Back in the '70s, Steve Simels wrote some great columns for Stereo Review, the music publication noted for their review of Ray Charles' A Man and His Soul, which called his voice "ugly." That wasn't Simels, but this entry was: He listed some of his favorite moments in rock'n'roll history--brief moments, like an audio attention grabber.

A few of Simels' favorite rock clips that I recall:

* The piano (and drum) bit that opens the Chiffons' "One Fine Day" ("Carole King?," he asked--yes, it was).

* The breathtaking acappella introduction to Dylan's "Percy's Song" by Fairport Convention.

* And one mean item: "Carly Simon's legs (but not her records)."

Here are a few of mine, which are not all short:

* That rolling bassline by the wonderful Donald "Duck" Dunn (1941-2012) on
Booker T. & the MGs' "Soul Limbo."

* Leon Russell's piano on Eric Clapton's "Let It Rain"--indeed, it's like a lovely rainfall.

* Ian Hunter's heartbreaking couplet on "The Ballad of Mott the Hoople (26 March, 1972, Zurich)": "Rock'n'Roll's a loser's game/it mesmerizes and I can't explain."

* There's a gal who visits our library once in awhile who looks like Suzanne Vega.
(I don't dare start humming "Tom's Diner.")

* The bum bass note Bill Black hits, halfway through Scotty Moore's guitar solo, on Elvis Presley's first release (Sun 209) , "That's All Right." But who would notice? It's a perfect record.

* The sitar--and by 1970, you didn't hear a sitar on a record very often--on Stevie Wonder's "Signed, Sealed, Delivered (I'm Yours)," which rides the funky groove but doesn't call attention to itself.

* How ridiculous was the reaction of Metallica fans to last year's Lulu, the project with Lou Reed? They went nuts with anger--it wasn't like Metallica asked Lou to join their band or anything.

* Ringo Starr's controlled yet splashy high hat playing on many of the early Beatles tracks; I just heard something similar on the new Alabama Shakes album Boys & Girls and it's quite exciting.

* Perhaps the most fun moment of the 1990s' Riot Grrrl movement, Bikini Kill's
"Rebel Girl," where Kathleen Hanna yells, "That girl thinks she's the queen of the neighborhood/I've got news for you...SHE IS!"

* Glen Campbell's guitar (12-string?) break on the Beach Boys' "Dance, Dance, Dance."

* A few days ago, the Texas Rangers beat up on Los Angeles Angels' pitcher Jered Weaver, knocking him out the game. The P.A. system in Arlington was playing Ray Charles' "Hit the Road, Jack," and as he exited the mound, Weaver, in a kind of dejected trance, was singing along with it.

* Ernie K-Doe's "Here Come the Girls" (1970)--the only sexy song that starts with a military drum beat?

* When Dylan went electric at the Newport Folk Festival in 1965, someone nearby shouted, "*&^%sucker!" at Dylan. He reportedly replied, "Aw, it's not that bad."

* Jeff "Skunk" Baxter's insanely fabulous guitar solo on Donna Summer's "Hot Stuff."

* Two of the best Sam Cooke covers: Aretha Franklin's "You Send Me" and Eddie Floyd's "Bring It on Home to Me." These sound nothing like the originals but are totally realized; neither arrangement sounds like a stretch.

* The way Ray Davies sings "right up tight!" on the Kinks' "Dedicated Follower of Fashion."

* The fuzz guitar on the Animals' "Don't Bring Me Down." Doesn't sound like outdated hippie garbage but something truly dramatic and frightening.

* A few years back, Gina and I were having our favorite local coffee in town, and there was a woman in the place who looked like Sandy Denny. Not Denny in the last year of her life (1978) but the way she might appear now. Later on, my friend Jonathan
dropped by and I pointed her out. There are probably only a handful of friends I have who know what Sandy Denny looked like, and we were in the same place, at the same time, with "Sandy."

That was too much fun! I'll have to do this again.

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Too busy to write lately. So much going on, and number one is scrambling to find work (16-20 hours) that will flesh out my library and radio work. Making enough to pay the rent is a constant, looming thing, so I spent Monday emailing potential employers, updating my resume and getting out there and talking to businesses.

