GAME ON WITH “IN THE PINES.”

The first commercial recording of “In the Pines” in 1926.

After publishing my 2023 book, Poor Gal, which chronicles the “Liza Jane” family of songs, I tumbled into a little state of blueness. All the research and writing had fallen away and, with nothing immediate to replace those efforts, I began to mope, I began to worse than mope, I felt that “dropping action” behind the sternum. To make matters worse, I had tripped on an uneven sidewalk during a jog, pinwheeled forward into a terrific clattering and cursing wipeout, and, according to one estimate, inflicted either grade-2 or grade-3 tears on five or six muscles in the left hip region, not to mention some spectacular cuts and bruises. Thus, I repaired to my lair in quite a not-so-fine fettle. Let me tell you: when you are hurt so badly, little things like leaving your water bottle in the other room really suck, because it takes time to straighten that s*** out. 

While walking was rough, I still did it, one foot at a time, I walked in the glens, I walked in the glades, I walked in the arbors, I espied my friend the she-fox. I stretched, I walked, eventually I jogged a bit, and eventually I jogged a lot. Simultaneously, I remembered a song, I recalled “In the Pines,” a song I had studied alongside “Liza Jane.” Its origins story (found at Wikipedia, etc.) always nagged at me, like something was “off,” considerably off. “I know a thing or two about folksong origins,” I would start to tell myself. “Hmmm,” I would start to tell myself. Maybe I could explore and I maybe I could jot a few things down, la dee dah, no big deal. When, one day, I asked myself, am I really thinking what I think I’m thinking? Well, yes I am. I began a deep dive. To outline, annotate. All those things I once did for my first true love, Liza Jane, I was then doing for a different woman, one who shivered in the woods. 

The spread of the folk blues in the early 1900s  
would influence the formation of “In the Pines.”

In short, after much introspection and considering what I really wanted in a relationship, I thought it was time for me to start seeing some other songs.

By now, Dear Reader, I am already halfway through my new book about “In the Pines.” When complete, the book will completely alter the origins story for the song, including who devised it, when it came together, and where this all took place. I have unearthed new evidence that will offer insights on what the original musicians may have intended the song to mean. Of course, I will get to Lead Belly, Nirvana, and all that jazz. The writing is going well. I feel refreshed with purpose. The blueness of not having a folk song to write about has been vanquished. And I haven’t tripped on a sidewalk in quite a while. My hips are splendid. You should see my Asian squat!

Having just returned from New Orleans where I co-produced The Liza Jane Sessions for a forthcoming documentary film about “Lil Liza Jane,” I post this update with a lot of joy. But I also intend this as a call-out to musicians, writers, editors, presses, creators of any kind who may have a special connection to “In the Pines.” I would like to hear from you. Drop me a line. Get in touch. Let’s talk some “In the Pines.” Let’s talk some folk blues. Let’s talk some “Lonesome Road.” Let’s talk the year 1915. Let’s talk about turpentine, yes, turpentine. Ah, I could keep on going, but mum’s a good word for now. Yes, mum will do just fine, in the pines, where the sun never shines. Forthcoming, my friends, forthcoming.

Discography

Dock Walsh. “In the Pines” A-side b/w “Going Back to Jericho” B-side. Columbia 15094-D (1926). Atlanta, GA. Dock Walsh (banjo and vocals.)

Photograph of Mississippi Fred McDowell (public domain.)

BEHIND THE SCENES PHOTO ESSAY FROM “THE LIZA JANE SESSIONS” IN NEW ORLEANS.

1. After an all-day film shoot at the Dew Drop Jazz & Social Hall.   

Back row, L-R: Alyson Spery, Moi, Chris Finney, Brian Graves, Emily 

Cohen. Front: Dom Flemons, Joy Clark, Don Vappie, Washboard Chaz. 

