Chasing The Ghost Of Kerouac (Chapter Three)

This is the last installment in a concise three part series documenting my search for the ghost of Jack Kerouac.

To The Home of The Beats

When I first arrived in San Francisco, Kerouac was three years dead and the Beat movement long past, having given birth to a newer generation of free spirited youth ---- the dreadful Hippies. Of course, the apex of the 'Love Generation' had come and gone as well, leaving Haight Street choking on it's own vomit and the city reeling under the deluge of long hairs. Much larger in scope than the Beat influx of the decade prior, the Hippies were more of an occupation, drawing participants from the far-flung corners of the globe; the afterbirth of the cool. My reason for touching down in ol' Frisco had more to do with the legacy of the Beat poets than a journey to the Mecca of Flower Power. Obviously, I couldn't help but be involved with the new scene. After all, it was my generation! My hair was longish, although I tended to gravitate toward baggy cuffed slacks, button-down shirt collars and slope shouldered sport coats over buckskins and beads; a sort of professorial hipster. Because the San Francisco Hippies were more involved with dressing in period costume as Frank Zappa often satirized, I was accepted by my peers as long as I demonstrated a sympatico relationship with the patchouli crowd. I sought out many of the alleyways and after-hour jazz joints that I had read about in Kerouac's books, ferreting the backstreets, but disappointed to find the jazz clubs mostly silent, boarded and ghostly. Vesuvio's became a spiritual touchstone, as did the neighboring City Lights just across the back lane (now called Kerouac Alley). And then of course there was Jack's beloved Third Street, the skid row of elegant Frisco. Far from 'Love Central,' the SOMA district of Kerouac's railroad days was a decidedly unfashionable, down and out part of town. It still was in 1971, although today you'd be hard pressed to find any of the same pedigree of earthly humanity that so fascinated and inspired Jack in his time. The rents were still cheap, as was the food. The climate still temperate and the living free, but it was a new time, a new scene, and a new generation that I encountered. The clubs where I saw many a great show and befriended many a good soul, now flourished with acid rock and light shows, the vibe being altogether beatific, though not quite Beat. However, out on the streets and in the alleyways roamed the restless ghost of Kerouac, a spirit that continues to haunt me still today.

Memory Babe

Jack Kerouac is the de-facto poster child for the Beat Generation, as iconic as Che Guevara, Bob Dylan, FDR or JFK. Largely dismissed by the staid literati of his day, his writings (as well as those of his contemporaries) are now acknowledged for the revolutionary genius that they brought to American literature. But for all the reverence that Kerouac's ghost commands today, he was not entirely the kingly hipster saint for which he is often portrayed. In fact, he was quite human and terribly flawed, perhaps his greatest sin being his cruel and complete rejection of his very lovely daughter, Jan Kerouac, a tragic and talented writer herself. Despite Jack's reputation for freewheeling kicks, sexual experimentation and global travel, it was that and the frequent returns to the apron strings of his mother, Gabrielle that frequently get overlooked by those who deify him. I sometimes think that if I had met him in his element, I would not have liked him for the man he was. Of course, if I had met Jack in his element, I would have been a different person that I am today, and therefore may have felt much differently. But it has always been the power of his writing that has enamored me, rather than the romance of his beatific legacy. I am fortunate that Kerouac's jazz voice spoke to an element within me that has in fact, shaped who I am today, and for that, I am eternally grateful. Can you dig it?

Last Words On The Music

Gil Scott-Heron has admirably kept the spirit of poetry and music alive in the latter half of the 20th Century with his many fine recordings, particularly those on the Flying Dutchman label. Bob Dorough has always been a hipster and lived through the the same period as Kerouac, as did Lenny Bruce who unfortunately passed far too soon. Jackie McLean, also gone, was the ultimate in coolness with his jagged tone and dark demeanor and is represented here with 'Inding.' Allen Ginsberg, Young Tom Waits and Thelonious Monk return with additional contributions to the canon, as does the comedy of Del Close and John Brent with their hilarious send-up of hipster, Geets Romo struggling in vain to explain hep lingo to his hopelessly straight laced interviewer. Poet, Michael McClure howls with the king of beasts in the den of lions at the controversial San Francisco Zoo, and Yours Truly contributes one last piece to round out the proceedings. J.J. Johnson, Bobby Jaspar, Gigi Gryce, Phineas Newborn and Kenneth Patchen also help out. Did I forget Sarah Webster Fabio? Oop-Pop-Pa-Da!

1) The Rat Race Blues/Gigi Gryce

2) Shorty Petterstein Interview/Lenny Bruce
3) Inding/Jackie McLean
4) The Revolution Will Not Be Televised/Gil Scott-Heron
5) The Loose Wig/Del Close & John Brent
6) America/Allen Ginsberg
with New Blues/Phineas Newborn Jr.
7) Hollywood And Vine/Miles Mellough
8) As I Opened The Window/Kenneth Patchen w/Alan Neil
9) Sweet Songs/Sarah Webster Fabio
10) Lucien Midnight, Pt.1/Jack Kerouac
11) Double Up/Bobby Jaspar
12) Put-On, Putdown, Come-On, Comedown, Bringdown
/Del Close & John Brent
13) Charles Yardbird Parker Was His Name/Bob Dorough
14) Misterioso/J.J. Johnson
15) Diamonds On My Windshield/Young Tom Waits
16) Grahhh! Michael In The Lion's Den/Michael McClure
17) No Knock/Gil Scott-Heron
18) Ruby, My Dear/Thelonious Monk

To download, click here. Collect all 3 compilations and be the hippest cat (or kitty) on the block!