Stories behind memorable albums of the 1970s as told by the artists

Month: February 2015

Temple University needs to be schooled on the finer points of Hall & Oates

John Oates performed a solo show in New Hope, PA, in January 2015. (Photo by Mike Morsch)

John Oates performed a solo show in New Hope, PA, in January 2015. (Photo by Mike Morsch)

In my most recent interview with John Oates, he shared the story about what inspired he and Daryl Hall to name their seventh studio album “Along The Red Ledge” in 1978.

The story of making that album and the music on it will be detailed in The Vinyl Dialogues Volume II, which will be out later this year.

But the inspiration for the title had come to John a decade or so earlier, in a literature class at Temple University in Philadelphia.
Hall & Oates fans likely know that both artists went to Temple.

In fact, I just assumed most music fans in the greater Philadelphia area, and possibly the entire Northeast, were aware that the two met at Temple.

Certainly Temple University is well aware of two of its most famous students, right?

Daryl Hall takes to the keyboards during a Hall & Oates show at the Borgata Hotel in Atlantic City in 2013. (Photo by Mike Morsch)

Daryl Hall takes to the keyboards during a Hall & Oates show at the Borgata Hotel in Atlantic City in 2013.
(Photo by Mike Morsch)

Well . . . sort of.

My stepson is in the process of narrowing down his college choices and has been accepted to Temple University. He is leaning heavily in that direction, so as part of the process, we recently attended “Experience Temple Day,” a daylong introduction for prospective students, some of whom have already committed to Temple and others who have yet to make a decision.

We all gathered just before 9 a.m. on a Saturday – about 12,000 students and parents – in a theater on campus. It was colder than a witch’s wazoo, so they opened the doors well in advance of the 9:30 a.m. orientation start time.

To keep us occupied and entertained, Temple student ambassadors were scattered throughout the theater and on stage, showing us to our seats, singing, dancing around and generally acting like the cheerleaders they were supposed to be for the event.

Our emcee for the morning was Billy from Lancaster, PA, and he was indeed enthusiastic about his job. But it took all of about two minutes for me to realize that Billy was going to be one of those guys that got on my last nerve. And in a hurry.

Now I understand that he was just doing his job. Nobody wants a college orientation emcee to come out on stage and just stand there and scratch his ass. What kind of message does that send to students and parents? “Come to Temple, where we have one of the top Ass Scratching Departments in the country.” That’s unlikely to make it into the recruitment brochure, I suspect.

No, Billy’s job was to be the head cheerleader, and I realized that, so I cut him some slack on his overly enthusiastic approach to the job because that is exactly what the task called for, without regard for my last nerve.

On the big video screen behind Billy, a PowerPoint presentation was flashing up Temple-related questions. Things like, “In what year was Temple founded?” The idea was that if one tweeted the correct answer to the question with the designated Temple hashtag, then one could win a free Temple t-shirt.

It was not enough to entice me to play. I have 72 t-shirts from my college, The University of Iowa. I do not need a Temple t-shirt.

One of the questions that did interest me, though, was this: “Which famous musical duo went to Temple?” It was a multiple choice question. The answers were: (1) Simon and Garfunkel. (2) Hall and Oats. (3) I never got to the third one.

See, as one who makes a living with words as both a writer and editor, I usually notice when something is misspelled. And one of the very first rules of newspaper journalism is, “Spell the name correctly.”

Right there, at Temple University, on the big video screen, the school had misspelled John’s last name as “Oats” and not correctly as “Oates.” (And, no, I don’t think they were referring to the duo’s first album from 1972.)

I can’t imagine I was the only one in the theater that noticed it, but there was no discernible outrage coming from any other part of the theater.

“Hey, hey, hey! They spelled John’s last name wrong!” I said to Mrs. Vinyl Dialogues. I was so flummoxed that I failed to even see who the third famous musical duo was listed on the multiple choice question. It could have been Bert and Ernie for all I knew.

Before I could calm myself – it must have been only a few moments – Billy from Lancaster announced that someone had tweeted the correct answer.

“That’s right, it’s John Hall and Daryl Oates!” he exclaimed.

My head exploded.

Honest of Pete, people. I don’t have enough foreheads and palms for all the head-slapping that kind of mistake prompted. First Temple can’t spell John’s last name correctly in very big type on the video screen, then nobody briefed Billy from Lancaster about the correct names of two of the school’s most famous students?

I guess that memo on the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction didn’t get to everybody at Temple, huh?

As a longtime chronicler of Hall & Oates’ exploits over the years and a big fan of their music, I felt it was my responsibility to point out this egregious error. It certainly appeared I was the most qualified guy in the building to do so as I was the only one slapping my forehead and shouting “Billy, Billy, Billy, no, no, no!”

A stiff elbow to the ribs from Mrs. Vinyl Dialogues curtailed my outrage and brought me back to the reality of the situation. Good thing, too, because I was just about to stand up and shout, “Hey all you kids who don’t know who Hall & Oates are, get off my damn lawn!”