For five days in early November 2025, the team of Emily Cohen (co-producer), Alyson Spery (cinematography), Brian Graves (director of photography), and myself (co-producer) raced around helter-skelter in New Orleans all on behalf of a certain Poor Gal, “Lil Liza Jane.” The team HQ’ed at a mega hotel, with the ladies in one room (524) and the blokes in another (526), although someone, mysteriously, lived in between us in 525. (Who dat? Dunno. Never saw.) We gulped coffee, dreamt of po’ boy sandwiches, told the mostly-true tales of our lives, wept, dried our eyes, weathered numerous cases of the sillies, and marveled at the fabulous hospitality of a truly great city, The Big Easy, while instruments and voices — “O, Eliza, Lil Liza Jane!” —soared.

From Preservation Hall to the Dew Drop Jazz & Social Hall, from Tulane University to the Jazz & Heritage Foundation Academy, from WWOZ Radio to the Louisiana Music Factory, from atop the riverboat Natchez to a sidewalk outside Willie Mae’s restaurant, from a second line parade to the murals, streets, and orange cats of the Seventh Ward: we captured music performances, interviews, and iconic images of NOLA. In short: we made some serious footage. And, once we edit this mayhem, I do believe an epic film full of heart and warmth will issue forth. Because the characters in the film love that poor gal “Lil Liza Jane” and love their great city of New Orleans. A lot.

Below, why not enjoy some images of the team hard at work, in yoga poses, mugging for the camera, and bonding over some cold ales. Huzzah!

2. Portrait of me as grip boy? Best boy? Best grip boy?
Dew Drop Jazz & Social Hall, Mandeville, Louisiana.  

3. The team at Preservation Hall, New Orleans. Foreground, L-R:

Brian, Alyson, Emily. At the table: Ben Jaffee and Dom Flemons.

4. Stellar Director of Photography, Brian Graves, at Preservation Hall.

5. Cinematographer par excellence Alyson Spery at Preservation Hall.

6. Ben Jaffee (L) and Brian Graves (R) outside Preservation Hall.

7. Alyson Spery filming “b-roll” in the French Quarter.  

8. Alyson embedded in a second line 

parade, Seventh Ward, New Orleans.

          Intermission: Liza Jane Sessions trivia

          Total film shoots: 11
          Most film shoots in a single day: 5 (!)
          Cameras: 2
          Estimated number of musicians: 35
          Age ranges of musicians: 8 to 76
          Collective instrumentation: banjo, bones, calliope, cigar box guitar, drums, guitar, keyboard, piano, saxophone, tambourine, trombone, trumpet, tuba, voice, and washboard
          Estimated variations of “Liza Jane”: 20
          Strings of beads thrown to us from balconies: 1
          Number of sunsets enjoyed on the north bank of Lake Pontchartrain: 1
          Five-day total of Sazeracs, Martinis, and Daiquiris: 7(*)
               (*sorry if this is disappointing!)

9. Emily Cohen, fundamentally aloof. 

10. Brian Graves: “Copy that.” 

11. Alyson Spery, wielding a fuzzy item. 

12. Goaded into a “flex.” 

Lucky 13. The team enjoying the sunset and some cold ones on the   

 north bank of Lake Pontchartrain after a long day of filming devoted  

to America’s favorite “lil” poor gal, “Oh, Li'l Liza, Little Liza Jane.” 

          Photography credits:

          John McCusker: 1, 2.

          Dan Gutstein: 3, 8.

          Alyson Spery: 9, 10.

          Emily Cohen: 4, 5, 6, 7, 11, 12, 13. 

YOU DON’T LOVE ME. WE COULD GET TOGETHER. IT WON’T BE HARD TO DO.

 

Play this and start reading

It can be quite a blow when you summon the courage to profess love, but the other individual does not reciprocate. They have said as much (“ouch!”) or maybe they have slapped your wrist, taken up with a rival, and moved to another area code. You have “made yourself vulnerable” by saying “I love you” and all for what? Crickets. Or worse. This has likely happened to everyone at some point. So, how can you achieve comeuppance? Well, with some music, of course.

