The song rolls out at you like the foam off an incoming ocean wave — the kind of wave that brings used condoms and junkie needles ashore.  It's a wash of shuffling, sleazy keyboard noise that manages to sound lazy and ominous all at once.  The music of deadbeats who haunt the local shoreline and wonder where their next meaningless sexual encounter is coming from.  Not surprisingly, that's exactly what the song, "Moonlight Feels Right" by Starbuck, is about.

"The wind blew some luck in my direction . . . I caught it in my hands today,
I finally made a tricky French connection . . . you winked and gave me your ok . . ."

The singer's voice and style sound even sleazier than the song's opening bars could prepare you for.  For example, it's "direct-SHUN" instead of 'direction' and "connect-SHUN" instead of 'connection.'  You get the idea.  Mr. Beach Bum would like your atten-SHUN . . . because he's getting an erect-SHUN . . .

The singer goes on to elaborate, more or less, about his favorite method of seducing nice young women who are fresh out of college.  He has a convertible, you see.  And when he's out with a lady, he likes to take the top off the car, drive her out to the beach at night, and . . . well, it's not like a woman can possibly resist after that.  

"I'll take ya on a trip beside the o-SHUN (ocean) . . . and drop the top at Chesapeake Bay.
Ain't nothing like the sky to dose a po-SHUN (potion) . . . the moon'll send ya on your way . . . he he he . . "

"he he he" . . . Yes, he actually gives a fake little chuckle at the end of each verse, because the scuzz ball knows he's playing you, baby.   Of course, it's 1976, so you don't mind getting hustled.  

And then we get the chorus, which is pure genius:

"Moonlight . . . (wonk-wung) . . . feels right . . . (wung-wung) . . . Moonlight . . . (wonk-wung) . . . feels right . . . (wung-wung) . . ."

According to a website that's devoted entirely to this one song, it's the "definitive radio driving song of the 70s.  It represents 70s synth-pop at its finest. Impeccably crafted, winningly melodic and uniquely constructed (how many songs have featured a marimba solo?), it was a perfect springtime single.  The lyrics were expressively vivid, and the lead vocals . . . were comfortable and friendly."

Oh, yeah?  But in the last verse, Mr. Friendly actually utters the line, "I guess you know I'm giving you a war-NING, 'cos me and moon are itching to play."  Reeeeeal comfortable — if you've got pepper spray handy.

This song came out when I was 7, and had totally evaporated from the airwaves by the time I was 9.  Though it's gotten stuck in my head a few times (blame the marimba!), I've never been able to see past my initial impression: SLEAZE.  After hearing it again recently, I decided to do some checking up.  Who ARE the people responsible for this song?  What were they thinking?  Where are they now?

Here is the result of my investigation into "Moonlight Feels Right," by Starbuck.

Apparently, it took seven gangly-looking hippie dudes to crank this baby out.  Publicity photos from the time show them together, all bell-bottoms and chest hair, smiling into a future so bright, they didn't even see the brick wall they were heading into.  Imagine what the Beach Boys would have looked like in 1976, if they'd aged better.  Or how Lynard Skynard might have looked if they showered more than twice a month.  That's Starbuck.

Let's take a journey back in time, everybody.  I will attempt to trace the history of this "Moonlight Feels Right" song.  Of course I have better things to do with my time (and hopefullly, so do you), but . . .  too late to stop now, right?

The record company, a shady outfit called 'Private Stock,' wanted everybody to believe there were seven members in Starbuck.  It's hard to hear seven different people in the song.  I don't hear a guitar — and you can't tell me that's not a Casio supplying the backbeat.  I detect three or four musicians at the most, and imagine the other three just standing around and shaking their big hairdos.  Lucky for us, there's only a couple of guys we need to focus on.  

There's the songwriter, keyboardist and leader of the band, a guy from Mississippi with the unfortunate name of Bruce Blackman.  In fact, he's whiter than Arnold Palmer's golf pants.  See the picture?  He's the dude with the hat; need I say more?  There's some dude named Johnny Walker (who we'll forget about pretty soon) and the enigmatic Bo Wagner, who might have been the world's first gay werewolf.  (I'm not sure he was gay, but he was a roadie for Liberace in 1973, and no, I'm NOT making that up.)

