Bostworld

I couldn’t resist this calendar when I saw it last week during a visit to a local antique store. Not only are the photos exquisite, but each one comes with all the technical info – f-stop, exposure, film type, etc. Ironically enough, the photographers themselves are not credited! But here’s the real hell of it: the last page states that “prints suitable for framing of any of these calendar subjects…may be obtained free of charge by writing Union Pacific Railroad…!” Since I assume this offer is no longer valid, allow me to honor the spirit of their largess by offering them to you myself. Click on each photo for more info.

The day after Christmas, my wife and I attended a hockey game at the Jobing.com Arena. This state-of-the-art facility stands adjacent to something called the “Westgate City Center.” On what was once a quiet corner in Glendale is now erected this new mall “concept:” a pre-fab fake “town,” surrounded by lots of freshly bulldozed, freeway-accessible real estate: “Shop Here – Dine Here – Live Here – ONLY HERE!” “LIVE WHERE YOU LIVE!” I’m sure there are several of these sorts of places in your town as well.

This “multi-use destination” is mostly comprised of restaurants as big as city blocks. The “food,” served up in different shapes and “flavors,” is your typical modern corn and soybean based cuisine. What these places offer is not so much “nutrition,” as a Disney-fied, sports-bar kind of “atmosphere” designed to simultaneously stimulate and dull the senses.

As we stood huddled beneath five-story-high images of Carlos Santana and Mel Gibson, we watched a teenage fake-rock band supply the soundtrack to house-sized video displays broadcasting ads for local casinos and upcoming “tribute “concerts. At one point, an ugly long-haired dude in a shiny shirt came on the screen. He sat on a brand new leather couch, moving his lips inaudibly. Above his luminous head appeared this grave message: “$998.”

Spaces like the Westgate City Center make Phoenix’s older box malls look like palaces of subtlety and restraint. But the kids that milled around the grounds that night seemed just as enthusiastic about their current shopping arrangements as our grandparents’ generation must have been. And as these old photos from “Arizona Highways” clearly show, nothing evokes “civic pride” like a new retail innovation. These photos leave little room for debate on the matter, taken as they are from an article entitled “Phoenix – City Of Shopping Centers.”

Most of the businesses in these pictures are long gone, but if you look closely, you might recognize something of what remains.



People always ask me if I’ll ever do another installment of my “Report From The Country” series from a few years back. “More Connie Eaton,” they say. “More ‘Pass The Biscuits, Please.’” I guess I’ve been dragging my heels because the artist I want to honor is getting along in years, and I don’t want to jinx him right into the ground. But it’s almost criminal that Jim Ed Brown’s solo albums remain out of print, so I’ve decided to take my chances.

Despite lavish reissues devoted to his early work in The Browns with his sisters Bonnie & Maxine, and easy access to his duets with Helen Cornelius, Jim Ed Brown’s steady stream of solo albums from the late sixties and early seventies remains elusive to all but the most patient of Usenet users. One of two have shown up on the occasional share blog, but the majority are still out of reach.

The Browns were one of the first country artists to enjoy cross-over success, helping to define country music’s space in the mainstream. Hits like “Scarlet Ribbons,” The Old Lamplighter” and their smash folk-pop version of Edith Piaf’s “The Three Bells” were just as popular on college campuses as they were in Nashville. As a solo, Jim Ed Brown was a regular on the Grand Ole Opry, and even hosted his own syndicated television program for a few years. In 1967, his cheerful anthem to alcoholism, “Pop A Top,” became an instant classic.

After that, the hits were harder to come by. Unfortunately for Jim, he recorded for RCA-Victor and was often assigned to mainstay Elvis Presley producer, Felton Jarvis. Like Elvis, Jim’s records were suffused with the bland surface gloss that marks most of that label’s country fodder from the period. Just as they did with Elvis, RCA was content to churn out collection after faceless collection of commercial filler, overexposing the artist and bleeding his fans until the revenue stream dried up. But also like Elvis, Jim rose above the limitations of his output. The effect of Jim’s smooth control and sweet tone wedded to the wistful dark material provided for him produced unearthly performances of an odd ambivalence that sometimes borders on the surreal.

