Pilgrimage III: The Ballad of Emil Lewandowski

For those of you waiting for the final post in my "Pilgrimage" series, I apologize for the long delay. This one is rather late in coming, but it's clearly time.

Aside from his immediate family and, apparently, readers of the outdoor magazines in which his occasional fishing articles appeared, the world knows little of Emil Lewandowski, a Buffalo native who passed away in nearby Dunkirk, NY last week at the age of 74. But for those of us who came of age in the early '70s, Emil was a Top 40 titan whose soulful voice graced such hits as "Mama Told Me (Not to Come)," "Shambala" and "Let Me Serenade You." We knew him, of course, as Cory Wells of Three Dog Night.

Panned as a lightweight pop act who didn't write their own songs, 3DN sounded like manna from heaven to my boyhood ears. Here were three amazingly gifted lead singers backed by stellar musicians playing first-rate material. In my estimation Cory, Chuck Negron and Danny Hutton, the band's co-lead vocalists, were to the human voice what Jimi Hendrix was to the electric guitar. Period. The Vocal Group Hall of Fame, at least, agrees. As for the lightweight part, have a listen to Captured Live at the Forum and tell me this band—as evidenced especially by Michael Allsup's shred-o-rama guitar—doesn't tear the roof off the place. Cory's showcase on that record, Otis Redding's "Try a Little Tenderness," is simply a tour de force, and don't get me started on the percussive genius that is Floyd Sneed. The guy drums with both ends of his sticks; maybe that's why he sounds like he has eight arms and six feet.

In the late summer of 2012, I heard that Three Dog Night was playing Buffalo, Kleinhans Music Hall to be precise, and they'd be backed by the Buffalo Philharmonic. Something told me this might be my only chance to hear my boyhood idols in concert, and the orchestral angle made it a must-see. Things were tight at the time, but I scraped enough together for the ticket, return bus fare and a one-night stay at the Hampton Inn, and on a chilly Friday night in October, there I was: last row, main floor, slightly right of centre.

Now, the band I saw was arguably Two Dog Night—Chuck having fallen out with his bandmates some years back—but especially in light of Cory's passing, I feel fortunate to have seen even that. Floyd and bassist Joe Schermie were also missing; Joe because he'd died some years back, Floyd for unknown reasons. Michael and since-deceased keyboardist Jimmy Greenspoon were in attendance, so that made four of the original seven members. And somehow, between Danny, Cory and bassist Paul Kingery, they managed to cover all Chuck's parts. That alone was quite impressive.

"The use of cameras and recording devices is strictly prohibited," warned the program. Nevertheless, your intrepid Mark Martian sneaked in a tiny device and fought the good fight. But the sheer volume of band and orchestra overwhelmed my mp3 player's built-in mic, and the 2/3 of the show I did record before the battery died is muddy, distorted and unlistenable. (I've kept it in case I someday encounter an audio restoration guru.)

I'd describe the show as workmanlike—well played but not transcendent—and predictably hit-heavy. (My fawning over Captured Live at the Forum aside, 3DN were never an album-oriented band.) After "The Family of Man," the evening's first song, Cory mentioned to rapturous applause that this was his homecoming and the band's first Kleinhans show since 1970. And to my surprise, Cory played rhythm guitar on several songs: decently, too (it definitely wasn't a prop). As for the orchestra, for the most part they were hard to pick out of the mix, though the horn section shone in "Celebrate" and "Play Something Sweet (Brickyard Blues)."

Song I Wish Had Been Played: "Eli's Coming." Runner-up: "It's for You."

Bonus Points For: Cory's neon purple tie.

Mark Mars Moment: Well, this singles act played one song so obscure even your friendly neighbourhood Mark Martian had never heard it: "You Can Leave Your Hat On," a Randy Newman-penned album cut from 1975. Cory did a great job on it, but it's really not my kind of burlesque-style R&B.

Despite the preponderance of grey hair in the crowd, it struck me during "Joy to the World" that this is essentially thinking man's children's music. You see, it wasn't me singing along as Cory made these Vegas-like wave gestures over the "joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea" line; it was that nine-year-old whose dad brought home that record, my first-ever 45, in the summer of 1971. And in that little boy's world, Chuck, Danny and Cory were giants.

As a youngster I had a special fondness for Cory, who brought a gritty, bluesy edge to the band. And as it turns out, he and I have something rather profound in common as well, a quality that's quite rare in the music biz. From the Buffalo News obituary: "'My father never, ever took drugs, and he hated alcohol,' [daughter Dawn] Cussins said. 'He was totally against any of his songs being used in beer advertisements because he never wanted to encourage kids to drink.'"