Wagner's your man on the marimba.

Our story begins in the deep, dirty South.  It's 1972 and these three musically-inclined gentlemen come together in Atlanta to form a band called 'Mississippi.'  They record a whole album of crap that never gets released.  Then, by happenstance, they discover in 1974 that the city of Atlanta is located in Georgia, not Mississippi, so they drink a lot of Coca-Cola, rustle up five new bandmates and change their name to 'Extravaganza' — no doubt Wagner's suggestion, since he'd just returned from touring with Liberace.

The guys are so excited about their new band name, they go and rent themselves a 7-bedroom house where they can all live and rehearse together.   This is where the magic happens.  One day, somebody wheels in a marimba and next thing they know, they've recorded a demo called "Moonlight Feels Right."  They play their demo tape to Atlanta music mogul Bill Lowery, who is so blown away by its genius that he signs the group to a four-song deal.  Not four albums, mind you.  Four SONGS.  Ex-Tra-Va-GANZA!

The soaring enthusiasm of the occasion is interrupted, briefly, by the departure of band member Elgin Wells, who according to the "Moonlight Feels Right" website, "left the group because Lowery didn't want to record any of the songs written by Elgin."  Awwwwwwww . . . poor Elgin!  

Heartbroken, Elgin shuffles off to obscurity with the four songs that Lowery and the rest of the band laughed at and rejected: "You Light Up My Life," "Escape (The Pina Colada Song)," "I Will Survive" and "The Devil Went Down To Georgia."*** --- It is by the grace of divine providence only that these songs materialized anyway, with different performers.

By the autumn of 1975, the guys have recorded the hell out of "Moonlight Feels Right" and they're ready to unleash it upon the radio-listening public.  They also decide that the five syllables in 'Extravaganza' are too cumbersome for them, and change their name to Starbuck.  Private Stock Records ships the song out to radio stations everywhere, and then .................. nothing.  

According to the website, "the song failed to garner any airplay."

Months pass.  Winter comes, winter goes, and the Pittsburgh Steelers win another Super Bowl.  Then, in the Spring of 1976, the wind does indeed blow some luck in Starbuck's direction.  Some lonesome disc-jockey down in Alabama takes a liking to the song and starts sneaking it into his daily playlist at WERC in Birmingham.  At first, he mostly enjoys the angry voices who call in to declare, "Hey!  This ain't Skynard!"  But before long, that marimba instrumental starts getting hold of him.  He can't get enough of it and his enthusiasm for the song becomes contagious.  A minor buzz ensues and Private Stock decides to re-release the song.  

This time, "Moonlight Feels Right" catches fire and starts burning its way up the charts.  It scoots right past classics such as "Disco Duck" by Rick Dees, "Let Her In," by John Travolta and "Saturday Night" by the Bay City Rollers.  It peaks at No. 3 in the early summer and finishes 1976 as the 34th most-popular song of the year.  This allows the guys in Starbuck to go out and buy even more pairs of tight, bell-bottom pants and silk shirts they only button up half way.  Life is good.


(That's Bruce Blackman at front left and Bo "Wolfman" Wagner at front right.  Rock on.)

It gets better.  With a hit song on their hands, Starbuck begin touring with acts like KC and the Sunshine Band, Electric Light Orchestra and Seals and Croft.  They hit the TV show circuit, rocking out on Merv Griffin, Dinah Shore and the Mike Douglas Show.  They record another album full of crap — but since they're famous, this one gets released.  It produces a minor hit called "Everybody Be Dancin" — but its success lasts only long enough for Disco lovers to find out that Starbuck are actually a bunch of hairy white dudes from Dixieland.  

By 1980, there's been so many lineup changes in Starbuck (which I've mercifully not categorized) that Blackman and Wagner can no longer tell the roadies apart from the actual band members.  Not only that, but as the money stops coming in, it gets harder to split the cocaine 7 ways.  And times are changing.  Punk rock has taken hold.  So has new wave.  John Travolta has gone from Grease to Saturday Night Fever  to . . . ugh, Urban Cowboy.  Nobody cares about the good-time music anymore.  Everybody wants to listen to Barbara Streisand and just mellow out for a while.  

