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BillyAAnderson
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Rank:Ethical Pervert

Score: 4694

(Date Posted:10/20/2011 12:42 PM)

The following article is from Harper's Magazine, September 1970, pp. 52-63.

While it somewhat answers the question it asks, it really does not solve the mystery of what
ruined the career of Brother Dave, in his earlier days, called by Newsweek magazine, the  
"Spiritual Leader of the Beat Generation."

In those days, Brother Dave was the sensation of the college campuses, beloved by the
young generation,  but by the time of Larry King's 1970 article, Brother Dave was doing his show
from the viewpoint of a reactionary racist and supporter of the Vietnam war, which obviously would
have made him unwelcome on American's college campuses, and unpopular with the new young
generation of 'hippies.' 

This unwise change in his stage persona resulted in this once great entertainer being rembered by the
few who do remember him by his later, 'racist' days,  and not for what he had done in his earlier years.

 

usertype:3
BillyAAnderson
1# 



Rank:Ethical Pervert

Score:4694

RE:What Ever Happened To Brother Dave?
(Date Posted:10/20/2011 12:45 PM)


WHATEVER  HAPPENED  TO BROTHER DAVE?

"Welcome to Klan Country," the billboard reads.  It's Dave Gardner's country, too,
home and platform for a sharp-talking comedian who once was a national celebrity



by  Larry L. King.

Contributing editor Larry L. King is on the  road again after a year's respite
at Harvard as a Nieman Fellow.  Other Americans he has profiled in
Harper's
include Nelson Rockefeller, Louis Armstrong, and Harold F. Hughes.

 



(Message edited by BillyAAnderson On 10/20/2011 12:46 PM)
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BillyAAnderson
2# 



Rank:Ethical Pervert

Score:4694

RE:What Ever Happened To Brother Dave?
(Date Posted:10/20/2011 12:47 PM)

IT IS WARM AND MUGGY for North Carolina in late May, a very Southern night, with
flying bugs and scents of grass in the air.  Young men cruising with their car
windows down sound mating calls on their nightly inspections of root-beer stands
or What-a-Burger places, while on many city porches old men cherish their
post-supper memories of farms they will never till again.

You must escape Charlotte's shopping-center vapors and downtown exhaust clouds to
savor it, though once in shaded residential sections or on semi-rural lanes, the
grass fragrance is green, clean, and  nostalgic, inspiring thoughts of forgotten
alfalfa growths, of discovering Faulkner, of parking near the football field on
summer nights a world ago to wrestle the price of the evening's movie and popcorn
out of the sweetly moist flesh of Becky Sue or Alma Mae or Betty Lou.

Though oven temperatures prevail as the visitor drives ten miles out of Charlotte to
the ordered and pastoral campus of little Davidson College, that school's football
team is grimly grunting and maintaining its sweaty way through the merciless tortures
of spring practice.

Along the roadways are young Huck Finns taking their country pleasures,
"antique shops" with their $3.98 crocheeted bedspreads and old vases probably
certified all the way back to 1947, Confederate flags or decals superimposed on
license plates.

Old country stores thrive near new red-brick ramblerrs with campus-trailers  or
motorboats near at hand, and, further on are declining shacks where poor whites or
poorer blacks take the sun on rude wooden porches in the presence of ragged kids
and peeling old Buicks parked in the front yards. 

Near midnight, en route to Charlotte's Pecan Grove Club to catch the second show,
the car radio offers gut-jangling country tunes and advertisements for Chick Starter
(which is not a new aphrodisiac for hippie girls, but a product to feed infant
chickens) while warm-weather fliers dash themselves into eternity and gooey gobs
against the windshield.

They can whoop of the New South with its rapid industrialization and economic or
cultural leaps all they want, but some things cannot be paved over by asphalt or
changed by factory smokestacks--things rooted deeply in the Southern soil, the
Southern soul, the Southern psyche.

Welcome home.  Welcome to Kan Country, as a giant billboard says. 

 


 

usertype:3 tt= 0
BillyAAnderson
3# 



Rank:Ethical Pervert

Score:4694

RE:What Ever Happened To Brother Dave?
(Date Posted:10/21/2011 11:57 AM)

A couple of Good Ole Boys in butch haircuts and white short-sleeved sports shirts
temporarily disadvantaged by neckties are drinking from a brown bag out on the
unpaved parking lot at the Pecan Grove Club, sneaking a few manly snorts in
rebellion against the mixed potions their wives force on them inside, and one is
volunteering  probably louder than he knows that the goddamn Tar Heel football team
won't never amount to a shit till they hire a big-time coach like ole Bear Bryant.

The sight of a dude in a beard and an Eastern-cut suit obviously too flannely for
Southern latitudes is enough to bring them pause.  When their eyes begin to calculate
exactly where the heavy artillery should be uloaded, the visitor consults with his
Confederate ancestors and offers in his best drawl, "Evening fellers, how yawl?"

Then he slouoches on by like he was moseying down to the 7-11 to buy hisself some
Moon Pies and Ara-Cee Colas.  This inspirational act passes him by without fisticuffs,
though when the ole boys see how his hair hangs over his collar in back one says
Shee-eeit, Hon!,and the explosive laughter sends the visitor's heart flying
out in empathy toward the ghost of Thomas Wolfe.

The Pecan Grove Club is dark enough to conceal from the curious those gentlemen who
might be in the company of ladies to whom they hold no clear titles.  The coatless,
tieless, and paunchy combination maitre d'hotel and floor bouncer, who points
the path to tables by flashlight, is clearly miffed that a naked Scotch bottle should
be openly flaunted rather than decently masqueraded in the obligatory brown bag.