I have library training next week and have homework to read, there's always grass to cut now, and I've got lifelong friends to stay in communication with, as they have some big issues going on with loved ones. Once in awhile, a nice listener calls me at the radio station and wants to meet me and "hang out," but I have to tell them that I have scores of old friends that I barely get to see anymore and that I have no room for new activities. On paper, I work 25 hours and six days a week; in life, it's so much more.

Saturday May 19th, I'm doing my annual Dylan hour in appreciation of his 71st birthday and the week after that, it's the all-Texas show. Those ideas are kind of half-baked at this point, as are my thoughts on the next batch of music I'm going to review for the blog, etc. I like to call myself the hardest working person who only "works" 25 hours.
Perhaps that other 15 hours is filled with worry.
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Think of record producer Phil Spector, and the operative word might be bombastic, whatever the result: A sensational record or a piece of junk. Kindness and generosity or perverse cruelty. Incredible achievement or the sick depths of a sub-human experience.

Since Spector's famous final act was a conviction for the murder of actor Lana Clarkson, it's sick that we're left with. British journalist Mick Brown makes what might appear to be crazed juxtapositions in the biography "Tearing Down the Wall of Sound: The Rise and Fall of Phil Spector" (Knopf, 2007), yet there's nothing sensationalistic about his writing approach; all Brown had to do was tell Spector's story. Since modern science has come so far in treating the bipolar condition, no longer do Spector's joys, antics and sins have to define that disease and his ailment, yet Spector's life is nothing if not one volley after another of drastic highs and lows.

In Brown's beautifully written "Tearing Down the Wall of Sound," the author covers
Spector's early disappointments and his nonstop hustling in search of the break that would finally find him founding Philles Records with Lester Sill, and their eventual failed friendship. His working relationship with engineer Larry Levine and arranger
Jack Nitzsche can be called inconsistent and fragile. Spector's history as a record maker shows an obvious admiration for the backing musicians more than the vocalists; he often betrayed the latter. In Spector's mind, the producer--not the artist--was the star, so singers were of secondary nature to him. The irony here was that the Philles label boasted so many recognizable, first rate vocalists: Darlene Love, Bobby Sheen, Ronnie Bennett (Spector), the Righteous Brothers, Tina Turner.

There is one contradiction after another in "Tearing Down the Wall of Sound," which Brown manages to sort out fairly clearly, and yet these disparate elements create a kind of tension that drives the book. How did Spector's somewhat icy relationship with Love (who was cheated out of royalties) change to a period where he paid her rent when she was down and out? Why was Phil almost instantly attracted to Ronnie when he first caught the Ronettes but locked Ronnie up in his mansion after they finally married?

On the one hand, Spector brought turmoil upon himself, as he couldn't reconcile his dark insecurities with his swelling braggadocio. On the other, one is struck by his huge losses: his father's suicide, mental problems within his family. His nine year old son's early death. His deep friendship with Lenny Bruce, and Bruce's death. His warm, then volatile relationship with John Lennon. Or his long line of hit singles that suddenly dried up. Or the fabulous A Christmas Gift for You, Spector's all-out album project, and possibly the finest holiday album in history. After grueling months of work, the LP was issued and almost immediately withdrawn. The release date was November 22, 1963.

Omissions? For me, it's a blessing that Brown did not delve deeply into Spector's recreational drug use--there were already scores of prescription drugs and massive quantities of alcohol fogging up whatever clarity he may have had. Let's just say that a legendary Christmas card Spector sent to friends (once depicted in the industry magazine Radio and Records) that read "a little 'snow' never hurt anyone" is not addressed.

The goofiest item that doesn't include alcohol or gun-waving details the eventual divorce of Phil and Ronnie. He was instructed to pay her $1,250 per month in the initial agreement. For the first payment, Spector merely wrote a check to Ronnie. For the second payment, a Brink's truck arrived at her attorney's office. Of the three Brink's employees, two were conventionally armed while the other brandished a shotgun. The three men turned over the money: $1,250...in nickels. One of the most beautiful parts recalled was in 1967, when Atlantic chairman Ahmet Ertegun and Spector went to a  California club in Watts. There, Otis Redding and Esther Phillips sang duets of old songs, accompanied by Spector on piano, until 4am.