Jiminy Cricket but you’re good people, are you not? To boot, you like to have high times. It’s not like you to moon over these unjust weights. You want some guitar to be laid down. Some saxophone. Some keys. If you’re gonna be miserable, “ffs,” then you’re gonna do a little jumping, a little shaking. And lucky for us. Not only do a few musicians understand this selfsame plight, but they have gone into the studio—and sang about it! Swimmingly so. 

Tommy Raye

Thus, we turn to a couple of nearly-forgotten 45s, both A-sides, both from 1964, both soulful, to help us navigate these sticky situations. Although each record bears the title “You Don’t Love Me” they are indeed different songs, with one recorded in Memphis and one recorded in Los Angeles. We begin with Memphis singer Tommy Raye (above and above), who cut only one record in his short career. Neither projected optimism. The title of his B-side? “Don’t Let Me Be the Last to Know.” (Ouch.)

From the very beginning, Raye knows that he’s not loved. His baby has left him and he’s got no place to go. If you’re recognizing “a familiar hand on the wheel” then you would be correct. The uncredited Elias McDaniel aka Bo Diddley shines through as one of two co-composers. As such, the guitar and keys drive hard. Meanwhile, Raye offers to get on his knees and pray, if this would somehow alter the cold treatment by the gal he so dearly cherishes. “Uh uh uhhh,” he sings. “Mm mm mmmm.” Kind of like “no” and “yes” simultaneously. Perhaps the outcome hangs in the balance. By kneeling in reverence, Raye may be closer than he thinks to getting “another shot.” This certainly represents one possible route forward.

Now play this! 

Enter one Z.Z. Hill, who enjoyed a much longer career in the music industry as a soul and blues singer. His singles and albums charted preposterously well and according to some, he “resuscitated the blues” in the 1980s. In his “You Don’t Love Me” song, an original, Hill just wants to talk things over. As with Raye, he too acknowledges a lack of affection, but, you will admit, not being loved was never so much fun. The horns blare and the background vocals form a kind of “Greek chorus” so that Hill can emphasize his position to the gal he admires. Yet Hill is onto something deeper. “You don’t love me,” he declares. Then quickly adds, “We can get together. It won’t be hard to do.” Of course. You don’t need love. For that. It’s an unexpected suggestion that may well work, by appealing to a more primal instinct, or simply through its shock value.

Devotees of this blog may recall a post from some years ago, when we provided a comprehensive guide to “who makes the love” during an amorous encounter. By “make the love,” we mean “a passionate kiss & etcetera.” We pointed out then, and we maintain today, that it can be surprising. One may think that they have made the love when, instead, they were made love to. Things are not so “clear cut” in the multiple arenas of “love making” and professing your love. [“btw” Are you a Professor of Love?]

Z.Z. Hill

Okay, so kneel down and pray or raise your eyebrows with an unexpected proposal. If neither works, then we suggest that you clear some space, cue up these songs, raise the volume, and press “play.” Once the bodies start moving, well, we believe that they may happily and tenderly collide.



Discographic Information

Tommy Raye. “You Don’t Love Me” A-side b/w “Don’t Let Me Be the Last to Know” B-side. Pen Records 45-2PN-351. Memphis, Tennessee (1964.) Tommy Raye (vocals.) Remainder of musicians unknown. Compositional credit: Willie Cobbs and unlisted Elias McDaniel (aka Bo Diddley.)

Z.Z. Hill. “You Don’t Love Me” A-side b/w “If I Could Do It All Over” B-side. Kent Records K 404x45. Los Angeles (1964.) Z.Z. Hill (vocals.) Remainder of musicians are unknown but may have included Maxwell Davis (saxophone). Compositional credit: Z.Z. Hill.

ALONE IN THE CITY WITH YOU.

