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Once upon a time — or more accurately, back in the 1970s — the van reigned supreme. Riding in right on the heels of the fading muscle car era, the custom van became the ultimate self-expression vehicle– tricked-out and personalized to show all the world just how your bad self rolled. They were badass, man– a portable pampered pad that allowed you to take all your extra-curricular activities of sorts (legal or lotharious) on the road– and there were custom shops on every corner back then that would customize your ride with a kick-ass sound system, lighting, shag carpeting, Captains chairs, beds, bubble windows, louvres, spoilers, mag wheels, custom horns, CB radios– and don’t forget to top it all off with a one-off airbrushed paint job depicting your choice of Wizard, Warlock, Wave or Western scenic. It may be time for a comeback, folks– especially with the home foreclosure rate being what it is…
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From the desk of Contributing Editor, Eli M. Getson–
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The first reported kidnapping of "Bill the goat" was perpetrated one week before the Army-Navy football game of '53. West Point cadets snuck onto the Annapolis grounds, assisted by a West Point exchange student living at the Naval Academy. After locating the goat behind the stadium, the cadets stashed "Bill" in the back of a convertible-- however, their cover was blown when the goat's horns shredded the car's top. The cadets successfully made it back to West Point and presented the goat to the entire Corps at a raucous dinnertime pep rally-- however, many Navy midshipmen refused to resume classes until "Bill" was returned. After the goat's return was ordered by officials from West Point (as well as President Dwight D. Eisenhower himself, a West Point grad), the Army cadets staged a mass protest which was posted on the front page of several New York papers as "Goat Rebellion at West Point." The Army football team went on to defeat Navy 20-7.
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"Billy" the goat, under the watchful eye of Naval Academy caretakers.
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Every year since 1890, the Navy Midshipmen and Army Cadets meet in the cold of Early December, to play one of the great games in all of American sports. I’m hard-pressed to think of any other rivalry in all of sports extending that far back, with as much history, sentiment and anticipation as Army-Navy.
While the football fortunes of both service academies have risen and fallen– the grace, tradition, and style of this game endures.
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Original caption, November 1923-- This photo shows the Navy goat and the Army mule wishing each other good luck, in their own peculiar language, before the game. --- Image by © Bettmann. In 1899, at the Army-Navy Game, the Navy football team appeared with a mascot, a handsome if smelly goat. Army fans looked hastily for a mascot of their own. The Army mule was already legendary for its roughness and endurance, so the mule was obvious. A quartermaster in Philadelphia stopped a passing ice truck, and the big white mule pulling it became the first Army mascot. Dolled up in leggings, a collar and a gray blanket, with black gold and gray streamers fluttering from his ears, this mule met the Navy goat and - according to West Point legend - "hoisted that astonished goat toward the Navy stands to the delight of the laughing crowd." Army won the game too, 17-5. --via The Army Football Club.
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1912 -- The Army Mule at Army-Navy Football Game -- Image by © Bettmann.
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The William Gedney series continued–
This time we turn our attention to Gedney’s incredible shots of bikers back from ‘66 & ‘67, taken in both New York and San Francisco. The custom handlebar work, while a little over-the-top, is pretty amazing to see, and a real moment in time. Great stuff by an artist who immersed himself in his work– often living with his subjects for a period of time (as he did with the Kentucky coalminer family from the previous Gedney post), and experiencing a level of intimacy that few photographers would dare to risk.
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Man on ornate motorcycle, New York-- taken 1967. William Gedney Photographs and Writings. Duke University Rare Book, Manuscript, and Special Collections Library. http://library.duke.edu/digitalcollections/gedney/
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Nazi bikers and motorcyle, New York-- taken 1967. William Gedney Photographs and Writings. Duke University Rare Book, Manuscript, and Special Collections Library. http://library.duke.edu/digitalcollections/gedney/
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Just look at what 10,000 clams bought back in 1951. Go ahead, eat your heart out– I am.
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Man driving car and drinking can of beer. Kentucky, 1972. William Gedney Photographs and Writings Duke University Rare Book, Manuscript, and Special Collections Library. http://library.duke.edu/digitalcollections/gedney/
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Chances are, if you’re reading this you’re like me– isolated from the starkness and poverty represented in William Gedney’s haunting, honest images of Kentucky life taken back in 1964 & 1972. We get wrapped up in our own comfortable little coccoon and forget that there’s a world out there, even today, without the internet, shopping malls, and Starbucks. Driving across this great country years ago, and seeing parts of the rural south with my own eyes exposed me to a way of life in the outskirts of America that I was largely ignorant of. Most of us have a whole lot to be thankful for, like the simple conveniences and access that we overlook everyday.