There are plenty of surprises in Mick Brown's "Tearing Down the Wall of Sound," who interviewed Spector in December 2002, just two months before the Clarkson shooting.
I would have thought that Spector's relationship with Ike Turner would have been strained from the start, since Ike was a participant in name only for the "River Deep--Mountain High" 1966 sessions that Spector did with Tina Turner (credited to Ike & Tina). But Phil and Ike remained good friends. I also had no idea that Spector was so beloved by his backing musicians, like guitarist extraordinaire Barney Kessel and monster drummer Hal Blaine--with notable exceptions (such as Sonny Bono), almost everyone who became known as the Wrecking Crew. To think that Spector had some of the greatest musicians in the world playing the same simple chord progressions, over and over (often three of them on the same instrument) to create the Wall of Sound...well, it may have sounded magical, but it was a dirge-like process. Somehow, the best records that resulted radiate with an intensity that is truly a labor of love.

With demons haunting him or not, Phil Spector created love on record with a passionate, seismic power that still stands to this day. Then he threw everything away.

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As a kid, I wanted to play drums like Ringo Starr, but I didn't want to sing like him. Ten years later, when John Fogerty made an album playing all the instruments, I wanted to sing like Fogerty, not play the drums like him.

Last week, we lost Levon Helm (1940-2012) of the Band, who rocked the skins and sang at the same time, probably better than anyone has done it before or since. Don't tell me about that guy in Rare Earth--I know from experience that singing and playing simultaneously is an unusual but not really an exceptional skill. The truly remarkable and glorious thing about Levon is how he fit in so well with the others in the Band. As a musician, he was not one bit of a showoff. At the same time, Helm's gruff way of seizing the moment provided a stunning contrast with the group's other vocalists, the sweet singing Richard Manuel, and the tragic-comic Rick Danko.

Levon didn't write songs at the time, but he was Robbie Robertson's most forceful interpreter, carrying on the southern tradition of rock'n'roll (as he hailed from Arkansas) with raving authenticity. The others, coming from Canada, still managed to sound more believable than most of what was on the radio in 1968, when Music From Big Pink was released. At that time, with Bob Dylan's John Wesley Harding (released in December 1967) leading the way, pop music was coming out of a freaky period and into something more honest, at least from my vantage point. The Band's ensemble playing and singing, and Levon's deep, dry drumming brought a new realism to the era. It's said that when the British group Fairport Convention started working on their traditional folk and rock fusion Liege and Lief, they woke up in the house they shared every day to records playing...the music of the Band.

I am still in awe of what Levon did on the first two albums, Music from Big Pink and 1969's The Band, the remarkable live LP Rock of Ages (recorded on New Year's Eve, 1971-72), Northern Lights--Southern Cross (1975) and his recent solo albums. The Band reconvened in 1993, without Robertson, and made fine records as well. There, Levon's drumming is as groove-filled as ever, and who would have guessed that he could take En Vogue's pop-R&B hit "Free Your Mind" (from The Band's High on the Hog, 1996) and make it sound like a Levon Helm song? Who was the most exuberant musician on Bob Dylan's Before the Flood (recorded live on the Dylan & the Band tour, mostly in February 1974)? That huge, rolling beat could come from no other place.

Levon's work just got richer upon his death, because it has a quality that can never be re-created. And I'm assuming that you know the Band's music, or else you wouldn't be reading this. If not, it's something that can be retrieved fairly easily. Thank you,
Levon Helm.

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Working in the library continues to be a most enjoyable experience for me, and I am really moved by being in the children's section at some very choice times. It makes me think of my girls when they were barely walking and talking way back when.

Recently, I was marveling at a conversation between two young boys as I was putting books back on the shelf. They were playing with toys and building something together. One of them said, "I know you have a lot more experience with this than I do." I about fell off my...well, I wasn't in a chair. The two moms, who had just met, were standing by and beaming at how their sons were cooperating. As they left, one mom said to the other, "See you at MIT in a few years."

Often I hear utter crap when I'm in the kids section of the library--and it primarily comes from the adults. Why would someone want to pass poor English on to their children? They do all the time: "Do you want these ones?" (ouch!) instead of "Do you want these?" and "Where's it at?" (what the...?) instead of "Where is it?"  Someday, on some planet somewhere, parents won't be speaking like fools.

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For whatever reason, Gina and I have started watching the "Mad Men" TV series via DVDs, starting with the first season (2007). We have been more than impressed. Are we the last people in the world to get into this show?