His eyes accuse the visitor of inferior breeding, inspiring one to marvel again at
that limitless capacity the South has for self-deception, for honoriing show over
substance, for choosing illusion when reality might better serve.  

This is a bottle club, meaning that for $6-per-head cover you sneak your own booze
in as if freslhy stolen and obliged to be smuggled past a convention of Methodist
bishops.  In exchange for such cooperative deceptions, which in no way violate or
improve the law, but do faithfully serve tradition, the house provides gratis setups.  

Beer is free on demand, delivered as regularly as one of seveal yawning waitresses
may be provoked into action; nothing moves them quicker than the clear beacon of a
green bill exposed to uncertain light.  Dinner is exta, an expenditure all except a
dozen of the fifty-odd customers have avoided because they must later settle the
claims of baby-sitters.

Between musical numbers the band leader endorses  generoisty by reminding the
customers that waitresses work strictly for tips.  Out in the bar area a tough-faced
little brunette complains of those SOBs at Table Four who expect tons of ice, Cokes,
beer, and ass-pinching privileges in exchange for each four-bit gift.

Except for probably a few airline hostesses or young secretaries in miniskirts, and
their mildly sideburned escorts, this could be 1960 again.  Women wear domed and
lacquered beehive hairdos; bristling crew cuts prevail among the males.

Dancing is dogged, more of a duty in the couple's motions than of soul or fun.  They
shuffle and two-step to such vintage ballads as "Misty," "I Wish You Love," and
"Poke Salad Annie.," while The Frantics, who prefer to blow their music a go-go, are
so obviously bored you get the impression they are all chewing gum.  When the Frantics
can no longer tolerate imitation Lawrence Welk or, occasionally Johnny Cash, they up
the tempo and the decibel level enough that the dance platform could not be more
efficiently cleared by a black with a switchblade.  

And that is the signal for Brother Dave, out in the wings, to light a fresh cigarette
and prepare to spring onstage.
usertype:3 tt= 0
BillyAAnderson
4# 



Rank:Ethical Pervert

Score:4694

RE:What Ever Happened To Brother Dave?
(Date Posted:10/24/2011 2:37 PM)

The Pecan Grove Club seats 550 in enthusiastic circumstances..  On evenings such as
this, however, owner David Rabie doubts whether Soldier Field has more unoccupied
seats in a midnight snowstorm.  Rabie is a swarthy, intense man who published poetry
at age sixteen and who in the 1950s was a United Nations correspondent for an Isreli
publication.

Somewhere in there he came to Charlotte to peddle Oriental rugs, and somehow about
eight years ago he found hmself owning the Pecan Grove Club.  Tonight he is full of
passionate bullitens that anyone eager for the same foolish experience can buy him
for a song and a loose promise.  He stands outside shortly before the second show,
slapping at fllying creatures and fingering a dead cigar, under a sign proclaiming
the feature attraction: a comedian billed as Brother Dave Gardner.

"I'm loosing my ass," the reformed poet confides.  "I'm paying this guy a thousand
bucks a night.  And look at the house."

Then why had he booked Brother Dave?

"I had him here about three years ago and made good money.  He was doing more straight
comedy then--not so much this political nonsense.  A year later he was deeper into
the political thing and I just broke even.  This time he's knocking everything
--religion, the colored, even the dead Kennedys.  It's a disaster.  People are
calling up the club to complain."

The disaffected club owner turns his mind back from Tuesday to Friday and the special
disaster of opening night: "You never saw such a house! I spent eighteen hundred
dollars for promotion and then had to refund three thousand at the door when he
didn't show.  Kidnapped by Indians!  Can you imagine that? He says he was kidnapped
by the Cherokees!"

"Detained," is the word Miss Millie Gardner used when the visitor arrived at a
Charlotte motel on Monday afternoon and telephoned the comic's three-room suite to
inquire how the show had been going.  Miss Millie, a weathered blonde who acts as
her husband's booking agent, did not supply a standard response: "Well, we didn't
make opening night on account of the Cherokees."

Beg your pardon?

"We were detained by some Indians.  I've called in the FBI."  

Ah, yes, ma'am?

They have the full report.  And I've reported it to Congressman Jonas' office."

Yes.  Well.  How does on go about getting, uh, detained by Indians in the America
of 1970?

"We'll talk about it after the show," Miss Millie said.  "I'm not sure I trust the
telephone."
usertype:3 tt= 0
BillyAAnderson
5# 



Rank:Ethical Pervert

Score:4694

RE:What Ever Happened To Brother Dave?
(Date Posted:10/25/2011 12:55 PM)

THE FIRST TIME HE APPEARED on the Jack Paar show, back in 1957, Brother Dave Gardner
was a minor comic who for ten years had played tired stip joints and dingy bottle
clubs throughout the Bible and boll-weevil belt, working close to the horns of
bullish hecklers and wall-eyed drunks.

He had sometimes entertained Rotarians in the assault on their weekly veal cutlets,
or discouraged travelling salesmen who gathered in third-rate hotels rather
desperately to court fun between the exhortations of their sales managers to get out
and more aggressively hawk the aluminum siding, fire insurance, or farm machinery
that rode the saddles atop their small pinched lives.

He had played drums on something called The Winkie Martindale Show in Memphis,
where he first began to crack jokes, and he had a straight singing record,
White Silver Sands, that, in the long run, excited him more than it did others. 

He was best known in the deeper boondocks.  If they wore brown shoes, white socks,
clip-on bowties, or butch haircuts, then Brother Dave likely had made them laugh at
one way-station or another where laughter was no small gift.

