll, A Romance.

Observation: TBA, ASAP.

Getting the Hang of It

Posted on June 25, 2012 by Michiko McElfresh

With a book on hand, a name in mind, we became e-book publishers on that late November Day. My first order of business was to figure out how to e-publish. If I remember correctly the Wall Street Journal article gave some good direction to start, and being a relatively good researcher I was off and running. But first I had to get my hands on an e-reader—now we have several.

Sidereal Days was well over one hundred thousand words—and I needed something with fewer words to fine-tune my skills. Then I remembered—last summer Earl had given a Civil War talk at the library in Cuba, NY. A very nice gentleman from Texas came to our office the next day looking for a copy of the talk. I don’t know what Earl gave him, but I did notice that sitting next to his desk were copies of the talks he had given over the years—to local libraries and civil war groups, talks he gave in Washington, DC at the Smithsonian, National Geographic, the Washington Map Society, in Boston at the Harvard Map Collection and even a talk he gave on Long Island that was picked up by Book TV years ago.

My practice material was not only available but was interesting and ready to be published. Or so I thought….

Bookshelves and Articles

Posted on June 18, 2012 by Michiko McElfresh

If one would walk into our house or office, the obvious first thing one would notice: books, many, many, many books. Predominately history books but there are shelves dedicated to Anthony Trollope, Isaac Bashevis Singer, Saul Bellow, Charles Dickens, Wright Morris, Evelyn Waugh, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Joyce Cary, James Joyce, Elizabeth Taylor, Jean Rhys, Jane Austen, George Gissing, J .D. Salinger, J.K. Rowling to name but a few and not even including my shelf.

When E.B. was writing Sidereal Days, as a traditionalist, he saw only one route to getting a book published. The same route he used with Maps and Mapmakers of the Civil War, published by Abrams in 1999. Find an agent, who finds a publisher, who not only publishes the book, but has the means to distribute and find an interested audience for the book.

So he followed that route. Finished the book and looked for an agent. It was a tough sell—not because the book wasn’t good because it’s fabulous. But because the industry changed! And no one wants to take a chance on an unknown….

We didn’t realize the significant changes going on at the time. After his first agent rejection, he tried again. The second agent’s return e-mail suggested that things weren’t like they used to be. He continued on the traditional route after her e-mail, but an article in the Wall Street Journal caught his eye—and captured both of our imaginations. The article was about the new world of digital publishing.

It’s funny how things happen. My traditionalist husband, who throughout the whole computer/information age has been buried in books, reads the article and sees the benefit of going digital. I wasn’t skeptical, I just always thought the WSJ was only good for a few stock tips, interesting editorials and a quick peak at the news!

What’s in a Name

Posted on June 4, 2012 by Michiko McElfresh

We came to work on the Monday after Thanksgiving realizing that we wanted to add a fiction imprint to McElfresh Map Company. The name Tammy Norie Press didn’t have to be discussed. The Tammy Norie was my father-in-law’s forty-foot sail boat. She was beautiful—Honduran mahogany construction with teak decks culled from a British World War II cruiser. She was majestic—dark blue topsides, a handsome bowsprit, brass portholes and brass ventilators. Under full sail her distinctive beauty came alive with her ketch-rigged reddish sails.

My husband, a cartographer, prefers the land. But the Tammy Norie loomed large in his life. The boat was built in England and had to make its way to the US. He, his sister, their parents and a crewman, who later became his brother-in-law sailed the boat from Wisstock’s Boatyard in Woodbridge, Suffolk, in England to Madeira crossing the Atlantic in the route of the trade winds (the same route as Columbus) to Bermuda and then up to Essex, Connecticut. In the summer of Woodstock, as the rest of us were watching the first man walk on the moon they were watching the sun—his father relied entirely on celestial navigation.

The trip was successful, after fifty-five days at sea the stunning Tammy Norie, with her crew of five, gracefully sailed into Essex Harbor and remained part of the family for twenty some years.

The name Tammy Norie Press was a given….

Getting From There to Here

Posted on May 30, 2012 by Earl B. McElfresh

As a college English major, my particular interest was the novels of James Joyce. I read Ulysses multiple times, once in the middle of a transatlantic crossing on a forty foot sailboat. The stream of consciousness technique, the notion that ancient myths represent a constant “theme” in the universal human subconscious, the esoteric intellectualism of actually enjoying the novel, seemed to be what literature, with a capital “L,” should be all about. Joyce unquestionably had the ability to describe things on a written page in such a way that they were almost tactile.

Even as the quintessential “English major,” I felt that an author or artist who led one down an avant-garde path had an obligation to exhibit excellence in a more conventional format. Picasso, for example, was a brilliant draftsman. There was no suspicion that he drifted into abstract art because he couldn’t draw a straight line. Joyce also demonstrated dramatic traditional narrative ability in his short stories and early novels, enough to justify as deliberate and necessary the obscurity of his mature novels.

Speaking of mature. The problem with this obscure stuff is that lesser artists tuck in behind Picasso and Joyce, drafting in the NASCAR sense, i.e. sucked along in the vacuum behind them. Eventually you find yourself at the Brooklyn Academy exposed for five and a half hours to the unendurable, torturously dispensed boredom of something like Einstein on the Beach. After your mind stops tingling (the same mental sensation as having your hand fall asleep) from the vacant pretentiousness it’s been exposed to, you slowly recollect that art is supposed to be, dare I say it, interesting. Even–out on an intellectual limb here–enjoyable.

So sentient adults turn to history. Because history, unlike intellectual stuff, is always interesting, usually fascinating, often inspiring, easily evaluated and seldom dull.

And then, after feeling that you’ve lost your membership in the intelligentsia because you can’t bear cynicism, cacophony, drabness, psychological exhaust fumes or anything from France, you recollect that Shakespeare was enormously popular with the crowd, that Anthony Trollope will be read long after Thomas Pynchon, and the Beatles will eclipse Scriabin.

I’d like to tell you next time what this led to and where this got me.