Going back to the early 1960s (where "Mad Men" starts) doesn't seem like a big leap backward to me, and yet it's backward in every way: the first thing one notices is the incredible amount of smoking going on (if you suddenly get the urge to see A Hard Day's Night again after many years, you'll experience the same thing); and especially the treatment of women, whether it be in the Sterling Cooper offices on Madison Avenue
or elsewhere. The manner in which the women on the show (reflecting '60s American society as a whole) are belittled, harassed and objectified reflects a troubled nation back then, or a Rush Limbaugh radio rant today--or whomever is attacking Planned Parenthood this week. Wait a minute...perhaps life in the U.S. is de-evolving.

"Mad Men" seems to be an accurate portrayal of the times and is a good way to measure how far we've come, generally speaking. I love how the program recreates the sights and sounds of the era without relying on gadgets, although those kind of things (the carousel slide projector, for instance) often stand out.

Perhaps the most striking moment for me so far in these detailed character studies is one that relates to my life growing up. I recall a big campaign to keep plastic bags (the long ones that cover dry cleaning items such as skirts, pants and shirts) away from young children in the late 1960s. But in the initial season of "Mad Men" (set in 1960) this particular lapse in judgment had me laughing out loud. It's when the character Betty Draper (January Jones) witnesses her two children chasing each other around the home, and one of them has pulled a plastic bag over her head. Rather than becoming concerned about the safety risk to her daughter, Betty scolds the child, because she has probably left an expensive dress of Betty's on the floor in order to use the plastic bag.

It's stuff like that which adds to the brilliant writing and acting we've seen so far
(Jon Hamm is often amazing, as are many others). It's a part of our history that has
thankfully begun to erode, but a fascinating period for sure. Four thumbs up for
"Mad Men."
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Baseball is back next week, but it has already started for two American League West teams. So strange that the Mariners and Athletics have already played two games in Tokyo.
 
Though a lifelong fan, there was no way I could watch the opener as it happened on live television, because the game started at 3am Pacific U.S. time, as I get up around 6am every Wednesday for my weekly early day at the library (I start at 8). Gina and I later found out that a re-broadcast of the game would be on a 7:30pm, sixteen hours after it actually happened. I tried so hard not to find out who won the opener, because I wanted to see it without knowing the outcome beforehand--told everyone at work not to tell me who won, I avoided the radio sports channel, baseball websites, etc.

We made it to 7pm and started to watch "The Charlie Rose Show" on the Bloomberg Business network as we waited for 7:30 TV baseball broadcast. And with only 20 minutes to go, the business blurbs at the bottom of the screen read: "Seattle beats Oakland 3-1 to start baseball season in Tokyo." I had been able to avoid that info
for thirteen hours, but no more. Pretty weird to see the A's tie the game at 1-1 and then
be able to say, "well, that's the only run they're going to get!"

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College is for learning about life and maybe even messing up along the way. Although I can't say it's brought me great wages, I was fortunate to be able to go. The truth is, I hated high school in Michigan so much that when a college communications professor told me he'd love for me to come to Texas, that was all I needed to hear.

Attending Texas Lutheran College (now it's TLU--it looks better on my resume, too) from 1973-77 helped me grow in so many ways. As a freshman, I recall splitting a bill for pizza with some guys in my dorm and being annoyed at not getting every cent of my change back; that's the kind of uptight person I was. I "taught" myself to like beer in college, starting a decade of drinking that I'm not especially proud of. On the plus side,
I made a few lifelong friends, got to write about music for the student newspaper (all four years), perform music with friends (once in a little gig at one of the women's dorms, sometimes in coffeehouses) and pour out my rebellion.

As you can guess, in terms of behavioral standards at least, this was a conservative college. Young men had to "check in" visitors of  the opposite sex to their dorm rooms and only during designated times. The rule at Knutson Hall (and elsewhere) was to keep your door slightly ajar if you were entertaining a woman! That seemed ridiculous to me, so I installed a chain on my dorm room door in case someone decided to push my door open were I lucky enough to have a woman there--the door would then open a bit more, but not much. Let's just say that purchasing that stupid chain was a waste of money.