From the mid 1950s through the early 1980s, William Gedney (1932-1989) photographed throughout the United States (as well as India, and Europe). From street scenes outside his Brooklyn apartment, to the daily chores of unemployed coal miners, and the indolent lifestyle of hippies in Haight-Ashbury– Gedney recorded the lives of others with remarkable clarity and poignancy. These photographs (along with his notebooks and writings), illuminate the vision of an intensely private man who, as a writer and photographer, revealed the lives of others with striking sensitivity.
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Boy covered by dirt smoking cigarette with one hand, holding can of tobacco in other. Kentucky, 1964. William Gedney Photographs and Writings Duke University Rare Book, Manuscript, and Special Collections Library. http://library.duke.edu/digitalcollections/gedney/
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“You know when Robert Johnson said ‘you gotta move’ — I figured that out. It’s like, you’re happily floating through nothing– you know, nothingness. All of a sudden, a big giant fish, they way I picture it… grabs you and… puts you in a form, and slams you on the face of this veil of tears, and says– You’ve gotta move! “
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1960, Reno, Nevada -- The cast, writer, and director of The Misfits. Montgomery Clift as Perce Howland, Eli Wallach as Guido, screenwriter Arthur Miller, director John Huston, Clark Gable as Gay Langland, and Marilyn Monroe as Roslyn Taber (and who had recently divorced Miller) -- Image by © Underwood & Underwood
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There are certain films of the 1950s-60s that capture what I love best– Hollywood icons clad in cool denim. The Wild One… Rebel Without a Cause… and the list goes on. Wild, rebellious, good-looking misfits wreaking havoc on the mainstream squares– and doing it wearing denim all the while. Yes.
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Marilyn Monroe (in her Lee Storm Rider jacket) & Monty Clift (who wore Lee Riders jeans) in John Huston's 1961 film The Misfits.
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Marilyn Monroe wore her fair share of denim back in the day– both onscreen and off. In The Misfits, alongside costar Montgomery Clift, you see great Lee icons of denim history well worn by Hollywood’s finest. It’s an added bonus for a film that’s a true classic, and full of real-life irony, sadness and loss of epic proportion– which just serves to add to my sentimental yearnings for this bygone Hollywood era.
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Introducing the first of hopefully many guest posts by TSY’s good friend and resident menswear savant– Mr. Eli M. Getson. Eli and I worked together years ago at Polo Ralph lauren– I always appreciated his quick smile, incredible humor, and fun-loving style. Mr. Getson has long been threatening to contribute to TSY with his own nostalgic ramblings & rants on sports, music & menswear– and now he’s finally making good on his word.
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Tao can be roughly translated into English as path, or the way. It is basically indefinable– referring to a power which envelops, surrounds and flows through all things, living and non-living. The Tao regulates natural processes and nourishes balance in the Universe. It has to be experienced in order to be truly understood.
For me, no other athlete better embodies this “flow” — using the natural passive power in the universe that flows through all of us and turning it into kinetic energy — than Julius “Dr. J” Erving. I will never forget watching him back in the day– high socks, short shorts, Converse high tops, his luxurious Afro blowing slightly back as he elevated, and the red, white, & blue ball of the ABA held in his massive hand so it looked like a grapefruit as he prepared to ascend to the hoop to wreak utter devastation on the opposition, and leave the earthbound mortals unable to do anything except gape in awe.
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Alice Cooper drinks a beer as his two companions enjoy a glass of champagne in front of a white Rolls-Royce in Hollywood, California. -- Image by © Neal Preston
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When I was around 10 yrs old the family needed a new start, so we packed up and left upstate NY– headed out west. We jammed everything we had, including the ol’ man’s ‘79 Harley Low Rider, into the back of a rusted-out old maxi-van and hit the road. That cross-country trip is one I’ll never forget… After a quick stop in Anaheim, we set sight for Phoenix, AZ. We didn’t have a whole lot of prospects, no job waiting or family to speak of. But if you’re determined and willing to roll up yer’ sleeves and work your way up, you can get ahead in America– even now, no matter what people say. Mom wasn’t above waiting tables to feed us kids, and badass biker man worked at a machine shop that ground-out those threaded connectors you see on the end of coaxial cable. It was a nasty place– the oil flowing through the massive screw machines hung in the air like fog, and he’d come home at the end of the night shift soaked to the bone. We started our new life in Arizona living out of a tent in the desert north of Phoenix. It was pretty wild out there– you could sometimes feel the rattlers slither under the tent at night to cozy-up to the warmth of our bodies just on the other side of the thin tent floor. Soon we had graduated from the tent to a trailer in Glendale, and finally to a modest rented home of our own on the west side of town– all thanks to a lot of elbow grease and grit. I admire the work ethic and sacrifice my mom and stepdad put forth back then, and consider myself lucky to have been through all that I have, because I know I’m a survivor who can face most situations head-on and come out on top– or at least alive.