But don’t let my perverse assessment put you off these great records. The gems are plentiful and offer deep rewards. Even if all you ever hear is “Sunday In The Country,” “Barroom Pals and Good Time Gals,” or the essential “Ginger Is Gentle And Waiting For Me,” you’ll be better prepared to face the world. But if you want to mainline a full-on Jim Ed Brown overdose, you’ve found the right place.



(thanks to the LP Discography site for the cover scans.)

Whatever happened to the grand livestock of yesteryear? The one’s we’d to proudly parade up and down the central arteries of town? The ones for whom only our fanciest ranching duds would do? The ones we’d pose our children in front of? The ones our popular local photo magazine would so graciously feature in four colors between its covers?

Long since eaten I’m afraid, and their decedents relegated to the evil confines of some factory farm hidden out of site up in the hills somewhere. The only time they get their pictures in a magazine these days is if they’re lucky enough to have some PETA spy smuggle a camera into one of their torture sessions.

I joke, of course. The Arizona National Livestock Show continues to this day, going strong, “supporting youth and promoting livestock and agriculture since 1948.” In fact, you can go see it this year from December 28 through January 1 at the Arizona State Fairgrounds. Bring your camera (hidden or otherwise).

But if you can’t muster the effort to head down there (I know I can’t), you can check out these glorious pix from yesteryear — the October 1968 edition of “Arizona Highways” magazine, to be specific.

My old assistant was really into “affiliate programs.” He’d grab a bunch of info from Wikipedia about, say, Stevia, publish it to an ad-laden “blog,” and use all the SEO techniques he could think of. Naturally, since he was just out of his teens and still living with his parents, he thought he was making “good money.” He never understood why I don’t populate Bostworld with ads. Apparently, he saw no contradiction in profiting from the uncompensated work of others.

I like to hope this site trades in forms of capital that are in some ways more valuable than actual money. Obviously, we derive great pleasure from helping keep alive work by Les Humphries, Butterscotch and other forgotten artists. But it’s also about making connections. Fans aren’t the only ones who enjoy our posts about the Golddiggers or Love Workshop — so have the artists themselves. We’ve received nice notes from members of the Doodletown Pipers, The Going Thing, the Young Americans, as well as Michael Lloyd, Joe Scott and even Wonderful Russ himself. We’ve also heard from family members eager both to share memories of lost loved ones and to connect with fans who help them celebrate those memories.

And now we come to “Grazing in The Grass” by the Adam Ross Reeds. It’s a great album, certainly well worth the quarter we paid for it almost two decades ago. It’s a marvelously breezy souvenir from the late sixties, rendering such contemporary classics as “Summer Samba,” “Music To Watch Girls By,” ” Watermelon Man” and “The Theme From Black Orpheus” in eclectic up-tempo arrangements sure to please fans of the “turned on” big band discotheque jazz idiom. But as for Mr. Reed himself, we know nothing about him – never heard of him before this album. The liner notes confess that he worked on “The Donald O’Connor Show” and “Allan Ludden’s Gallery,” but let’s face it: that’s not much help. So, until we hear from Adam Jr., this is the best we can do.

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After my wife’s ankle surgery last summer, I was forced to pursue my love of strenuous exploratory hiking without her. But there was a bright side to this, since she has never been as keen for climbing as I am. Last spring, I was able to spend just about every Sunday morning at the the top of one of the many small mountains near my house.

I brought along my camera to keep me company. But an hour after sunrise, Arizona skies are bright and hot and the shadows are deep and dark. Getting a correct exposure under such high-contrast conditions is a challenge. While it’s usually best to let the smart machine in my hands make most the decisions, I still have to know how to help it along if I want to avoid white skies and crushed shadows. There’s only so much I can fix in post-processing.

I have to say I made a lot of progress working under these conditions. But one of the many skills I’ve not yet mastered is how to shake off my early-morning exhilaration long enough to really capture the magic of a mountain-top vantage point. I took hundreds of photos, but only a small handful of shots really give a sense of the terrain’s sparse beauty. I hope this selection manages to convey the quiet extremes of the desert landscape.

Alas, you can short-list a bad picture, but its not so easy to cull Paradise Valley’s rampant population. Who knew that the top of Camelback Mountain is as crowded as a shopping mall at 9AM on a Sunday? On the other hand, though it’s surrounded on all sides by expensive, well-patrolled private residences, the expansive summit of Mummy Mountain is nearly desolate. Hopefully, once the summer abates, I can continue my exploration before all the remaining open space is fenced off.