I decided it best to cut Billy even more slack – surely his parents knew who Hall & Oates are – and we progressed through the rest of the orientation without any further insults to Hall, Oates, me or my last nerve.

The length of the presentation, however, suggested a restroom break was in order.

As I meandered around the theater lobby looking for the men’s room – wondering if that elbow to the ribs was going to require hospitalization – I spotted none other than Billy from Lancaster, who was headed into the restroom ahead of me.

Good, I thought to myself, I can represent Hall & Oates Nation admirably and right the wrongs that Billy and Company had committed that day.

But I thought better of that plan. There is usually no tomfoolery or shenanigans in a men’s room. We gents are in there strictly for business, and it’s not the appropriate venue to discuss the finer points of Hall & Oates history.

Certainly I could have waited for Billy outside the restroom, but by then, I was annoying even myself for not being able to just put the whole thing behind me.

Still, it’s the lack of attention to detail that bothered me. As a prestigious institution of higher education, I can’t quite believe Temple didn’t get it exactly right when it came to two of their most famous students.

I can’t go for that. No can do.

Search for elusive vinyl ends with a deflating ‘Conrad’ moment

The album "The Morning After," by Maureen McGovern, was released in 1973.

The album “The Morning After,” by Maureen McGovern, was released in 1973.

One of the enjoyable aspects of starting a vinyl collection well into adulthood is the thrill of the hunt. That is, as long as some jamoke named Conrad doesn’t mess up the experience.

I like to go to the various used records stores in my part of the world – suburban Philadelphia – and spend some time rummaging through the endless discount bins for certain albums. Usually, I’m looking for an album that I’m writing about, either one that appeared in The Vinyl Dialogues or one that’s going to be featured in The Vinyl Dialogues Volume II.

It’s a relaxing way to kill and hour or two on the weekend, if one has the patience – as well as a good back and legs – to stand there and sift through album after album looking for that buried treasure.

On my most recent excursion, I was searching for the 1973 album “The

This album used to belong to somebody named "Conrad," who felt it necessary more than 40 years ago to sign it.

This album used to belong to somebody named “Conrad,” who felt it necessary more than 40 years ago to sign it.

Morning After” by Maureen McGovern. I had interviewed Ms. McGovern for an upcoming show she was doing in New Hope, PA, and during that interview, I gathered enough of her recollections to make a chapter about the album for The Vinyl Dialogues Volume II.

So off I went to The Rock Shop in Plymouth Meeting, PA, which has a nice selection at reasonable prices. Another thing I like about going to used record stores is that – to nobody’s surprise – there’s usually a turntable playing records, which provides a soundtrack for the search. On this day, the classic album of choice was “Before the Flood,” by Bob Dylan and The Band, a live album recorded during a 1974 American tour.

That’s a really good choice for perusing vinyl.

I went through bins of records for an hour-and-a-half. Among those I pulled out was one that I hadn’t yet found from The Vinyl Dialogues, “Tarkio” by Brewer and Shipley from 1970; two from Hall & Oates, “Along the Red Ledge (1978) and “X-Static” (1979); two from America, “Heart” (1975) and “Hideaway” (1976); “Golden Bisquits” by Three Dog Night (1971); and “Whistling Down the Wire” by David Crosby and Graham Nash (1976).

Even though I found albums from just about every female singer-songwriter of the 1970s – Carole King, Carly Simon, Janis Ian, Phoebe Snow, Linda Ronstadt, to name a few – I didn’t find Maureen McGovern’s “The Morning After.
I was just about ready to call it a day, when in the last row of records I was searching, nearly at the back, there it was! “The Morning After” by Maureen McGovern.

It was indeed like finding a buried treasure, and I immediately broke into my happy dance, which resembles the Snoopy Happy Dance from the “Peanuts” cartoons, but with much less grace and rhythm. I am not opposed to doing that in front of other record store patrons when I find the elusive vinyl. If anyone were to ask what was wrong to me, I was prepared to tell them that I was just rocking out to Dylan and The Band.

Once that moment of finding the proverbial needle in the haystack elation subsides, though, then I usually take a closer look at the record and the album cover. Which is what I did this time as well.

This one looked good . . . but, wait. In the upper righthand corner, just above Ms. McGovern’s name, there was another name, this one written in ballpoint pen. It read “Conrad.”

Now it’s not unusual to find records with people’s names on them. There was a time – and I understand this – as kids where we put on name on our most valuable possessions. This album, likely more than 40 years ago, apparently was a prized possession for someone named Conrad.

There is no way for me to know if that is a first name or a last name, but my immediate reaction to finding Conrad’s name on the very album I had been searching for was to seek out the first person named Conrad I could find and punch him right in the nose.

WFT Conrad? Did you not know 40 years ago that someday I would find this record, with the hopes of having it signed by Maureen McGovern?

Of course, that is an unreasonable reaction. But it did take a bit of the steam out of the Snoopy Happy Dance once I came to my senses.

I bought the record anyway. One never knows how long the search would have continued to find the album again. This is one is in pretty decent shape, and will look cool once it’s signed by Ms. McGovern.

That will be the second autograph on the album. Thanks, Conrad.

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