Archive for the ‘Memories’ Category

The Music of Goodfellas: or How “Hail Atlantis” Will Always Remind Me of Whacking Billy Bats

Wednesday, December 2nd, 2009

Donovan’s “Hail Atlantis” is a strange song in its own right.  The first part of the song is a spoken poem about the fall of the mythical city of Atlantis.  Then the song becomes a catchy ballad pining for an antediluvian love submerged way down below the ocean.  When I hear this song all I can think of is Joe Pesci and Robert DeNiro beating the life out of Billy Bats with a .38 on the floor of The Suite.

Goodfellas was the Scorsese movie that should have won the Oscar.  The frantic, disjointed, yet engaging epic is the peak of Scorsese’s cinematic vision.  Many have tried to replicate it; even borrowing small partitions of its dense scope and having it unfurl into entire movies.

Every time I stumble upon Goodfellas on TV I have to watch the entire thing.  Even TV censored Goodfellas is compelling.  I have probably seen the whole movie, front to back, ten times, but I have seen the movie from Henry’s wedding 15 times, seen it from the whacking of Billy Bats 30 times, seen it from the Lufthansa heist 40 times, and so on.  Seeing segments of this movie so many times has corrupted my recollections, and the artists intended meanings of the soundtrack’s canon of classic rock songs.

Eric Clapton features two of his classics in the movie; two staples of the 60s that will forever remind me of mob violence.  The lumbering guitar intro to Sunshine for Your Love accompanies Robert DeNiro smoking a cigarette while  murdering his associates in the Lufthansa heist with his eyes.  But Sunshine for Your Love isn’t as altered as the piano coda of Layla, a montage of smooth camera movements perfectly complimented by the rolling, seamless piano showing the bodies of all everyone involved in the Lufthansa heist from a couple’s lifeless faces frozen in freight in their new pink Cadillac to Frankie Carbone hanging in a meat truck frozen stiff.  Everytime I hear the end of Layla this is what I think about, not Pattie Boyd like I’m supposed to.  Dead mobsters.

There are even situations in my daily life that conjure Goodfellas music.  Driving to work, if I see a helicopter in the sky I start thinking about Henry Hill watching the helicopter watching him, then what pops into my head?  Magic Bus by the Who, and it’s only a portion of it; the “Iwaaaant-itIwaaaant-itIwaaaant-it” right before he nearly gets into the accident.  This goes the same if I ever hear Magic Bus on the radio, I start thinking about Henry Hill’s coked-out helicopter panic.  Magic Bus is the only song that gets a roundabout association where a helicopter goes to the movie clip as does the song.  The Rolling Stone’s Monkey Man one refers me back to the movie clip when I hear it on the radio.

Though the process has been copied throughout movies since, Goodfellas is the most prominent example of taking well-known classic music, throwing it around in situations where the songs’ lyrics and theme don’t apply with what happening on screen, and somehow everything making sense in the end.  Somehow Hail Atlantis is the perfect song for beating the life out of Billy Bats, I can’t imagine another in its place.


Whacking Billy Bats.


Henry’s Coked-up Helicopter Freakout.

Big Ol’ Jet Airliner

Friday, August 28th, 2009

The Steve Miller Band is a classic rock staple, but not a band lauded and praised like others.  They don’t draw much attention to themselves, yet they don’t offend.  When you hear one of their songs at the grocery store you don’t get excited, but you do look to the speakers in the ceiling and say, “Good tunes.”

This song popped up on Q95 while driving through BF Hancock county for my job.  That big ol’ jet airliner always takes me back to the summer of ‘99, a simpler time before shoe bombers, bailouts, and the Department of Homeland Security.  The neo-hippy movement was in its dying throes of cultural relevance ready to be replaced by the aughts’ 1980’s redux blugh. That is, except at the Deer Creek Music Center for the Steve Miller Band concert.

Sorry to say, but that big ol’ jet airliner fills me with memories of frustration and disappointment.  The whirlwind of teenage hormone and chemical consciousness grew ripe in the lawn of that amphitheater.  Particularly struck was a nubile young nymph in a high-cropped t-shirt showing a midsection I’ve never seen comparable on another woman.  She approached my friend and I with a face of chemically misguided intent on the legs of a baby horse taking its first steps.

Quickly I learned I was not her target.  She was after my friend, who had a girlfriend, and I endured an entire night of this downright abnormally attractive woman desperately putting the moves on a man who’d have none.  Many times I tried to redirect her attention from my friend onto me, even with the help of said friend, but she remained undeterred, even to the point of asking me what was wrong with my friend.  Why wouldn’t he maul her?

Staring out 200 yards away at the stage the Steve Miller Band played oblivious to my problems.  The soundtrack to the height of my frustration, Big Ol’ Jet Airliner.  Yes, carry me far away; far, far away for this inescapable madness.  It’s not here that I want to stay!

That jet airliner carried me ten years later to now.  No one to my knowledge made the nymph that night.  Even if the tables turned, and I did roll around in the cool lawn with this teenage aberration, my luck would have left me with cold sores at best.  A worst I’d have made her my wife after knocking her up at 17.  I’d bounce from factory temp jobs while she’d stay at home with the kids and whatever drug dealer she was romping with while I was away.  And as I’d watch her perfect body quickly deteriorate, I’d be wishing I was where I am right now.

Even as time keeps on slipping, slipping, slipping; the frustrations of that night diminish more and more.  The only regrets now are those felt by my friend, whose girlfriend he so supernaturally maintained his loyalty for repaid him by dropping him on his ass a few weeks later.  Now everytime I see him he mentions what could have been.  Time has made the memory nothing to get excited about, kind of like the Steve Miller Band.