 

I remember you as a refrain so I return to you (again.)
The flowers, I tell you, have no buttons.
They name their virtues while the wind strikes them without anger.
Comes the twilight sound, deeps also and deeps.

In a dream, the teeth of the wolf finally let go of the wolf.
Only dark eyes can agree with dark hair—
I try to put myself, therefore, inside an apple!
The half-night, always in revolt, always hungering for hours.

I remember you as a refrain so I return to you (again.)
The flowers, I tell you, have dressed as paupers.
Only one sun in a month of silver rain and wool rain.
Faith as the sole of a shoe, the obscure melody of a false silence.

You become visible in the place where I disappear—
Someday, you will become the one, the unique circle.



I wrote this sonnet in response to the song posted above. Discographic info: The Limps, “Someone I Can Talk To” b/w “Unreal” A-side. [B-side features another band called “No Support.”] Matchbox Classics – M.C.2. Carlisle, England (1979). Likely personnel: Tom Davidson (vocals); Andy Semple (guitar); Norman Jardine (bass); and Derek Watson (drums). Compositional credit: unknown, likely credited to the band. Though recorded in England the band is Scottish.

Want something a bit less elegiac? SeeThe Fox Who Loved a Corgi

THE FOX WHO LOVED A CORGI.

(I am out of breath from running, oi.)

As many of you know, there is a fox who loves me, but here is yet another fox who had a week-long affair with a Welsh corgi. He can be seen, above, starting up with some Canadian geese. (What will be next, a Tasmanian Devil?) I say “affair” but I did not witness—and refuse to speculate on—any sultry activities. Imagine what you will, but I, myself, will not “go there.” I will say this: they palled around spectacularly, out there, in a semi-wooded region, closely, at dusk. The corgi had run away from her owner, not far mind you, but far enough.

I have theorized—and continue to believe—that the corgi had espied the fox from a distance (and vice-versa) possibly over several “tethered” walks and thought to herself, “Is that not a dog? Off the leash—permanently? He is scrawny but has cute fangs.” The well-groomed corgi came from a reputable home and here was the wild brute tempting her: a classic good girl / bad boy scenario. O, they bounded about, they paused thoughtfully in the greensward, they curled up in the shrubberies. They supped on prey (not kibbles ‘n’ rarebits) and they slurped from streams. I witnessed these moments as I jogged about and as I idled thoughtfully in the greensward, but I did not curl up in the shrubberies!

I have since spoken to the corgi’s owner, a small elderly woman who covered her mouth with one hand and giggled when I described ‘The Week of the Red Fox and the Welsh Corgi.’ She related a moment when she had to unhook the corgi’s leash, which had gotten snagged in a hedgerow, and, of a sudden, her beloved pet (planning this all along?) sprang forth and rabbited-off into the “wilds.” A fantastic week ensued in which the owner searched for the dog physically and virtually, the latter by posting to a listserv. During the day, the fox and corgi “laid low,” knowing that “the law” was out to find them. Which is probably why I encountered them at sunset, seeing as rescue efforts had been suspended for the day. As the woman detailed her “harrying” week, I looked down at the corgi, who nervously scanned the environs for her cross-species love. For those of you who know a Welsh corgi, you can easily envision a low dog, a somewhat jittery creature, a tan-and-white beast with a worried smile affixed to its panting muzzle. Eventually, a maintenance worker had tempted the corgi with some “kissy” noises and the repatriation process began, complete with a reward.

