Germans versus Swedes

Every Christmas the Nazis would give me and my sister a Nestle's Crunch bar.

Mrs. Peltz was a sweet old woman with an inviting voice; with the kind of lilt that could lure a child into a house made of candy. We loved her for her Swiss treats over the years and still welcomed them into our tweens! Her husband, Franz, with his leathery face, white, snowy hair, and ruddy cheeks was equally cheery, and was part of the group of family on my Mom's side that made the holidays so fun.

And on that day as the 1960s closed out I was as happy as I had ever been. It was the annual sausage stuffing party; an annual  Swedish tradition in our family, and it was my favorite event of the year. The adults drank homemade glogg until they got loud, and I got to help make the sausage, potatiskorv, which was a mix of ground pork, beef, onions, and potatoes, stuffed into pig's intestines procured from the butcher. The thing that made it fun was that we made it into a competition. Since the intestines were of various lengths, we would honor the stuffer with the longest sausage as champion , and shame the stuffer who came up short. We would take it into the yard and bury it. Everybody at the party got a try.

There was also a sub-competition which pitted the Germans against the Swedes (including my Italian dad). I had fierce Swedish pride, and saw myself as the genetic offspring of my mom with her brown hair and eyes. Even though I was half Italian, i felt more of an affinity with my mom's side of the family. My dad's side, which we had far more contact with, and visited in extended family spaghetti dinner gatherings every Sunday, lived in the city, and were "coarser" in manner and appearance.

I wasn't even half Swedish, although my mom gave us that impression. Her mom's family originated in Bavaria, not her father's Scandinavia. But maybe the Deutsch denial had something to do with her sister-in-law.

Renate, the woman my uncle married, and daughter of Franz and Rita Peltz, had long blonde hair and bright blue eyes. My uncle met her downtown where he was studying law and she was taking classes at the Art Institute. I only remember her colorful paintings of sad clown faces of which we owned a couple. Renate had come to the U.S. from post-war Germany. She described fleeing war on foot through the countryside.

My mom and dad did not like Renate or her parents very much for reasons I would find out years later as my mom lay in hospice. There was a reason she would refer to them as the Nazis with my dad. At that early age I had no idea what a Nazi was--I only knew the Jerries of my favorite show Combat and they were only vaguely threatening), My mom had seen a picture of Frank (as he was called in America) in full Nazi uniform. One time, visiting their house, Frank followed my mom into the bedroom where she had thrown her coat and purse, and made a pass at her, despite being her senior by decades and her family unsuspecting in the living room. Over his shoulder she saw the photo. She must have waited until we got home to tell my dad because I don't recall any kind of scene, and my dad was never the kind of guy to shy away from a fight.

So, as years passed, with my dad holding his tongue, but not his dislike for Frank, the tension grew, and the rest of the family was none the wiser.

Swishing my fingers in the bowl of intestines, I hoped for the right casing. Some were definitely long enough to end up as winners, but it could also be a curse because to stuff a sausage without it breaking was an art. I chose one that looked promising and pulled it over the end of the horn. The hollowed out cow's horn that was used for stuffing was probably the oldest thing I ever held. It was a family heirloom that went way back. I picked up a ball of the mixture and began to stuff it into the casing through the horn. Swedes cheered me on as it looked as though it might take the lead, while the Germans admonished me not to try to make it too long lest it break. My sausage looked like a winner.

Next up, for the competition, was the Austrian, Fritz, a long-time friend of my aunt. Fritz was already a bit too loud and into his cups, but I liked him and found his competitive taunts to make me feel older and worthy of a place at the table. As Fritz stuffed, the Germans roared as it looked like he had selected a potentially winning casing. He blew it though, his fine motor skills compromised by drink, and the sausage broke creating two small links, eliciting giggles of innuendo that went over my head. My uncle grabbed the shovel, and Fritz had his efforts buried in the back yard.

The laughs continued, and drinks were consumed while the sausages boiled. The Germans and the Swedes let loose with songs and dancing, the beer removing the inhibitions of these generally quiet and private people. My dad was not a drinker, and I probably didn't notice him staring at Mr. Peltz.

We drove home. my parents smoking in silence.

Superfly

3.  The Record Club of America was where I got most of my records before I could drive. The deal was sweet; I believe it was six records for a penny to join (plus small shipping charge), with club prices after that. Unlike the Columbia record club where you had to send a pint of blood with full retail price for each record for a year after you received the opening deal (I never did), RCA didn't require you stay in. Of course they went bankrupt.
My first batch included Carole King/Tapestry, Cat Stevens/Catch Bull at Four, Led Zep/lll, Emerson, Lake and Palmer/Pictures at an Exhibition, and the record I'd like to write about today, Curtis Mayfield's Superfly.

