Remembering Fred Willard in “This Is Spinal Tap”

Fred Willard was a regular in Christopher Guest’s “mockumentaries”, including memorable comedic turns in “Best In Show” (“I went to one of those obedience places once… it was all going well until they spilled hot candle wax on my private parts”) and “A Mighty Wind” (“I used to say, if he’s got a long enough hose, he’ll have a lot of friends in the shower room.”) Perhaps less famous – but equally funny – is his brief appearance in “This Is Spinal Tap.”

A Fred Willard younger than the one many may remember from Guest’s later films portrays Lt. Hookstratten, the band’s contact for a gig at a military base. Willard plays the role straight; the comedy comes from the disconnect between the officer and the jaded, road-weary musicians. “These haircuts wouldn’t pass military muster,” he counsels them before admitting, “I shouldn’t talk, though, I’m getting a little shaggy myself. Better not stand too close to you, people might think I’m part of the band. I’m joking, of course.”

Part of what makes “Spinal Tap” so great is that the humor works on multiple levels. The main gag of the military base scene is that, after Willard requests “a couple of slow numbers, so I can dance” there’s a cut to the band playing “Sex Farm.” However, “Spinal Tap” has also earned its reputation from its dead-on portrayal of the annoyances, quirks and peccadilloes of the music business. The awkwardness that hangs in the air during Spinal Tap’s time on the base has drawn laughs and cringes in equal measures from musicians who have lived through similar moments with talent buyers, corporate liaisons, bridal party members and city officials who, however well meaning they may be, have likely never spent much time around musicians and simply don’t know how to relate to us. (To be fair, we often aren’t able to relate to them.)

“We are such fans of your music and all of your records. I’m not speaking of yours personally, but the whole genre of the rock and roll,” says Willard. As he leads them to the stage, he asks, “Did you ever run into a musical group out of Kansas City, calls themselves Four Jacks and a Jill? They’ve been at a Ramada Inn there for about eighteen months…”

I’ve quoted the Willard scene numerous times over the years with bandmates during similarly uncomfortable moments on gigs and have replayed it in my mind as well, including when a student’s mother asked me what I did for a living and when I was asked by a restaurant owner why I hadn’t brought any ice. Though Willard’s scene might not be as famous as the ill-fated “Stonehenge” performance, the amplifiers that go to 11 or the unexplained drummer deaths, it is just as painfully funny. Mr. Willard, on behalf of all of the musicians who have encountered the Lt. Hookstrattens of the world, we want to thank you for giving us such a relatable scene. Rest easy and we’ll raise a glass to you when we’re watching Four Jacks and a Jill at the Ramada.

Remembering Little Richard

I blame you, Richard Wayne Penniman.

I blame you for all the grief I’ve gotten about having outdated tastes in music. It all started with you, amigo. When I was in junior high school, how was I supposed to get excited about the prefabricated pop of Tiffany and Debbie Gibson, the polished self-importance of INXS, the hair of Poison or the don’t-even-get-me-started of the New Kids on the Block after experiencing the uninhibited, impulsive energy of “Tutti Frutti” and “Long Tall Sally”? As soon as I heard your music (courtesy of “Oldies 103” – WODS-FM) I wanted more. You turned me on to Jerry Lee Lewis, Carl Perkins, the Beach Boys, the Beatles, the Stones, Creedence and other bands that meant more to me than George Michael and Bobby Brown ever could.

I blame you for inspiring me to get up on stage and feeling for the first time in my life as if I had something to offer, then deciding that maybe I could do this for a living.

I blame you for keeping me going when playing music for a living seemed to no longer be what I wanted to do. I was getting ready to walk away. But no. A friend’s band needed a sub on bass and though I considered passing on it, I took the gig. When we jammed on “Rip It Up” and “Ready Teddy” I suddenly remembered what I’d been missing. The chemistry was undeniable and, knowing that I used to play keys (I blame you again) they decided to expand to a five-piece once the regular bassist was back. The band whose sub gig I almost declined ended up becoming the best, busiest and most enjoyable I’d ever been in. But it still might have been easier to just walk away from music and it’s your fault I didn’t.

I blame you for reminding us yet again of what we’ve lost. Chuck Berry and Fats Domino in ’17, Hal Blaine last year and now you: the musicians who shaped the landscape of popular culture over the last 50 years are slowly leaving us and they will never be replaced. Of course nobody lives forever and 87 was a damn good run – especially by rock’n’roll standards. You considerably outlived many of the great musicians whose losses we’ve mourned in the last few years: David Bowie, Glenn Frey, Prince, Gregg Allman, Walter Becker, Ric Ocasek and Neil Peart to name a few. They all owe you a debt; if you didn’t influence them directly, you influenced the musicians who influenced them. But I still blame you.

I blame you for making me feel. Many times I’ve wondered if music just doesn’t speak to me as it once did and it would be a lot easier if that was true. But it’s not. To deny the energy of “Good Golly Miss Molly” or “Keep A-Knockin” is futile. I’ve spent years learning music and years trying to teach it, but you can’t be taught or learned. You never gave a tiny desk concert; you never played Coachella or SXSW; you were never taught in songwriting classes. But you gave me and 60 years of other musicians something that no one else could. I thank you. I will miss you.

But I still blame you.