Amen to that, and thanks for the music, Cory Wells. Along with your compatriots, you are the reason I'm a singer/songwriter today. Blessings and gratitude to you. Condolences to your family and fans.

As a tribute to Cory, I've worked up a version of "The Family of Man" that I'll debut this afternoon (Sunday, October 25, 3:00 p.m.) at the Lazy Cat Café. If you're in the area, please stop by and say hello.

Pilgrimage II: Put a Candle in the Window

You'll recall from my previous post the rock 'n' roll triumvirate of my youth: The Guess Who, Creedence Clearwater Revival and Three Dog Night, none of whom I'd seen perform in their prime. It's been 40 years since CCR's rancorous split, and an impromptu jam at guitarist Tom Fogerty's wedding aside, the band has not reunited. Bassist Stu Cook and drummer Doug "Cosmo" Clifford now tour as Creedence Clearwater Revisited—a tribute band, in essence—and Tom sadly died in 1990. That leaves the real deal, the man who wrote, sang, and strummed 98% of their material: guitarist/vocalist John Fogerty.

I found out in June that Fogerty had a mid-September date lined up at the Sony Centre; a combination of apathy and tight finances stopped me from splurging then. Alas, when a check of Ticketmaster's site on Labour Day showed but a few seats remaining, I laid down my $70. One last-row balcony ticket later, I was in.

I skipped the opening act (Luke and the Something-Or-Other) and hit the merch table, where a souvenir shirt and guitar pick set me back $40. And speaking of apparel, I was decked out in a Rickenbacker T-shirt that serves as the Creedence equivalent of "Mark Mars Army, Full Member." (Fogerty played a short-scale Rickenbacker 325 with CCR.)

A John Fogerty tour, it should be noted, is about as commonplace as Halley's Comet. In fact, this is a man who wrote nary a song and played zero gigs from 1975-1985 due to personal and professional demons. But as a shadowy, iconic figure emerged centre stage, cranking out the first bars of "Travelin' Band," the crowd's roar meant only one thing: J.C. Fogerty was back.

He bounced down the steps to the front of the stage, and at the same time a shift in lighting revealed the rest of the band: two guitarists, bassist, drummer, and keyboardist. A cursory "Good evening, Toronto!" was followed by "Lookin' Out My Back Door," Fogerty having swapped his Telecaster for an acoustic and the pianist switching to accordion.

I'd heard beforehand that Cosmo's Factory would be played in its entirety tonight. Apparently, he was alternating between Cosmo's and Bayou Country, though the guy beside me said Green River would be put in rotation as well, once the band headed west. Green River was the first album I ever bought—or more accurately, my parents bought for me—but to my mind, Pendulum is CCR's best, the album I'd most want to hear front to back. As any Mark Martian will tell you, though, CCR proper (the foursome) did not make a bad record, so Cosmo's Factory would certainly do.

Lesser-known gems from Cosmo's aside, I found the song selection predictable, a greatest-hits parade of CCR and solo material. Nothing was played from the first or last CCR albums. Similarly, the show's lone cover, Roy Orbison's "Pretty Woman," struck me as an overly safe choice, though I'll bet the younger (read: 40s) segment of the audience was astonished to hear this Van Halen tune.

Mark Mars Moment: "Ramble Tamble," surely never played live until the first Cosmo's Factory show. I missed Cosmo's drumming, though. I'm thinking especially of the six-into-four hi-hat Cosmo bashed out going into the last verse. Fogerty's current drummer is technically better, I'm sure, but lacking in feel. Honourable Mention: "Keep on Chooglin'."

Bonus Points For: One of the guitarists switching to conga and cowbell for "Born on the Bayou." (Doubt they belong? Listen carefully to the record.) Oh, and the root-fifth-octave piano lick in "Ramble Tamble."

Song I Wish Had Been Played: "Walk on the Water," with a dedication to his late brother (who co-wrote it; Tom's only CCR writing credit). Runner-Up: "Effigy."

Fittingly, "Long as I Can See the Light" ends the Cosmo's portion of the set, just as it did the album. A mournful, gospel-tinged electric piano opens the song, setting a tone both stately and sombre. For some reason, the lyric always struck me as despondent, resigned even, despite the optimistic tag line at the end of each verse:

Put a candle in the window

'cause I feel I've got to move

Though I'm going, going
I'll be coming home soon
Long as I can see the light

My eyes welled up as I glanced at the empty seat beside me. Where my sweetheart should be, only a backpack. You'd put a candle in the window after a death, an ending. A wispy flicker lit to invoke the great light of God, a defiant insistence that all is not darkness, a simple plea for comfort, mercy and deliverance. It's been 19 years since Leilani died, and nearly a year since my estrangement from another dear one, a sweet woman who—in her brilliance, beauty and purity of heart—reminded me so much of my beloved.

