Moto Fest

In lieu of progress on my A (which, if you'll recall from a few posts ago, was the point of this little blog), here's something else. I wrote this after the Moto Fest this past summer. Enjoy.

Monday, May 07, 2007

Moto Fest Last weekend was Moto Fest, the official grand opening festival for the new Moto Museum in Grand Center. Our shop was there as a vendor (along with our little group, LouVinMoto), selling t-shirts (available in girls' sizes, and in a wide variety of colors in guys' sizes), and handing out branded shop towels. A friend of ours, Michael Kiernan has a shop on Chouteau at Grand where he deals collector bikes, and the occasional car. Lately, he's been getting incredible stuff, like a Vincent Black Shadow, a Hailwood replica 900SS Ducati, a real Slater brothers Egli Vincent with 15 miles on it, and a certain '73 MV Agusta 750 S. Michael was threatening to make me bump start the MV one morning of the Fest, as its battery was almost dead, and after I ran it up and down the stunt area on the grounds once, he said, "Ah, hell. Just take it out on the street. Don't let the cops catch you, though." So, I donned my helmet, pulled on my gloves, and wound that beast down Locust at 7:30 am. It sings like no four-cylinder I've ever heard. It's easily the most impressive bike that I've ridden, and not because it's tremendously fast. It is, but that's not it. This thing just has presence - gravitas - sitting there. It's underpowered, overweight and three times more expensive than competitive Japanese machines of the same era, but it easily outclasses them. The fact is, the connection between the 750 S and Gilera/MV's GP-winning bikes of the late '50s and early '60s is incredibly direct. It feels like you're standing next to a proven race bike, of which only 200 were made. It's all original, it all works. And it's $48,000 My experience on the MV alone that morning only compares to one other two-wheeled moment, which also occurred that same weekend, on another bike belonging to the benevolent Mr. Kiernan. In lieu of hauling his bikes back to his shop, I persuaded him to ride them. Great marketing opportunity, starting those things up and having them bellow through the crowd. I selflessly volunteered myself for the task. So, he bumped the MV and I kicked over the Hailwood - a bike made in commemoration of Mike the Bike's return from a ten-year racing retirement to win the grueling Isle of Man TT road race on an outdated Ducati. At this point, a crowd was gathering, and I was saying to myself in the helmet, 'Dontstallit, dontstallit, dontstallit.' We paraded out of the main pedestrian gate, gratuitously blipping the throttles on our open-piped, race-bred, vintage Italian machines and moved slowly onto the street. On a beautiful, expensive (though not as mind-numblingly so as the MV; only $15,000) race-ready bike belonging to someone else, I took it easy as I moved East on Olive St. As I made the turn South onto Compton, I glanced over my right shoulder to see a wild look flash into Michael's eyes through his old Bell helmet, and see his wrist twist the throttle on the high strung MV, bring it up into the power that lives around 9k RPM on that bike, and proceed to overtake me on the outside of the corner. I took this as a sign. The Ducati's torque made quick work of the lead that Michael had put on me, and as he was dancing on the gearshift trying to keep the MV on the cam, I pulled easily alongside him. We exchanged a quick glance, and we both wordlessly agreed that if we were going to do this, we had to do it right: as the bikes crested the hump on the Compton bridge over the railyards and oncoming traffic came into view, we both clicked down a cog, tucked down on the tanks in full racer crouch, and opened the throttles on all six Dell'orto carburetors. At this point, I was visited by the spirit of Mike the Bike himself. He was proud. Mike's presence, though, distracted me from only one detail I wish I could store in my memory along with the rest from this all-too-short experience: the looks on the faces of the occupants of the oncoming cars. Can you imagine: being in the car, not thinking about much of anything, just getting from A to B on a Sunday afternoon, hearing the sound of...something...something that sounds angry...coming down the road, closing at a high rate of speed, seeing two round headlights with the crowns of full faced helmets peering over them crest the hill and streak past in a blur of intermingled red, green, white and blue, getting full fury of the business end of six open exhaust pipes, maybe hearing the relative whisper of maniacal laughter from the two riders holding the throttle cables taught, and grasping, finally, after about twelve seconds of confusion that something extraordinary just happened. We stopped at his shop, and if decorum and gentlemanliness hadn't prevented me, I would have kissed him. He made this young man's day, to say the least. So, all in all, good weekend. The Museum, by the way, is utterly world class.

The Lifer - Update

Interesting new facts have come to light about The Lifer, specifically the inmates responsible for the record. Thanks to the state of Michigan's prison record system, I've been able to glean some information about the personnel on the record.

When the songs were cut, most of the players on the weren't in prison for life, but for other, comparatively minor sentences. Most of the band members, in fact, were only in for a few years on a charge of Uttering and Publishing, which seems to relate to forgery or passing bad checks, with a couple notable exceptions.

Al Gliva, the songwriter, was in the joint on two occasions: he did 12 years for armed robbery, unlawful use of an automobile, and Unlawfully Driving Away an Automobile. He served time in the clink again for second degree murder, but the records are sketchy here. It looks like he was released in 1967, either on parole or at the end of his sentence.