He was of and from them, the son of a Tennessee carpenter who liked to think of
himself as being "in the construction industry"; he knew what it was like to drop
school in the tenth grade, to not make it with the quality chicks because your
clothes were not the best and because you were scrawny and had never been
outstanding at book reports or athletics.

He knew what it was to work at dull jobs where they paid you in small coin every
Friday, and would not have lamented your death except as your funeral hindered
commerce.

He rated no seat on the celebrity couch where Paar's favored guests grouped to
smile, to crack limp jokes  about Ike's golf or the hole in Adlai's shoe or the
pelvis of Elvis, all the while preening  and plugging their latest movies, records,
new noses, or fuzzy theories. 

Horatio Alger was still to be believed in the America of 1957, and so when they
offered Brother Dave a four-minute, stand-up shot (wedged betwen a network station
break and spiels by Hugh Downs for dog food) he nearly knocked 'em down getting
into position.

Brother Dave rattled off a monologue presenting Brutus  in the execution of Caesar,
product of a wildy inventive brain that some later would suspect of having influenced
Mort Sahl, Jonathan Winters, Bill Cosby, Lenny Bruce, Dick Gregory, Flip Wilson.

The studio audience, Paar, and the folks out there in television land broke up as in
cornpone accents Caesar put the final question: Et tu, Brute? And Brutus, who
had known trouble keeping his toga out of his bicycle spokes and who had earlier
heard yon Cassius described as a picky eater and "about half-smart," answered,
"Naw man, I ain't even et one."

Paar received a thousand letters and telegrams begging more.  NBC-TV welcomed the
unknown comic to a three-year association to include sixty-odd appearances on the
Paar show alone, and RCA provided a lucrative recording contract.

His first album, Rejoice, Dear Hearts! sold almost as frantically as hula
hoops.  Kick Thine Own Self and seven other album successes followed, each
a combination of hip, headlines, and down-home wit.

He appeared in a Broadway play, banked up to $30,000 per week for campus one-nighters,
and made connections with Las Vegas gambling emporiums where a hot comic smart enough
to avoid house tables could depend on a weekly take-home of $25,000 plus free
lodgings.

Miss Millie, a slender blonde who married him in 1947 within six of his first booking
in the small St. Louis Club where she bossed the hat-check concession, knew
opportunity's knock: in her role as travelling manager she efficiently guided him
away from the perils of roulette wheels and chorus girls, which was not always easy,
because little in Brother Dave's natural instincts rides him toward the more pious
precincts when he is rolling free. 

His Brutus-dirks-Caesar routine became a comedy classic, as did the bit reporting on
David's saying of "the overgrown Philadelphian," Goliath, with a smooth stone
"wrapped up in a blue-suede tennis-shoe tongue."  Probably his best-known tale
involved the high-speed deaths of two Alabama motorcyclists, Miss Baby and Mister
Chuck.

In that routine, he appeared to put down lawmen, Dixie customs, blacks, cyclists,
truckers, and casual bystanders  while showing no special malice toward any. 

He was Andy Griffin running downhill, slightly zomked, and maybe plotting a practical
joke to severely embarrass nice old Aunt Bea--or maybe more than embarass her; his
routines had a way of stressing humor in death. 

There was about him some combination of fun and menace, one sensed, slices of the
high-school dropout who perhaps had read Shakespeare on his own but who still might
efficiently (and not always fairly) clean your pockets at the pool hall, or
deliberately direct Yankee tourists to the wrongest possible road should they be
foolish enough to inquire the most direct route to Birmingham.

He increasingly became a social comic, putting the knock on JFK, on Castro, on the
latest absurdity as reflected in newspaper headlines or by the careless utterances
of our kings and pharaohs.  If he speared Hoffa in one breath then surely in the
next he would gig McClellan; if he made Deomocrats feel comfortable at the expense
of Republicans they would soon discover ecstasy to be a two-way street.

On the Paar show, after making professional liberals nervous through his near
perfect imitations of the irrepressible Roosevelt, Jabo, and Willie ("home boys"
he called them), he would say in his thick winter-molasses accent that he believed
in one race, "the human race," and then the libs could expel their nervous do-gooder
air while Paar beamed and the studio audience applauded.

Yes, dear hearts, he enjoyed a merry ride, accumulating a thirty-two room Mediterranean
Villa on a Hollywood hill, a luxury yacht, multiple Cadillacs, a second fine home on
Biloxi's expensive sands.

It was a glorious cruise, save for a little choppy water such as when he accidently
left Miss Millie behind in a West Texas motel room and didn't recall it until
several days later in Louisiana and also excepting that one major misunderstanding
in 1962 when Atlanta police charged him with being in the company of an excessive
number of amphetamine tablets and assorted other "uppers"  --a conditon inspiring
Jack Paar to fresh public tears and Brother Dave Gardner to the successful
investment of $5,000 in attorney's fees. 

And, then, shortly after John F. Kennedy's assassination, he disappeared from the
national scene.

usertype:3 tt= 0
BillyAAnderson
6# 



Rank:Ethical Pervert

Score:4694

Re:What Ever Happened To Brother Dave?
(Date Posted:10/25/2011 12:58 PM)

Larry wrote a great article, but the one almost Unforgivable Sin he comitted, was mis-spelling Andy Griffiths name as Griffin.

As bad an offense as that was, I think I can grant Larry some causistry on that one.

usertype:3 tt= 0
BillyAAnderson
7# 



Rank:Ethical Pervert

Score:4694

RE:What Ever Happened To Brother Dave?
(Date Posted:10/27/2011 2:05 PM)

Last winter among the snows of Cambridge, I listened again to Brother Dave's old
records with a black friend, Wally Terry of Time, a fellow Neiman Fellow
at Harvard.  