The last thing anybody is in the mood for, come 1980, is  . . . "Moonlight . . . (wonk-wung!) . . . feels right . . . (wong-wung!) . . ."

So Blackman and Wagner officially disband Starbuck.  That is, they stop letting long-haired freeloaders "join the band" but continue to work together as a two-man songwriting team over the next four years, producing this many notable hits: ---> 0.  

Nowadays, Bruce Blackman — that's "MR. Blackman" to you — serves as CEO of his own music publishing and production companies, which are affiliated with Sony.  He still gets a nice wad of pocket money every time "Moonlight Feels Right" gets included on some Totally Stupid Pop Hits of the 1970s compilation CD.  And, believe me, it gets included a LOT.  You don't have to feel sorry for Mr. Blackman.

As for Bo Wagner . . . well, nobody knows where he is.  Seriously.  The man has gone the way of D.B. Cooper.  Nobody can find him.  The website says his "whereabouts are unknown." Maybe he really did turn into a werewolf and run off to lurk in the forest for the rest of his life.  Maybe moonlight felt just a little too right for him.

So, you know, if you're ever hiking through the woods, and you hear somebody playing a marimba somewhere . . . look out!


*** (not exactly true)


 








 

With bloodshot eyes, the writer reads and rereads his own work while the rest of the world sleeps. He studies each page, scans every sentence for meanings both surfaced and hidden.

The theme is good, as are the sentences. The characters are so real and brimming with life that you can almost smell them on the page. The plot is simple and gripping.

This novel is well-researched, flawless in its historical, sensory and social context. The dialogue zips along, crackling with humor, tension and understated emotions. The descriptions burst with telling detail. This novel can only be a masterpiece.

But what has it all added up to so far?

Nothing.

In spite of all the obvious promise it had from the first word of the first page, the moment comes when the writer can no longer ignore that whisper that has been nagging him the whole time, speaking with increasing persistence: it won't work.

Stop. Read it one more time.

Something still is not right. Something is missing. That last, rare ingredient to bring the story to life has been left out. The novel died, it ran out of oxygen long before the writer stopped telling the story. It's been dead all along, floating in the womb of the writer's imagination like a cold, rubber doll.

This discovery shatters a writer inside and leaves him hungry, desperate to start over but too crushed to do so. Because it's not just an unfinished novel he's been thumbing through on all these nights. It’s more than that, more than he dares to tell you. It’s his love, his life, his reason for opening his eyes each morning. All it has been, all this time, is a figment of his imagination.

So he goes to bed again, shuts his eyes and lays as still as he can. He concentrates on nothing but the hammering in his chest and the sound of his blood whooshing in his skull, overtaking sticky, insectile thoughts. He waits for sleep, sometimes he waits a long time.

When he wakes up, he’ll swing his feet out of bed, take up his pen and begin a new chapter, one he barely has the enthusiasm to finish.

Maybe he won’t.



(art by J. Back, from the Misantropia collection)

When a man who loves to write composes letters to a woman, he tempts himself, intoxicates himself and finally drowns himself in the sparkling wine of his own words. Trying to impress her with his talent, he dances a skillful dance from paragraph to paragraph, page to page — meanwhile, losing his mystery the way a prostitute loses her clothes.

I've learned it in painful ways, how the Writer can sabotage the Man who does the writing.  In some ways they are the same, in other ways they are quite different.  If the Man cannot be bigger than the Writer inside of him, then is he even a Man?

Here, I've made a little playground for the Writer in me, so that he will not always try to overwhelm the Man.  That was the plan, anyway.  But the Writer -- he’s relentless, he’s tricky and he’s opportunistic. 

So, girl, I’m sorry if I kept getting carried away in my letters to you.  But you should see what is carrying me.  If you only could, then you might have held back your silly notion that this blizzard of text made me anything less than a man.  You might have understood.

And I might not have been writing these words to myself today.