Try to put the screws on me, and I’ll screw right from under ya’.
I remember when we started to do pretty well as a family, and moved from the west side of Phoenix to the more affluent east side. Well, I’d be lyin’ if I didn’t say that it felt like The Jeffersons– movin’ on up, brother. I spent my formative years living, working, and carousing town– Biltmore, Arcadia, Paradise Valley and Scottsdale. The Valley as they call it, while well populated and spread-out, still had a small town feel back then. Now it’s mostly an endless, soul-less strip mall with a revolving door of comers and goers. People around town knew each other back in the day, and put down roots. And we had our share of local celebrities that you’d see out and about. Guys like Rob Halford of Judas Priest, Glen Campbell, and you guessed it, Alice Cooper. Where did I meet Alice Cooper? Where else– at church. Oh, and the car wash. Alice is one of the nicest guys you’ll ever meet. And a helluva golfer to boot.
Don’t go judgin’ a book by it’s cover.
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Eric Clapton of Cream and Producer Felix Pappalardi during a recording session for the album Disraeli Gears at Atlantic Studios --- Image by © Michael Ochs Archives
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I’ll never forget the first time I saw a picture of Todd Rundgren holding what I immediately deemed to be the coolest guitar in the world. I’m a bit of a guitar nut– I’ve got a nice little stable of beauties currently, and I tell myself that I’d play more if it weren’t for TSY and a few other distractions– another thing on the list of things I’d love to do more frequently. Anyway, the image of that majestic hand-painted Gibson SG was forever seared on my mind’s eye. Later, I learned more about the coveted guitar– it’s creation by the hands of a 1960s Dutch design duo called the Fool, the mysterious changing of hands among notable guitarists over the years, and the recent sale to a collector who paid in the neighborhood of $500,000 for the legendary axe. It’s amazing what a little paint can do…
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Eric Clapton of Cream, one of the hottest trios (along with the Jimi Hedrix Experience) on the 1960s.
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October 16th, 1971, inside of two weeks before Duane's death on Oct. 29th. Gregg Allman, Duane Allman, & Berry Oakley above. Duane and Berry died in separate motorcycle accidents-- Duane in 1971 and Berry in 1972. So, I'm trying hard not to focus on the crazy shirts, but they're pretty smokin' man. Are they Nik Nik shirts?
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There’s an overwhelming feeling of worldly injustice and “what could’ve been”, when someone so gifted and young is taken from us like Duane Allman was. The only consolation we have (and a sweet one it is), are the incredible tracks he laid down with The Allman Brothers Band, Derek and the Dominoes, and his session works in the studio with great artists like Aretha Franklin, King Curtis, B.B. King, and Clarence Carter. And if you think he was just a great slide player and string bender– check out the blistering lead work on You Don’t Love Me.
I can’t believe that 38 years have already passed since the day Duane Allman hopped on his Harley after a party in Macon, Georgia– not knowing it would be for the last time. He only got a few miles down the road, when a truck turned in front of him and Duane clipped it’s back end. Allman lost control, and the Harley landed on top of him, sustaining injuries that would take his life within a few short hours. The lead guitarist of the Allman Brothers Band, who was gaining huge acclaim for his exciting and innovative sound and style, was dead at age 24.
Jerry Wexler’s eulogy for Duane sums it up best: “This young and beautiful man who we love so dearly but who is not lost to us, because we have his music, and the music is imperishable.”
Amen, brother. Amen.
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November 24th, 1969, Muscle Shoals, Alabama -- Wilson Pickett and Duane Allman.
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The Oakland Motorcycle Club group photo in front of W.P. Williams Excelsior Motorcycles, circa 1910s.
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Founded in 1907, the Oakland Motorcycle Club has a long history & heritage of turning out hellacious old school hill-climbers, modern-day enduro jockeys, and all-around raucous riders. Checkout the tonnage of awe-inspiring vintage photos documenting their historical group shots, outdoor motor-sports, and runs galore on good ol’classic American iron– Indian & Harley Davidson motorcycles.
And if the bike action doesn’t get ya’, their gear-head meets The Great Gatsby style certainly will.
Bow ties, shawl collars & jodphurs– oh my.
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Oakland Motorcycle Club members, circa 1920s.
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