"This used to be a sad song, but now it's a happy song, 'cause I just refuse to be sad," Fogerty says late in the set as a roadie hands him an acoustic guitar. "Spent 35 years being sad. That was enough. This is one of my daughter's favourites." He strums the opening bars to Pendulum's "Have You Ever Seen the Rain," and again, my tears come—for a lost youth, for dear ones now gone, for an uncertain future. Still moving, still going, no way home soon, no happy face to mask the sadness. Just a candle in the window.

Pilgrimage I: Old Mark Mars Is Alive and Well, Sir

And old, too, but let's not belabour that.

It's December 1970, and a nine-year-old boy has just opened a Christmas gift from his grandparents: a Westinghouse transistor radio. He turns it on and somewhere between the crude rotary dial's 9 and 12 finds CHUM, Toronto's Top 40 powerhouse. In no time—pun intended—he encounters what will become for him the Holy Trinity of Rock 'n' Roll: The Guess Who, Creedence Clearwater Revival, and Three Dog Night.

By December 1975, two of these bands will have split acrimoniously; the third will plunge into irrelevance, lost in the pulsating throb soon to be called disco. And our boy, now a brainy, socially awkward teen, has moved on to prog rock and protractors. Fond memories of his first musical heroes are tempered with regret that he never saw any of them in concert.

Fast forward to 2000 and a warm summer's eve at the Ontario Place Amphitheatre. (Yeah, it has a spiffy corporate name; no, they won't get free advertising from me.) The Guess Who have reunited for a cross-Canada tour with, oddly enough, a new lineup: Bachman, Cummings, McDougall, Peterson, Wallace. It's almost the version of the band I remember best: the 1972-74 edition, with Randy Bachman subbing for the late Kurt Winter. (The idea of Randy subbing for anyone is borderline preposterous, but Kurt really was that superb.)

I'm in the main seating area, pretty much dead centre, about forty rows back. I've never liked sitting too close and have rarely had the cash to do so anyway, so this suits me fine. If memory serves "Runnin' Back to Saskatoon" opens the show. The band is tight, their harmonies spot-on, the onstage joie de vivre infectious. As is customary for boomer reunion tours, the setlist is hit-heavy. At this late date, most people don't pay fifty bucks to see The Guess Who warble some obscure tune off Artificial Paradise.

Most people. The devotees—for whom this is a pilgrimage—own every album, can sing every lick, know why (and when) a Greg Leskiw or a Don McDougall joined and left the band. We are the Mark Mars Army, and we want our moment.

What's a Mark Mars? You tell 'em, Burt: "There's this kid in Virginia who's been a fan since the beginning. He calls himself Mark Mars and he's always written to me. So I put this line in 'Road Food' about 'Old Mark Mars is alive and well, sir.' You know he must have dug hearing that. Stuff like that is just fun to do." (Burton Cummings, quoted in John Einarson, American Woman: The Story of The Guess Who, Quarry Press, 1995.)

And I'll be damned if the boys don't serve it up. Two-thirds of the way in, sandwiched between lesser-known-hits-but-still-hits ("Glamour Boy," "Rain Dance") the band chugs into an off-kilter boogie that can only be ... "Road food," Bill, Donnie and Randy croon. "Jollywood, Jollywood, chippa-chippa chee-chee," Burton answers, punctuated by piano stabs on the one and the three. I'm the only one singing along, I tell myself, but every Mark Martian feels this way. It'd be uncouth if we all sat together bellowing "drag queens, rhumba boogie, grabbin' for the prime time" in unison. Besides, coming to the show alone (as I have) is a badge of honour.

"Road Food" ends to the weakest applause of the night, a din so quiet that my clapping—and his, and his, and maybe even hers—reaches the stage. Bill takes a sip of water and, placing the glass on his amp, shoots a wink Burton's way. Burt grins—they know!—and counts in "Laughing," a hit from the prime years that kicks off the final lap, hurtling band and fans to the boomer-fuelled climax (probably "American Woman"; your friendly neighbourhood Mark Martian can't recall.)

No matter. The Army has had its three glorious minutes. "Old Mark Mars is alive and well, sir."