I believe this fox to be one of the kits who descended from the fox who loves me. If you watch the short video above, I have a sneaking suspicion that he’s the bloke at the end who came up to me while I sat—with permission, mind you—at the edge of the den. He is distinguished by his ragged tail, which does not have “the full brush.” I don’t see him very often but usually, when I do, he will sit not too far away from me and we will have the following conversation:

     Me: Oi, mate!
     Fox: […]
     Me: Oi!
     Fox: […]
     Me: Oi.
     Fox: […]

It’s a very nourishing exchange. In my heart of hearts, I doubt that the fox saw the corgi as “just another tawdry one-week stand” and vice-versa. I do believe they cared for one another. (What love!) And now, the “forces of propriety” have separated the two. You may be wondering if the corgi does long for the fox during the long days indoors and if the fox does pine for the corgi among the pine trees of its habitat? I think the answers are yes and yes. And while they could not have produced a “Red Forgi” or a “Welsh Corgox” they could have lived a furry, furry, amorous life of intrigue!



[At the request of the corgi’s owner, I am not publishing her name, the corgi’s name, or a photo of the dog.]

Need something a bit more serious? See Alone in the City with You

 

WHERE “ECHO FUTURISM” AND “POST-POETRY” COHERE: FANOPLANE’S IMPROVISATIONAL ALBUM, LIVE AT THE BLACK CAT! (2025)

 

The houses DOT DOT DOT !

Live Album Follows a Fabulous Night

It would have been enough just to take the stage at the legendary Washington, D.C. music venue, the Black Cat, on October 11, 2024, as the warm-up act for nationally-touring trio Xiu Xiu, which Fanoplane did, myself included. It would have been enough to receive a rowdy welcome from the evening’s young audience—three or four hundred deep—who encouraged us to pursue numerous soaring expressions during our set. I, for one, encountered a rare feeling of joy during the performance, and that, alone, would have been more than enough, except we made a recording of the show, entitled (what else?) Live at the Black Cat! Fanoplane released the record at another iconic Washington, D.C. music venue, Comet Ping Pong, a few months later in February, 2025.

I always alight upon jazz saxophonist John Coltrane as the bandleader who delivered the finest live recordings (at the Village Vanguard) but in fairness there are more candidates in jazz and other genres. Several factors can distinguish a live album, including the unpredictable heights of the musicianship as influenced by the setting, the obvious engagement of the concertgoers, or even an important social context. To my surprise, there exists another album with the same title as ours, save the exclamation mark. “Scream,” anyone? Said punk band released Live at the Black Cat in 1998. Unlike John Coltrane, Scream, and virtually any other musicians, however, Fanoplane does not rehearse any songs. We have no repertoire. We improvise everything. Now, I will not weigh Live at the Black Cat! against any other records, but I will try to build towards our “creative thesis” as a group. What makes us tick?

Gerry Mulligan agitates against “free jazz” (1962)

Complete Freedom Without Order

Speaking of jazz, a music critic by the name of Ralph Gleason hosted a nationally-televised show, Jazz Casual, in the 1960s. Running for several years and more than 30 episodes, the show presented many of the jazz greats in a format that blended performances and interviews. In 1962, “cool jazz” saxophonist Gerry Mulligan appeared on Jazz Casual, leading a quartet that played four songs. The brief clip (above) comes from the show’s interview segment. When asked about “freedom” in his music, Mulligan responded cautiously by saying that “attempts at […] complete freedom are chaotic” and that jazz is attractive, in part, because it is orderly. Mulligan concluded the thought by saying, “you can’t truly have freedom unless you’ve got order to begin with.” Hmmm. Hmph.

To be sure, Fanoplane is not a jazz band, but I have frequently returned to Mulligan’s statement about “freedom” and “order,” because it offers a compelling choice between two opposing mindsets: (1) Freedom within order or (2) Freedom without order. Pick a side! Mulligan was likely agitating against certain “currents” in jazz that began to take shape in the late 1950s, perhaps best epitomized by an important 1960 album—Free Jazz: A Collective Improvisation—by Ornette Coleman. Jazz of course began as an inherently improvisational form in New Orleans as championed by the incomparable Louis Armstrong, among others. Ornette’s improvisations may have sounded quite different than those pioneered by “Satchmo” but, in their own way, I believe they hearkened back to a similar principle.