I had a handful of truly great courses at TLU, but none so enlightening or as joyous as a one-month, interim class between my fall and spring semesters. It was January 1976,
the start of the bicentennial year, and the class was in appreciation of music created during those 200 years, 1776-1975 (most of the classical music we covered did not originate in the United States, of course, but fit into the time frame). The class was taught by Dr. Sigurd Christiansen (1942-2012), and I bring this up because I was saddened this week to learn that Dr. Christiansen passed away in January. He was the music department chair, the college's choral director and developed their Christmas Vespers; TLU's alumni publication, The Torch, calls the professor "a legend."

Since I didn't know Dr. Christiansen like those majoring or minoring in music at TLU,
I had no idea I'd learn so much, or that he'd be so kind and funny, so open to many different kinds of music. It was simply a blast to put on headphones along with 30 other people and really listen to music every day.

Did I ever learn! I came away appreciating the majesty of Stravinsky's "The Firebird," and the dissonance of his "The Rite of Spring" (the punk rock of classical music, causing all sort of nasty reactions about a hundred years ago). I fell in love with compositions both extended (Arnold Schoenberg's "Transfigured Night"), and shorter (Charles Ives' "The Unanswered Question"--which in some ways resembles a classic rock album cut).

We got into experimental music (Harry Partch, and the John Cage/David Tudor piece,
"Indeterminacy," which might have been the album's title) and then to early rock'n'roll and electric blues--by then, I was in heaven. I recall Dr. Christiansen saying that he was not a fan of early rock but bought several albums, somehow knowing that it was important. Occasionally, the students would put on records for each other, so I remember bringing in Howlin' Wolf's "Sittin' On Top of the World" and Buddy Holly
for the professor to spin. In a college classroom!

One day, Dr. Christiansen played us a Thelonious Monk composition, and then something by Blood, Sweat & Tears, where they mixed their own music with the same Monk piece. It was probably the first time I really articulated my musical point of view aloud, because I told the class that I found BS&T's track to be cold and pretentious.

One thing Christiansen said he could not grasp was the popularity and the critical esteem
awarded to Hank Williams. I attempted to counter his assertion, but I just couldn't effectively explain why Williams was so good. (Someone who did express that in 2012 is Bruce Springsteen, as his South By Southwest keynote address in Austin on March 15-- please look up the speech on YouTube if you haven't already--is a mesmerizing account of Hank Williams, early rock'n'roll, the Animals in the '60s and moving all the way to the punk explosion of 1977.)

Finally, as part of my presentation--I think we all had to be part of a team project--during the last week, I played Springsteen's "Jungleland" (at the time just four months old) for the class. Christiansen called it a "very impressive" piece of music; I was thrilled by his reaction.  I had an extra copy of the double LP Chicago Blues Anthology (much of it from the Chess Records catalog) and gave it to him a week or so following that magical month of January to show my gratitude. Perhaps it was the start of my young self losing that "attitude" that all teens and young 20s have.

I can't thank Dr. Christiansen enough for exposing me to music and new ways
of thinking that I wouldn't have traveled to otherwise--he also played a role in helping me figure out how to express myself in a classroom setting. Sigurd Olaf Christiansen's  family undoubtably has an idea of how many lives he enriched. Add mine to the list. That incredible class was a learning experience I will never forget.

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Can't stand poor English and bad spelling--not that I'm immune to it myself. And I also hate missed opportunities by broadcasters. There was a great music show on the radio last night; the host introduced the upcoming piece as a "cover version" without mentioning the songwriter. Later, in running down everything played in the last set, the phrase "cover version" came up again, and still no mention of the original artist. I was fuming. Shouldn't the DJ pass on a little history and reveal who did the tune first? Perhaps some of the radio audience doesn't know who did the original. Why do I get so mad about this stuff?

This reminded me of a review I did in Goldmine, back in the early days of the doomed CD. On an otherwise terrific Ray Charles compilation, the songwriters were not credited. My words went something like, "I don't care that 'all royalties have been paid'
--I want people to know who wrote these songs!"

So many artists and writers have been ripped off by the music industry as we knew it that perhaps I should feel a sense of joy that it's been running on fumes for the last ten years or more. Songwriter Wendy Waldman noted this week that she's down to a third of her usual income since the age of downloading music arrived.