We debated whether the comedian's lines sometimes bordered on racial bigotry or
whether he simply was a funny man with a rare gift for the exploitation
of sensitive ethnic material, a pacesetter who so pinpointed the various insanities  
of our social confusions that he may have been a decade ahead of the times.
Given Brother Dave's weird and conflicting pronouncements, far-out sound effects,
and amazing gift for reproducing of regional accents, our repeated listenings only
muddled the issue.  "Whatever happened to Brother Dave?" Wally asked.  
In that instant I determined to find out.

Celebrity Services inquiries on the East and West Coasts failed to locate him.  
He was not currently registered with any agent known to the major booking agencies.  
NBC and RCA disclaimed pertinent knowledge.  His California home stood vacant and
boarded; he had apparently left no forwarding address.

Telephone operators ruined several rumors in failing to make connections in Nashville,
Memphis, Biloxi, New Orleans.  Then a writer friend in Charlotte, John Carr,
telephoned to say that Brother Dave would be playing in his city in late May.

BROTHER DAVE APPEARED to "When the Saints Go Marching In," amending the original
yrics to include information that among the marching saints he expects to count
Congressman L. Mendel Rivers, Spiro Agnew, Martha Mithcell, and Georgia's
Lester Maddox.  He was smaller than one had remembered, perhaps five and one-half
feet tall, with stubby arms and a welterweight's torso.

A sallow, lined face and a pompadoured crown of wiry silver hair made him look
older than his forty-four years. "I'd smoke in my sleep if I had somebody to hold 'em,
and I'd smoke chains if I could light 'em," he said of his nicotine habit, and taking
a couple of quick drags he went to work:

"All who love America shout Glory! . . . Oh, dear hearts, don't you wish the
other side could hear us?  Wouldn't it shake up ther fuzzy ole heads?  All this and
Spiro too! Glory! (Cheers.)  "Martha Mitchell, ain't she good?" (Cheers)
"Beloved, the ole liberal commie long-haired traitor hippies"--interrupted by
applause before reaching the punch line, he joined the laughter--"Yeah, them crazy
cats say Brother Dave am against minority groups. No such thing, dear hearts.  
I'm for the minorities--the Armed Forces and the PO-leece.  I wouldn't even
mind paying taxes if it all went to them.  Somebody say, 'You mean Brother Dave's
for the heat?' You damn right, beloved.  That ole pig, as the hippies call him,
he's out there protecting society.  And if you ain't a part of society, dear hearts,
then what right you got to go around throwing rocks at it?"

usertype:3 tt= 0
BillyAAnderson
8# 



Rank:Ethical Pervert

Score:4694

RE:What Ever Happened To Brother Dave?
(Date Posted:10/28/2011 12:14 PM)

"And the military.  I love 'em so much I send my shoes to Fort Bragg to get 'em
shined.  Somebody say, 'Yeah, but ain't it ugly for a soldier to kill?' Naw, man,
that's his gig. You know, dear hearts, ain't nothing wrong with patriotism.  
By God, I groove on it.  You can fly as high on patriotism as you can on acid.

I'd love to join a patriotic outfit--I'd join the Klan, only I ain't got enough
morals." (Cheers, applause)

Let's all shout Glory! for the Israeli Army."  (Uncertain applause: why
cheer the Christ-Killing Jews?)


"Yea man, that Isralei Army fought them rag-heads for six days and on the seventh
day they rested.  Dear hearts, the Israelis are fighting for State's Rights just
like we are."

(Boistrous cheers, now that the ideology is clear.)

"Them Jews is patient cats.  It took 'em two thousand years to get their Wailing Wall
back.  Dear hearts, how long you think it'd take a Southern Baptist to get his
church back?"

Southern Baptists were apparently well represented, for the responsive roar sent
Brother Dave into a further exploration of religious territory.  

This caused no break in his regular routine, simply because there is no set routine;
he jumps from subject to subject, going where the laugh lines guide him, much in the
manner of a Presidential candidate whose basic speech is capable of alterations
fitting all local conditions.

"I put one over on the Supreme Court today, beloved.  Yeah, man, I sneaked off and
prayed all morning!  Prayer's good beloved.  Prayer is askin' for it and
meditating is waitin' for it.  

Somebody say, 'Brother Dave, how come you talk so much about God in night clubs and
honky-tonks?'

Dear hearts, on account of it's against the law to mention Him in school!  
Yeah, man, spirituality is where it's at.  Course, you turn the other cheek today
and some damn hippie'll take a brick and knock your jaw off.

"Dr. Billy Graham--he's all right, I dig Billy.  Yeah, except he disappointed me
when he got on TV and tooken up for the hippies and yippies.  Said them was good cats.  
Billy's a Christian you know--he thinks you supposed to love everybody, and
I'm one of them eye-for-an-eye cats.  I'm for Billy, though: he's got so many guts
he prays in public.

He even prays at the White House when Crafty Richard posts him some of them palace
guards with their cute little Hitler hats.  But Billy got on TV and said"--and here
Brother Dave gave an accurate imitation of Dr. Graham in the practice of
dime-store-Churchill--"I was coming out of the el-a-va-tor  in New Ya-wuk
recently, and one of those hippie fellows came along, and he spoke to me.'

And I said, 'Hell, Billy, don't you know that cheap trash will speak to anybody
who'll speak to 'em?'

Somebody say, 'You know good and well  Dr. Graham couldn't hear him say that!'