Chicago in the early seventies was not pretty. Neither was whatever city dear to your youth either. Philadelphia, NYC, L.A.,Louisville, you name it, there was trash on the street, adult movie houses, prostitutes, and pigeon droppings. The few times I went to downtown Chicago from my suburban home in Northbrook, usually to a movie at the Michael Todd Theater or Marshall Fields, we would park and walk by theaters like the Woods, showing Bruce Lee and Blacula films. Even through the eighties you could park anywhere in the heart of downtown on the street on a Sunday for free because no one was down there. It was a ghost town. We would park a block away to see the Sundowners at the Double-R Ranch on Randolph.

My dad would sometimes take me to his trucking company on Hubbard on Saturday mornings so I could earn a few bucks washing trucks while he killed slow moving poisoned rats with a shovel. The murals that you see on the walls below the train tracks were just being painted. We'd pull up, and there was usually a bevy of hookers sitting on the steps after a long night, who would part so we could enter. Sometimes after taking me for a slice of pizza at D'Amatos he would take me on a tour of the neighborhoods, showing me skid row on Madison St, where the grizzled homeless men lined both sides of the street, paper bags lifted to their lips. Reminds me--my first Bulls game around that time, against the Phoenix Suns with Connie Hawkins and the Van Arsdale boys at the Stadium, some young neighborhood guys said they would watch our car for $5. They did too. And as we walked up, saw the fire escape come down from a door leading to the upper level, as a bunch of neighborhood boys scooted up.

Superfly was ones of those Woods Theater movies. Curtis had success with the Impressions, but this soundtrack was the one that launched his solo career with Freddie's Dead and Superfly crossing over the r&b to pop charts as hits. The pop charts of my youth were truly special and I'm not being a nostalgic old-timer here. Consider that when this record came out, Bill Withers, The O'Jays, and Roberta Flack with Donnie Hathaway shared the top of the playlists with Alice Cooper and the Stones. The diversity was amazing. I grew up loving r&b alongside rock&roll.

Little Child Runnin' Wild opens with Wurlie and congas, cue the hi-hat, then this super-fuzz, super-bad sound comes through (a bass?) with lead guitar. Strings, horns, then the smoothest, most effortless melodic voice in the biz wafts down the street. Curtis paints the picture, doesn't need a movie to show you anything. He's not judging, he's just sayin'. Pusherman is next with that bass line, and the lyrics come tumbling out in anapests, offering whatever you need, coke or weed. Exposition--"Ain't I clean, bad machine, super cool super mean, feeling' good for the man, Superfly, here I stand."
"Got to be mellow, y'all."
Shit, I can't stand when I see frat boys dressed as pimps for Halloween.

Freddie's Dead, the first hit, the one that made me want to buy the record.
"Everybody's misused him, ripped him off and abused him."
In Chicago, Curtis knew lots of Freddies. Ain't nothin' said, cause Freddie's dead.
"Hey hey love love ha ha love love." Those ha ha's showing that the street has no time for love.
In the bridge, Curtis pleads in 1st person--"All I want is some peace of mind, with a little love I'm trying to find."

Superfly. The character in the movie just didn't live up to the lyrics. "This cat of the slum, had a mind, wasn't dumb" Curtis writes, "If you lose , don't ask no questions why." Nobody going to give you answers.

The sounds on this record are familiar to anyone who grew up on seventies cop shows. Chucka-chucka wah-wah guitar, the strings, shuffling drum beat--you heard it on shows like Kojak. But Curtis has the guitar chops to give it soul to go with that hot-buttered voice.

It is so tragic Curtis is not around today--he would have been making great music. Check out Roots, Curtis, Back to the World or There's No Place Like America Today for the best of the best.

Chicago cleaned up downtown by the nineties. All the cities did. Blame Richard J. Daley for what Chicago was in the seventies. You can bet the wards with the aldermen delivering for the machine looked just fine. Most racially segregated city in the nation. Jane Byrne started to turn it around after the Boss died of a grabber, then Harold Washington truly began to even the playing field. Little Richie, same bad grammar as daddy with less dese and dos, maybe, but brought back the game of playing favorites and no-bid contracts, and miles of black wrought-iron fence. Privatized everything, and now Chicago is nice and sparkly. In the neighborhoods he wanted it to be. If you ask around you can still find Superfly.