Seems like ages ago that the music industry was healthy, and so many folks my age were  into records and radio. Maybe the passion is still there for the generations who have followed me, only in a different form. Or is it? When I'm done working, I love jumping in the car and flipping on the radio. In my highly non-scientific observations, it looks like others get in their cars and can't wait to make a cell phone call. Who's the shallow person here? Perhaps it's me--after all, I'm the one without an immediate need to connect with somebody. You know, "I'm leaving work now...Just a mile away...Turning into the neighborhood right now...I'm in the driveway!" All that important cell phone jive.

What's important to me is to give music presents (the old-fashioned, manufactured CD) when I can afford it. It's imperative to promote a fabulous album when I'm on the radio--last week, it was Sly & the Family Stone's Stand!--rather than saying that I took the song from a greatest hits collection. Hits anthologies are just about all that are left in corporate stores that still carry CDs.

What do I get for my passion? Often, frustration. Back in the '90s, a class action suit against music companies had them paying back some of the money that they'd been overcharging for the last ten years or more. My dedication to recorded music was huge from the 1960s to the 1990s, so it's safe to say that I'd been taken, though I'd probably blow my paycheck on music to this day if I had the dough. Anyway, I signed up to receive a refund.

Did you get one of those checks? Mine was for $13--not even enough to buy one regularly priced CD.

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Kind of strange and kind of fitting that Leap Day brought news of the death of Davy Jones (1945-2012), the most animated of the four Monkees.

For me, Jones was a superb entertainer and pop vocalist in an ultra-competitive and most memorable era. What did the Monkees share with groups like the Beatles, the Band, the Byrds and Buffalo Springfield? Cynics will say, "absolutely nothing--the Monkees were manufactured." Hey, so was Procol Harum (the group was assembled  after 1967's huge hit "A Whiter Shade of Pale," which featured studio musicians and future Procol members). The Monkees did have something in common with those B-letter bands: All of them had three excellent, distinctive lead vocalists (in the Pre-fab Four's case, Jones, Micky Dolenz and Mike Nesmith). This accomplishment is worth noting, as there were several successful '60s bands without even one first-rate singer.

As I told my radio audio audience on Saturday, "If you're looking for sappy ballads
on this Davy Jones tribute segment, you should listen to someone else's program." Because KAOS is a non-commercial station, I made sure to omit the big hits--I also stayed away from slow songs, and it was a stronger batch of tunes because of that. My guess is that all sorts of announcers put "Daydream Believer" on the air, or that song Davy sang to Marcia Brady on TV. Instead, my set consisted of...

"When Love Comes Knockin' (At Your Door)" from More of the Monkees (1967):
Davy's double-tracked singing (with the other voice in counterpoint) is touching, effective--you can't get it out of your head.

"Cuddly Toy" (Live, 1976 version from Dolenz, Jones, Boyce & Hart's Concert In Japan): In which Jones' dancing translates to an audio recording, thanks to Micky's onstage observation: "Watch his feet--every move a miracle! Those feet are insured for two million yen."

"Forget That Girl" from the Monkees' Headquarters (1967): Lovely, jangly Nesmith guitar and an appropriately ethereal Jones vocal.

"A Little Bit Me, A Little Bit You" from Davy Jones Live!!! (Hercules Promotions,
2004 release): Just one slice from an '03 Connecticut performance brimming with great music and humor--a little known gem of an album.

"Gonna Build a Mountain" from Live 1967, the Rhino collection of the Monkees' Pacific
Northwest tour that year. Who says we're passive in the NW? The kids are screaming like crazy, and Davy's Anthony Newley-meets-rock'n'roll romp ended the segment in
grand style.

As a kid, I adored the Monkees--even stayed at home at age 11 on Halloween night 1966 because I didn't want to miss their weekly, Monday TV show--and twenty years later, getting to share them with my daughter Mirelle was a beautiful, connecting thing for us. We caught at least two Monkees reunion shows together in the 1980s, and this week, Rell and I talked a lot on the phone about Jones' passing, so it's a bond that time won't break down. Also, I have relatives who worked with this most positive, inspirational man; my heart goes out to them, and especially to Davy's family.

In avoiding the obvious Davy Jones songs for radio play, I neglected Neil Diamond's "Look Out (Here Comes Tomorrow)," perhaps Jones' best rocker of all, but I've been playing the Monkees at home all week anyway. Maybe you've been spinning their records at home, too, and you get all those Monkees in-jokes. Here's mine: Don't be
sad, don't be mad. Don't ask, "How could this happen? Frickin' A." Instead, shout out, "Seven A!"

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