Brother Dave's flipped out and is talkin' to hisself.' Yeah, beloved, ain't nothing
wrong with that!  Talk to yourself, dear hearts.  By God, you'll enjoy the rare
pleasure of listening to somebody with some damn sense."

The beehives and butch cuts were bobbing in merriment now, David Rabie's being
perhaps the only grim face in the room, but then he was counting empty tables.  

Now Brother Dave combined spirituality and sex: "People say motels is sinful.  
Say, 'Motels am the devil's doing.' Naw, dear hearts, you drive by them motels at
two or three the morning and you can hear folks diggin on spirituality.  
Services never cease!

Yea, you can hear 'em in there saying, 'Oh God! Lord Jesus! Aint it
good.' . . .

You know, the Catholics got a terrible advantage over us Baptists and Methodists
and Cambellites and whatnot:  they can take a friend to the Holiday Inn and bounce
her off the walls for thirty-six hours and then go confess it to a priest.  
We do it and then can't tell nobody . . . . I ain't got nothing
against sex education in the schools, dear hearts, except it makes us parents feel
like we didn't do it right. . . .  

Can you imagine the vanity of that Civil Wrongs song, "We shall overcome?  
Now, beloved, how can any mortal do that?"



(Message edited by BillyAAnderson On 10/28/2011 12:16 PM)
usertype:3 tt= 0
BillyAAnderson
9# 



Rank:Ethical Pervert

Score:4694

RE:What Ever Happened To Brother Dave?
(Date Posted:11/03/2011 12:08 PM)

THE GOOD OLE BOYS HAD LOOSENED their ties, their laughter contained
more of steel on stone, drinks flowed a bit quicker from the brown bags.  
The Bouncer, who had earlier ignored a lone heckler, moved over to
encourage his silence after a flower from the bush of Southern Womanhood
called out of the darkness,  "Shut up, you Yankee smart ass!"  

Her command clued Brother Dave to his next line:  "Some people say I hate
Yankees.  Naw, beloved, I love' em when they come down here bringing money
to invest and fleeing them damned crumbling cities and welfare lines and
the demands of our 'New Citizens' "

(Cheers as he pursed his lips into exaggerated thickness, then hopped
around scratching himself under the arms and hoo-hoo-hooing like Cheetah
in some Tarzanian rage.)
 

"Yankees are moving South in droves!  The South's integrated now, see, and
they're segregated up North and they're getting spooked about it."  
Cheers and laughter; take that, you two-faced Yankee swine.)

"The only Yankees I don't like are them that stay up yonder and grow long
hair and raise liberal young uns who dodge the draft and smoke aspirins
and shoot-up peanut butter."

From here he made a natural leap into dope jokes--and here he lost the
crowd. Charlotte's beer addicts and whiskey heads sat unmoved when
Brother Dave took a deep whiff of his cigarette lighter and then
pantomined euphoria.  

When Little Orphan Annie was nominated as "the first acid head--you ever
dig them eyes?"--they made no response.  

"I discovered you can get high on smog, man, they outlawed it!...You know,
dear hearts, if them SDS cats and Weathermen and hippies and yippies and
all them other crazies would smoke more, and burn less, this ole world
would smell sweeter and swing higher."

He told a story of two hip-cats in a restaurant, one saying to the other,
"Let's blow this joint," and getting the response, "Naw, man, pass it on
to the waitress."  Only laughter from the band signified a familiarity
with certain cultural sophistications among show-folk and hippies.
usertype:3 tt= 0
BillyAAnderson
10# 



Rank:Ethical Pervert

Score:4694

RE:What Ever Happened To Brother Dave?
(Date Posted:11/04/2011 12:36 PM)

The act was now going sour before folks convinced that marijuana is pure
ole dope and dope inspires you to cut up Grandmaw with bread knives.  
Brother Dave retreated to politics:  "I pulled for Barry Goldwater and
he only carried five states.  I pulled for George Wallace and he
only carried five states.  I believe that if God was to run, He'd only
carry five states--and they'd all be in the South."

(Cheers: this they understood.)

"Beloved, I love the South!" (Cheers.) "And I love America!"
(Cheers.)" "All who love 'em shout Glory!...

Ah, that's wonderful, beloved.  Don't you wish they could hear us up in
Washington?" (Cheers.) "And you know, by God, lately, I think
they do!"  (Cheers, applause, Rebel yells.)


"Man I don't know how to act since we finally got us a President!"
Bull's-eye.)

"You know, the ole Yankee newspapers put the ugly mouth on those good
people down in Lamar, South Carolina.  Yeah, man, said they'd beat up
on some New Citizens' little schoolchildren. Naw, beloved, that ain't
true! They didn't hurt them lovely children--all they did was take some
chains and whip up on some old school buses."  

(Loudest cheers of the night, brown bags banging on tables.)

"Course, it made the professional liberals slobber at the mouth--but we
all know what a professional liberal is: somebody that's educated beyond
their capacity.  Like Bill Bullblight--err, Fulbright.  Crafty Richard
say to Senator Fulbright, 'Bill, I think we ought to go in there, by God,
and bomb Hanoi and blow them damn slopeheads plumb off the damn map,' and
Fulbright say, 'Oh, us doesn't dare do that, Richard, 'cause then us
won't have nobody to negotiate with.'...

Do yawl remember, dear hearts, when they awarded that Nobel Peace Prize to
the late Dr. Junior on account of his efficiency in teaching our
New Citizens to riot?  Man, what's that Nobel cat doing giving a peace
prize, after he done went and invented dynamite?...

Some say that segregation is evil and integration is correct. Now if that
be the case, why do we have ladies' rooms? But we gonna get our country
back one day soon."  (Cheers.)