(or, how to say the same thing as before, using slightly different words)



I read somewhere that true love begins where "being in love" ends.

I don't know about that. I know what it's like to love somebody and no longer be "in love" with them. I think that is where marriage ends. I think that is where the best part of life ends, too. What use is it to love without "being in love" if you still have the ability to fall in love with somebody else?  Why do people do this to themselves?

Sometimes, certainly not all the time, committment is like a cell that people happily lock themselves in, then boldly, with a romantic flourish, discard the key.  They overestimate themselves and underestimate the devils waiting to tempt and torture them.

"It's what's inside your heart that counts."  Before reciting such a platitude, one should look very hard at the insides of his or her own heart.  Because, yes, whatever is lurking inside that heart most certainly counts.  Do you know what's lurking there?

I don't want to hear about inner beauty. Is the man with the plump, sow-faced girl on his arm really wiser than the rest of us?  I don't think so. Is he happier?  Doubtful.  Hey, temptation calls all of us hither.  I'd hate to spoil the inner beauty of my sow-faced woman's heart by betraying her with a more-attractive girl.

When men preach about inner beauty (or let women preach to them about it), they're either lying, or they lack the confidence to speak for what they know inside. Too many guys will say anything. or listen to anything, to get a woman into bed.  This sort of behaviour guarantees misery for both in the end.

A woman with outer beauty can be beautiful on the inside too. And a woman with a more homely appearance can be dull, selfish and vulgar. An ugly face is no guarantee of a pure heart; a pretty face is not evidence of a shallow mind or wicked soul.

Why am I even bothering with this? Maybe that fantastical notion of burning and abiding love is reserved for the young and foolish, and maybe I should take my bitter spirit and my haggard face and go sell apples some place North of here.

You can say that love is forever.  BUT . . . people change in quiet, invisible ways and lovers can forget their feelings and their promises. People grow and twist away from each other so slowly they usually don't realize it has happened until it is too late. Young love is so beautiful, and yet so arrogant and foolish. Still, I prefer it to this geezer love that we must all bring our doubts and scars to.

I prefer the passion and verve of young love. That doesn't mean I trust it. But I prefer it. And so while I prefer it, I guess it would be selfish of me to regret it. So I won't. I won't regret any of it.

And, if I can help it, I won't regret today tomorrow.

(The old e-harmony.com wizard guy)

I'm starting to understand what people mean when they say they are "emotionally tired." I no longer have the energy to maintain a pretense that it means anything when I say to somebody, "Here is my heart; take it!" It's not even my heart you happen to be holding in your hand. It's more like a voucher. You get the actual heart later, if things go well.

Don't forget that I said "if."

How can it be? I sat in a house for several years and watched a marriage evaporate. And I thought I knew what love was. I thought I'd found it, as sure as one finds gold under the rocks of a remote mountain stream.

I walked out of my college classroom and found love waiting for me in the hallway. I got snowed in at Christmas one year and heard love calling me on the phone so I wouldn't feel alone. I had sex a few times, or maybe a few thousand times, and saw the eyes of love just inches from mine. I fell asleep and woke up with love at my side. I suffered through poverty with love. I celebrated success with it, too. I made a family with it, grew into a man with it and was prepared to grow old with my love.

But then, by and by, love slipped away. I didn't keep my eye on it.

I know I'm not the only one it's ever happened to. But I have only one heart to give and nothing else but this certainty that nothing lasts all by itself. It really does take work. This isn't baggage; this is the way it has to be.

How old will I be the next time I have to start this whole thing over again? This question scares me so much, I want to really get it right next time. I mean, if I really give myself over to anyone, if there ever is a next time.

Fear is the smallest part of it, yet still present. I'm resentful of any notion that "we the broken-hearted must come together and dutifully stay in love" because I don't want to see it from that angle. We’ve all had our rough times.  It doesn’t mean we must go picking through and analyzing each other's garbage — even if it’s strewn out all over a blog.

I want to be *dazzled* just like before; I'm not ready to yield this territory to the 20-year-olds just yet, even if they are hotter than me. Love should not be a sigh of resignation for anybody at any age.