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As part of some preparatory research into the “sorta memoir” I am at work upon, I have been poring though old boxes of my life’s detritus. (Whose most artful definition, for my purposes here, is: ‘Organic matter produced by the decomposition of organisms …’ The book will be about decomposing in some notable locales — Paris, Ireland — but, then, re-composing myself and thriving after such decomposition).
I wish today, though, simply to share the art of three pages from a small notebook I traveled with while bouncing around Paris and the midlands of France, south of Clermont-Ferrand, in the formerly volcanic heartland of Gaul. This was in the late 1970s, before easy access to printers and scanners. I forget the specific details about the creation of this particular palm-sized notebook. But I must have transcribed from a songbook these favorite songs, in preparation for playing them on my further travels.
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On a layover to visit a dear friend in London on my way to France, I purchased a cheap Chinese guitar for 25 pounds sterling. Slung over my shoulder in a nylon guitar sack, it banged against my hip on my travels henceforth, through Gare du Nord, up rues near Le Sacre Couer and via trains hither and yon.
I landed at a chantier — a workcamp — for international youth in Issoire, five hours south of Paris (even though I was 29 at the time and ended up serving more as a supervisor helper). Our goal was to renovate this 17th century farm estate, Le Ferme du Gran Mas, which pre-dated Napoleon. One day, I befriended a dear French-Moroccan fellow from Issoire named Maloud. He showed up one day in leopard print shoes, a pompadour, and no English. But he had a guitar and loved to sing and play. I spoke pre-kindergarten French at the time. We more communicated through song.
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Maloud had learned Elvis Presely songs phonetically as a kid. So, when we tried to duet on the Rodgers and Hart ballad “Blue Moon, a 1954 hit for Elvis, his pronunciations were a bit unconventional. Elvis sang the opening line to “Blue Moon” this way:
‘Blue Moon of Kentucky, keep on shining | Shine on the woman that’s gone and left me blue … ‘
Maloud rendered it something along the lines of: ‘Bleh men en kentacky kep in shaning …’
But, as he helped me with my French, I returned the favor in English. We were soon harmonizing the tune just like two little Elvises in the French outback. We ended up performing a set of tunes at Issoire’s Cafe Tabac one night in 1979. And then a friend of his featured us on his radio program. Since it appeared no one in that part of France could pronounce my name — Douglas — as it is pronounced in American English, I was forever introduced and known as ‘DOO-gloss’ in the French midlands. And, so, for one brief, shining moment, Maloud et Doogloss sang out across the ancient volcanic hill country pf France.
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HERE ARE SOME DRAFT CHAPTERS from “WHAT HAPPENED: Confessions of a Failed Boulevardier“
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“When ‘Frankenstein’ Came to Town”: “Listen to this!” say Tommy. He shifts the Les Paul to his lower back, rock star-like. “Edgar Winter,” he says, almost reverently. “Johnny’s brother …”
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“Stormtroopers & Grandmas”: The balls of his black pupils stare at me intently, oddly echoed by the round marble of a self-shaved head. Moments later, I have second thoughts about my diplomacy as “Speak English or Die” batters the room.