Clyde Stanley, the man who was employed by my grandfather at his HVAC repair business after WWII, and who built a banjo and guitar for my grandfather bearing the Stanley name while in prison, did worse. He was in the can for 11 years on charges of Uttering & Publishing and Kidnapping. He was released in 1964, and came to St. Louis and found a job with Pat. Four years later, he was convicted of firs degree murder and sentenced to life in Marquette. He died in prison in 1981, the year I was born.

The Lifer

My current obsession, among others, is this record.

The story of The Lifer (quoted verbatim from the back of the record sleeve)

"The story of The Lifer began about four months ago, when Al Gliva wrote a letter to Dewey Groom of Longhorn Records in Dallas, Texas, and asked permission to send a tape recording of a tune he had written called 'The Lifer.' Dewey frankly didn't see much in the tune, as the first tape was very biblical and didn't have much commercial value. But Clay Allen, who works and records for Longhorn Records, and who is also a fine songwriter, thought the tune had possibilities. So, on the advice of Clay Allen, Al Gliva rewrote the tune as you hear it now. Of course, we ran into another problem, that of getting a tape cut there in the prison with enough quality to record. So, after two more attempts at making a tape of good quality, we decided that as it was impossible for them to come to Dallas, we would take our own recording equipment up there and record. So with the kind permission and cooperation of Warden Raymond Buchkoe, George McCoy, our recording technician, flew via jet, to the prison on Mon., Sept. 10th and made this record Tues., Sept. 11th, 1962. So Recording History has been made. The proceeds of the sale of this record will go to Al Gliva and his prison band. It is our sincere hope that my our efforts, this record of 'The Lifer' might keep some boy from turning to crime."

Alexander (Al) Gliva, inmate # 62055, was indeed serving life for murder. Roger Chase sings a bare chorus that bookends the recitative, spoken by Gliva, that's an attempt to convince someone - the parole board, the world, God, himself, who knows? - that he's now a different man than the young man who committed the murder years ago.

The song tends toward the preachy end of the spectrum, as you may expect, but knowing that it was recorded by inmates, inside the walls that were destined to confine most of these players for a very long time, and that the words being spoken are those of a man who's been sentenced to spend his remaining life there, is honestly chilling.

Most important about this record to me, though, is the guitar player, Clyde Stanley. My grandfather, Pat Moore, employed Clyde in his HVAC business here in St. Louis after the War. Clyde also made a guitar and banjo in the joint, which he later gave to my grandfather, and which I now have and play frequently. To the best of my knowledge, Clyde played the guitar he made on The Lifer. That guitar is now in my living room.

One of my main motivators in posting this, aside from just telling a fascinating story to which I'm connected indirectly, is in the hopes that somebody else is searching the intorwebs for the same information I am. God only knows how many of these 45s Longhorn even pressed, or if anybody else alive aside from other members of my family even knows of the existence of this record. I would think that family or friends of the other inmates on this record are the only remaining likely sources of information. Those other inmates, by the way, aside from the aforementioned Al Gliva, Roger Chase and Clyde Stanley, include Jess White, Carl Gilkerson, Howard Moore, and one man only identified on the record sleeve as #62054.

I'm really hoping that Trigger 5 will be able to cover this song, and record it for posterity.

The Beginning

the Hulk meets the Beast, originally uploaded by alxkcrlsn.

The (Rusty) Hulk meats the Beast.

That's my rusty hulk, dammit. Specifically, it's a '31 Ford Model A sedan (a Murray body, in the parlance of Model A nerds that I'm soon to join) that has been channeled six inches onto a LaSalle frame. Custom fender flares cover the rear suicide doors, so those are coming off. The roof, replacing the wood and fabric that was on from the factory and has long since rotted away, is a menu from the concession stand at a drive-in movie theatre. That's staying.

What's going in this thing? A 350 Chevy. Nah, just kidding. This one's Blue Oval. My generous boss gave me a big block Ford (460 cubic inches, but who's counting?) that I'm rebuilding. Hook it up to a 5-speed if I can afford one, add a nine-inch rear, and the Death Sled will be screamin' down the street.

Want more pictures? Check my flickr account.

Hmm...Well...Yeah...

Welcome tot the 21st century, I guess. And welcome, indeed, to my so-called blog.

The intention here is to chronicle the build of my newest, biggest, and potentially most frustrating project: my '31 Ford Model A hotrod. Ultimately, I'm hoping that logging my progress for the throng of (imaginary) readers on the collective edge of their (fictitious) seat will keep me making progress on the build. I'm sure, though, if past patterns prevail, that my thoughts will deviate to other topics, including, potentially: motorcycles, music (chief among which being my country band, Trigger 5), food and drink, and ...ah, what else do I like?

Anywho, stay tuned, dear reader, for updates pertaining to whatever happens to fall into a neat pile of letters from the gooey grey mass in my head. Bookmark it, hell, make it your homepage so you don't miss a single self-indulgent post. And please, post comments of the blogs when you feel so inclined. I'll probably read them, and if you're truly chosen, I may even respond (just like talking to me!)

So, enjoy...?