"Yeah, beloved, them Green Berets and the Po-leece and the National Guard
and them other good guys has had just about enough and by God, dear hearts,
they can beat you into bad health."  (Rising cheers.)

usertype:3 tt= 0
BillyAAnderson
11# 



Rank:Ethical Pervert

Score:4694

RE:What Ever Happened To Brother Dave?
(Date Posted:11/05/2011 11:32 AM)

Then he hit them with the line that caused a sudden shocked silence,
a line that even many of the Good Ole Boys deepest into the mysteries
of their brown bags were not braced for, and it stunned them, caused
gasps, a quick dark murder of laughter.

Maybe the wild grin on his face, the sheer exuberance of his delivery,
were as petrifying as the line itself:  "God, wasn't that a clean hit
on Dr. Junior?"


The hard core cheered, and somebody up front shouted Glory.
At least ten people got up and made for the exit, however.  A heavy,
middle-aged blonde in green eyeshadow and an overflowing green pants
suit descended on the visitor, who sat morosely smoking at the rear of
the hall:  "Are you with that idiot?"

No, not really.

"Well, he's gone too damned far.  I love the South and I love my
country, and that idiot is putting 'em down.  Where's the manager?"

David Rabie came with a pained look to take three minutes of perfected
abuse, periodically spreading his hands in unconditional surrender.

"His damn jokes are forty years old," the blonde raged. "You call this
shit entertainment?  Jokes about murder?  I'm gonna call the
Charlotte Observer and tell  'em what you got out here.  Why did
you hire that idiot?"

David Rabie explained how it was to be a businessman, saying that
entertainers of all creeds had played the Pecan Grove Club.  He rattled
off names--Brenda Lee, Maxine Brown, Roy Hamilton, LaVerne Baker,
Count Basie, The Four Freshmen, Lee Dorsey--noting that "several of them
are colored."

When the storm blew out he turned to the visitor:  "For God's sake, talk
to him! Ask him to leave that offensive material out.  People want to
hear the old routines that made him famous, not this crap.  Look at
the house--count it!"

The visitor did: there now remained twenty-one revelers.  By the time
Brother Dave ended his turn with a trap-drum recital, there were thirteen
survivors.

The faithful lingered under pecan and oak trees while two black men ran to
fetch their cars.  A citizen in a butch haircut and a $29.95 suit straight
off the rack led forward a blind man with his seeing-eye dog:  "Brother Dave,
this ole boy is blind and everything, but he don't beg or peddle pencils or
nothin'. He's got this little newsstand down at the YMCA, and, by God, he
works."

"Bless your heart, beloved."

"He don't set on his ass and howl for help just because he's blind,"
the citizen clarified.

"God bless you," Brother Dave cooed, shaking the blind man's hand.  
"You know, they got a rule up in Washington that if you break a sweat
they'll take you off welfare."

The blind man beamed:  his sponsor whooped.  

"Course, a cat that sweats don't want it nohow.  Don't yawl give up,
you hear?  We gonna get our country back someday."

usertype:3 tt= 0
BillyAAnderson
12# 



Rank:Ethical Pervert

Score:4694

RE:What Ever Happened To Brother Dave?
(Date Posted:11/07/2011 10:54 AM)

HE DUCKED INTO A GOLD CADILLAC driven by his sixteen-year old son,
Junior, and within ten minutes was back in the motel room where
Miss Millie waited with a barking French poodle named Mister.  Mister
may wear a rhinestone collar and sport sissy little ribbons atop his
iron-gray head, but let a stranger approach Miss Millie even to light
her cigarette and Mister has conniptions in the voice of a surly
Doberman pinscher.

Miss Millie, who took her meals off trays in the room, and whom the
visitor never discovered outside a gauzy green dressing gown during
his six day observations, was reading one of her seven books
by H. L. Hunt. 

"How was the show?" Miss Millie asked.

"Nothing wrong with the show," Brother Dave said, "The goddamn house
is the problem.  You could of fired a .410 amd not hit anybody at the
second show."

"Damn those Cherokees," Miss Millie said.

Yes, how about those Cherokees?  What had happened?  It was the
fifth or sixth time the visitor had put that question, receiving only
vague and disjointed reports.

"We're driving along Highway 91, coming down from Tennessee," Brother Dave
said.  "Hell, I didnt' know we was on a damned Indian reservation.  Me and
Miss Millie was in the lead Caddy and our son was trailing in the
other one.  The Cherokee Patrol stopped him, man.  Wouldn't let the cat go."

Why?

"They wouldn't say.  But you can figure it out."

When the puzzled visitor remained mute, Brother Dave added, "They're part
of this Third World thing."

Beg pardon?

"Aw, man, don't you know what's happenning? Who attacked a
meeting of the Klan here in North Carolina two or three years ago,
when the Klan cats wasn't doing nothing but burning crosses and
singing hymns?"

The Cherokees"

"Damn right, beloved.  They're part of this thing!"

"Dave," Miss Millie said, "the FBI asked us not to talk about  this."

"Aw, he's all right," Brother Dave said with a nod in the visitor's
direction. "Don't you hear that accent?  He's from Texas, just like
ole H. L. Hunt.  Beloved, do you know Mr. Hunt?"

Only by reputation.

"Then you don't know him at all!"  This from Miss Millie, suddenly and
with surprisinig heat, her voice crackling and and smoldering like a
summer storm.  "The left-wing press has smeared him all his life. 
They even tried to link him with JFK's assassination, and we all know
that was ordered by Moscow."