Fanoplane at Comet Ping Pong in February 2025 (photo by Mike Zito) 

You could argue that all professional music has some order to it by virtue of the training, rehearsals, and performative experiences that the musicians have likely undergone. You could argue that the instruments themselves present a certain kind of order since they are physical entities that must be played competently enough to communicate with an audience. Indeed, we in Fanoplane observe certain customs whilst onstage, foremost among them, listening to each other. I am fond of saying that we are a cooperative, hence, we cooperate. Surely, this is a bit of structure. As are the stage, the lighting, the monitor, the green rooms, and the complimentary cans of grape soda and/or craft lager that have been very kindly placed in the very same green rooms, ahhh.

And yet, I would argue that Fanoplane otherwise presents “complete freedom without order.” Our album Live at the Black Cat! offers powerful evidence that the multivariable aspects of our performance could resonate with an audience that had no way of developing any advance expectations for the music they would hear. We often roll in a deep groove with powerful refrains but we have no idea, really, what will happen once the music begins. We are an improv group made up of eight bandmembers, each of whom improvises. I have taken the liberty to assemble the following phrases—“echo futurism” “noise bop” “post-poetry” “free punk” and “avant electrics”—which you could shake together in a paper bag for 30 minutes or so, and then, perhaps, you might approximate some sense of Fanoplane’s creative gestalt.

Have Yourself a Listen

Live at the Black Cat! (and all associated credits) can be found at Bandcamp, where it can be downloaded for “name your price.” You can also listen at Apple Music and Spotify. Any proceeds go to the “band fund” which helps us exist, promote, and create future ruckuses. The co-leaders of the group are Ted Zook and Bob Boilen; the rest of the bandmembers are Doug Kallmeyer, Jerry Busher, Patrick Whitehead, Brie Anderson, Maya Renfro, and myself. Check us out. You could start with Track 4 aka “The Houses…” which I am “mouthing” at the top of this post if you please or go in order. Either way, and in the words of the immortal Duke Ellington, we want you to know that we all love you maaaaadly.

Want more Fanoplane? Check out Praise Poem

Fanoplane at the Black Cat in October 2024 (photo by Mike Zito) 

SUPERMANIFESTO 2025.

This Supermanifesto begins painfully. My father Marty passed away in May, three months shy of his 92^nd birthday. He had been grappling with a “mystery illness” that taxed his breathing and strength. As a live-in caregiver, I witnessed his entire struggle firsthand. An inherently selfish part of me wants to share some difficult imagery with you and wants you to throw your arm around me, but I will spare you that imagery, even if you still might throw your arm around me.

Often I turn to aggressive music, punk or similar, when something outrageous has taken place, but I find myself partial to “Leaving Eden,” a 2012 ballad by the Carolina Chocolate Drops. Before they disbanded about 10 years ago, the Chocolate Drops reinvigorated many decades of traditional African American music. Too, Dom Flemons (playing guitar) is a friend of the ongoing “Liza Jane” documentary film project. 

A final word on my book Poor Gal, which chronicles the “Liza Jane” family of songs. It came out amidst my father’s illness, and at the time, I could not participate in any author events. Thus, I feel especially lucky for a couple of great 2024 reviews in the USA Today network and Washington City Paper, as well as a highly enjoyable interview at Bluegrass Jam Along by UK podcaster Matt Hutchinson. Huxley & Hiro Bookstore hosted the first book release event (about a year after Poor Gal appeared) at The Queen in Wilmington, Del., and I was really surprised when, this past October, Poor Gal received a “Special Recognition Award” from the ASCAP Foundation in its 55^th annual Deems Taylor / Virgil Thomson Book Awards. Many thanks to all (inter)(re)viewers and readers alike. 

My friend Casey Smith (“yjb”) printed this four-word poem when we hung out a couple months ago. It is a fabulous little broadside and Casey hails from a righteous people. Shall we pen some strophes in 2025? Well, well, well, yes we shall.

Photo Credit: Sausages (Mike Zito)

Up that alley, I will be back at the microphone with the improvisational collective Fanoplane, which will play Comet Ping Pong in Washington, D.C. on February 8^th. This will be, I believe, a “release event” for a CD of our live performance at the Black Cat, which went kablooey well. I am also looking to get back at the microphone with a “rock combo” where “combo” equals “orchestra plus vocals.” Let it be so. In twenty aught twenty-five.

A fifteen-second video of my dad trying to say “burglars.” He was raised in a Bronx tenement and never pronounced “ers” as anything other than “iz.” For instance, “big fierce tigers” would become “big fierce tigiz.” (My mother says “burglars” correctly but she was raised in Brooklyn.) To boot, Marty implies that anyone can “send in the burgliz” as if you were ordering a pizza, just burgliz instead.

Out searching for my friend the fox – or her offspring (a bloke of the species who engaged in a cross-taxonomy fling with a Welsh corgi) – when suddenly there was an incident. A red-tailed hawk flew into my face! Its full wing stole me upside the jaw. I do not think it saw me, but how could it not see me, it did or did not see me, it wing-slapped me and then soared, alit, it alit in a treetop. It was up there all statuesque, all proud of its powerful aviation and slippery withdrawal, while I flubbered my sensibilities into “recently slapped.” The incident was feathery but not pillowy, the wing was momentarily blinding and surprisingly firm. For all I know, it may have been a friendly gesture. Either way, I persevered. (And snapped this pic of the offending raptor.)

This family – buck, doe, fawn – are my favorite deer. The other “hoofed ruminants” are, like, bounding here, bounding there. Whatevs. These are my peeps.

I hardly drink anymore (demi-baddie) so I hope you can tell this is a special occasion – in wishing you a Happy New Year! May you and your loved ones be healthy and joyful in the months ahead.

This has been a raking, searching Supermanifesto. Even as I can try to joke-away some of the pain, “the pain,” observed poet Robert Creeley, “is not unpainful.” Indeed. It will carry into 2025 but we must also carry love, and adventurousness, and brawn into the new year. For me, the new year will present numerous uncertainties. Questions like “where?” and “what on earth?” However it goes, I hope to see you then, my friends, and if so, we will jump and shake. It would not be a true Blood And Gutstein without a couple of “shakers” by rock ‘n’ roll and R&B combos. If you are a ‘night creature’ then you might be content with the estimable mayhem above. But if you require something more, I dunno, “hewing,” then I have got you covered with “Pass the Hatchet, Part 2” (below.) As always, we here at B.A.G. suggest that you corral your sweetie pie. Play these songs loud. Jump high. Shake those shoulders out with maximum esprit de corps & if you need to describe your experience, I am here for you.

Discography for The Gigolo’s (sic) and Roger & The Gypsies

The Gigolo’s. “Night Creature” B-side b/w “Swingin’ Saints” A-side. Daynite Gig-1 / Gig-2, Phoenix, Arizona, 1960. Likely personnel: Bob Taylor (drums); Don Cole (guitar); Buddy Wheeler (bass); and Zeke Zoeckler (saxophone); other musicians, if any, unknown. Compositional credit: Bob Taylor and (first name unknown) Knight.

Roger & The Gypsies. “Pass The Hatchet (Part 2)” B-side b/w “Pass The Hatchet (Part 1)” A-side. Seven B 7001. New Orleans (1966). Compositional credit: Earl Oropeza, Ray Theriot, and Roger Leon Jr. Likely personnel: Eddie Bo (vocals) with Earl Stanley & The Stereos. [Earl Stanley (lead guitar); Roger Leon Jr. (guitar); Skip Easterling (organ); Johnny Pennino (sax); Li’l Joe Lambert (drums); Nicky Bodine (bass); Art Sir Van (piano); and Hector Nieves (maracas). Any additional musicians unknown.]