"I got interested in Mr. Hunt's patriotic work about six years ago,"
Brother Dave said.  "So I checked him out, and we got our heads
together.  We've become real good friends.  Miss Millie and me have been
his guest in that big ole house he lives in--the one patterned after
George Washington's.

"That's the nicest, kindest, gentlest, smartest ole boy in the world. 
He ought to have the Congressional Medal of Honor.  If America is saved,
beloved, he's the one who's saved it nearly single-handed.  Here, let me s
how you what Ruth gave us. That's Mr. Hunt."

He produced what appeared to be a catalogue advertising furniture, which
Mrs. Hunt had mysterously autographed along with sentiments speaking well
of friendship and patriotism.  Which seems like a minimal gift from the
wife of the world's richest man or thereabouts.

 

 

 

usertype:3 tt= 0
BillyAAnderson
13# 



Rank:Ethical Pervert

Score:4694

RE:What Ever Happened To Brother Dave?
(Date Posted:11/08/2011 12:37 PM)

Does H. L. Hunt in any way subsidize Brother Dave's work?

"Naw, man, I ain't asked him for nothing.  In the first place I don't
need to.  I've got bread and investments so I don't have to work, except
I want to get my message across.  All Mr. Hunt's got that I want is his
wisdom.  He's my teacher."

"You should read Alpaca," Miss Millie said.  "It's the best novel
I've ever read.  There's this model Constitution in there that H. L. Hunt
wrote."  (The "model Constitution" recommends that each citizen be given
a number of votes in direct ratio to his net financial worth, and would
preclude anyone drawing a government salary, pension, or welfare check
from voting; citizens would be permitted to sell their votes to others
with greater interests in good government.)

Back to the Cherokee caper:  what reason had they given for detaining
Junior?

"They just said he was on Indian land.  When we swung around to see what
the score was, they told us it was none of our damn business and to clear
out.  We begged, pleaded, flashed our identification--all they said was,
'Get moving'.  Then they threatened us with guns."

"Dave!"

"All right, Miss Millie.  They held us up about an hour or more.  But it
took four or five hours to get our son out of that damn mess, and that
caused us to miss opening night."

And how had they ultimately freed Junior?

"Dave, now, we just can't talk about this," Miss Millie instructed in
schoolmarm tones.

"Them cats had to know who I was, dear hearts.  It wasn't
no accident.  By God, you wait until that Bureau of Indian Affairs
gets through with 'em!"

"Dave"

The comedian invited the visitor into an adjoining room, where he
offered a recording by comic David Frye: "This cat cracks me up.  
Only thing is, he propagandizes for the Leftists.  But you got to
hear this one track, man."  

David Frye imitated Richard Nixon taking a few experimental marijuana
pokes and then trying to talk hip, the humor grounded in "Nixon's"
continuing to sound (even when stoned beyond the capabilities of
Mount Rushmore) like the eight-year-old who received a black leather
briefcase for Christmas and who, furthermore, was delighted with the gift.  

"Can't you imagine ole Crafty Richard turned on?" Brother Dave cackled.  

Junior entered from the main room:  "Dad, quick!  J. Robert Jones is out
here."

"Oh, my god!" Brother Dave pinched out a little something he and the
visitor had been smoking, frantically fanning the air.  "Look, beloved,
would you mind waiting in here with the boy?  I've got some personal
business with this cat."

usertype:3 tt= 0
BillyAAnderson
14# 



Rank:Ethical Pervert

Score:4694

RE:What Ever Happened To Brother Dave?
(Date Posted:11/09/2011 11:49 AM)

Junior is lanky and wiry, six feet two, with a mop of long blond hair
which his mother despises and which his father dsiapproves of but defends
on the grounds that his son would be disadvantaged in the romance
department should he look exceedingly square in a hip age.

In military schools for six years before withdrawing a few months ago,
he is convinced that neither Harvard or Yale teaches as much as he'll
learn on the road with Dad.  After he had exhibited various karate chops,
Junior demonstrated with flourishes the most effective methods for quickly
extracting a switchblade.

He was performing his third or fourth guitar solo, between lectures
explaining the basic uses of girls, when Brother Dave reappeared from
the main quarters:  "Come on in, beloved, and meet a friend."

A small, dark-haired man wearing a strangely familiar face and a sly
country grin sat in an easy chair, not bothering to rise for handshakes.

"This is J. Robert Jones," Brother Dave said.  The visitor's mental
equipment whirred and clicked;  J. Robert Jones . . . North Carolinian
. . . Grand Dragon and Holy Terror of the United Klans of America . . .
Convicted of Contempt of Congress . . . Recently released from federal
prison.


Mister, the bejeweled toy watchdog, was growling and snapping another
irritating concert at the visitor's heels.  "Come on dog," the visitor
said.  "You should be used to me by now."'

"Maybe he don't like hippies."  Though the Holy Terror smiled, his eyes
seemed to calculate how much bearded beef might dress out by the pound.

"Well, I'd hoped my accent might help."

"Yeah, Bob," Brother Dave said.  "He's from Texas."

"Everybody got to be from somewhere," the Holy Terror said.  
"Ole Lyndon's from Texas, but he never amounted to much."

"Look, beloved," Brother Dave said, laughing nervously. "Would you mind
seeing me tomorrow?"

Junnior provided an escort to the visitor's room, only a small lawn and
a swimming pool away from the Gardner quarters:  "You know who that was
you just met?"

"No," the visitor lied.

Junior produced the Grand Dragon and Holy Terror's calling card, as
neatly and professionally done as that of any Wall Street broker.  
He produced another, this one from a Klan branch located in Natchez,
and bearing the red-letter legend:  "You are WHITE because your
grandfather believed in SEGREGATION."  These documents reduced Junior
to helpless laughter:  "Man, don't that blow your mind?"

"Have you dug those cars?" the visitor looked in the indicated direction
to observe two cars parked near the Gardner quarters.  He noted the
silhouettes of several men.  "You know who they are?"

The visitor guessed they might be associates of the Holy Terror.

"Yeah, man!  I bet they got enough guns to waste half of North Carolina."

This was not comforting as a bedtime thought.  The visitor peered
through the muggy night, lamenting that he had never learned to identify
automobiles beyond their color, being unable to distinguish a Ford from
a Lincoln unless he discovers clues written in manufacturer's chrome.

"They'll be there when the sun comes up, man," Junior chortled.  "The Klan
watches after Dad everywhere he goes.  And they can see your room as
well as my old man's."  

Much cheered by the thought, and stabbing the air with a switchblade, he
turned back to the family quarters where sleep is always taken in shifts
as added protection against midnight conspiracies.  

usertype:3 tt= 0
BillyAAnderson
15# 



Rank:Ethical Pervert

Score:4694

Whatever Happened to ...
(Date Posted:11/09/2011 11:53 AM)

Back in the 1980s, a local public library had the book by 1950s Brazilian Flying Saucer Contactee, Dino Krespedon,
title, "Flying Saucers On the Attack."

They got rid of it later on.

I know that if Dino is still living, he would be a very old man, since he first became a Contactee in the early 1950s.

In the 1960s, he and some other people, became terrorists, launching a campaign to overthrow the Brizilian government, and establish a government of their own.

They were thrwarted in their attempt, but I never learned what happened to Dino and for that matter, his co-conspirators, after they were caught.

Have done one net search so far, but no mention as to whatever happened to Dino, after he was caught in his terrorist activities.


(Message edited by BillyAAnderson On 02/06/2012 9:16 AM)
usertype:3 tt= 0
Deeky
16# 



Rank:Backseat Heat

Score:8850

Re:Whatever Happened to Dino Crespedon?
(Date Posted:11/09/2011 12:14 PM)

Dino Kraspedon (1905–2004) was the pen name of Brazilian Aladino Felix, who claimed to be contacted by an alien. Later in life he publicly recanted his claims of alien contact.

He was born in Pedra do Baú and died in Uberaba, Minas Gerais. In 1959 he published Meu Contato com os Discos Voadores (My Contact with Flying Saucers). The book that tells the story of his claimed contact with a flying saucer commander, who did not give any name, at a road near Kraspedon's homeland. The visitor explained physics concepts from a different perspective, and gave insights on how to improve humanities social conditions. In 1968 he was arrested for suspicion of being a terrorist, after he predicted that there would be a period of terrorism.

usertype:1 tt= 0
BillyAAnderson
17# 



Rank:Ethical Pervert

Score:4694

RE:Whatever Happened to Dino Crespedon?
(Date Posted:11/09/2011 1:48 PM)

Deeky,

Thanks for the update on Dino.  At least we (or, at least, I, me, myself & I, thank you corey haim)
know that Dino is now deceased, after living a very long life, but I would think with his activities
against the Brizilian government, he would have had to serve some prison time.

Or, could he have been tried, and found not guilty?
usertype:3 tt= 0
Deeky
18# 



Rank:Backseat Heat

Score:8850

Re:Whatever Happened to Dino Crespedon?
(Date Posted:11/09/2011 2:34 PM)

Dino Kraspedon was the pen name of Brazilian Aladino Felix, convicted political terrorist, who in 1959 published My Contact with Flying Saucers, a book that told a story very much in the vein of classic USA contactee George Adamski. Felix, or Kraspedon, claimed that in 1952 (the same year as Adamski's alleged contact with Orthon, a completely human "Space Brother" from Venus), he had seen a saucer land in the woods near Paraná, Brazil, and spoken with the completely human space-alien pilot, who later came to Felix's home and had a long, pleasant chat- the substance of which, as related by Felix, was similar to the Theosophical wisdom from Adamski's Space Brothers.
 
The visitor was a nameless alien from the moons of Jupiter, but also a good Christian, who easily converted the self-proclaimed atheist Felix to belief in the God of the Old and New Testaments. Unlike God, the visitor helpfully explained, "Gravity does not exist," relativity is "all wrong," and so is quantum physics. The visitor's various opinions about physics coincided very closely with those previously championed by Felix himself. The visitor also provided Felix with several prophecies, including that "another sun will soon enter our solar system." Much of My Contact with Flying Saucers is available on-line.
 
In 1965, the year of Adamski's death, Felix entered the limelight as a cult leader and prophet. One of Felix's few prophecies that came to pass involved predictions of a wave of bombings, murders and robberies throughout Brazil, throughout the year 1968. When members of the group which claimed responsibility were arrested they reported that Aladino Felix was their leader. Upon being placed in police custody, Felix claimed to be "an ambassador to the earth from Venus." he is also reported to have said that "My friends from space will come here and free me and avenge my arrest. You can look for tragic consequences to humanity when the flying saucers invade this planet." In 1971 Felix was convicted and judged to be dangerously mentally ill; he was confined to an asylum.
usertype:1 tt= 0
BillyAAnderson
19# 



Rank:Ethical Pervert

Score:4694

Re:Whatever Happened to Dino Crespedon?
(Date Posted:11/09/2011 4:17 PM)

Thanks for the additional details, Deeky.
usertype:3 tt= 0
Deeky
20# 



Rank:Backseat Heat

Score:8850

Re:Whatever Happened to Dino Crespedon?
(Date Posted:11/10/2011 9:32 AM)

usertype:1 tt= 0
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