Art Fein’s Poker Party

Art Fein: A Fan’s Notes
by Neal McCabe

I first discovered Lil’ Art’s Poker Party early in the show’s existence while randomly clicking on my selector box for Theta Cable TV, which I had ordered so I could watch the Z Channel. The public access channel seemed to be populated entirely by weird and unwatchable vanity productions, but the Poker Party was clearly something different – it was sui generis, that’s for sure. I immediately began setting my VCR to tape the show, which wasn’t as easy as it sounds, because the public access channel had no regular schedule, and it soon became part of my morning routine to check the Theta program listings as they scrolled by in hopes of finding a new episode of the Poker Party. When one suddenly popped up, my week was made! Was I an obsessed fan? You betcha!

I was content to be an ordinary viewer throughout the 80s and 90s, but with the advent of the Internet I spotted something new: Art Fein started including his email address at the end of each show, and every once in a while I would send him a message along the lines of “I loved your discussion on the most recent show, and you might find this interesting...” He would always respond politely with something like “Thanks for watching” - and that was that. This extremely intermittent correspondence (if you want to call it that) continued for a few years, until one day he responded with “I think we should meet. Come to the next Poker Party taping.”

It was as if Robert Benchley had dropped me a line saying, “See you next week at the Algonquin Round Table.” Or if Eddie Cochran had called me up to say, “I’ll be recording at Gold Star next week with Guybo and Larry Levine – you should come by...”

When I was first ushered into the Poker Party green room in Santa Monica, I saw two familiar faces: Hudson Marquez and Paul Body. I can date this event quite accurately because Hudson was talking about his recent attendance at the funeral of Jack Nitzsche, which took place in August 2000. I had to pinch myself because here I was observing a backstage mini-Poker Party taking place entirely for my benefit. Paul Body gave me the fisheye, however, as is if to say, “Who is this interloper – this intruder into our inner sanctum?” Art hadn’t had time to properly introduce us – heck, he hadn’t had time to introduce himself! – and I respected Paul’s reserve, because I have known far too many unctuous glad handers, and Mr. Body is no phony.

I didn’t really have a chance to interact with Art that day, so he said, “I’ll be at McCabe’s Guitar Shop to watch P.F. Sloan play. Why don’t you come by so we can talk.”

When I took my seat at McCabe’s, I looked to my right and saw that I was sitting next to Marilyn Wilson. I then glanced over at her companions and exclaimed, “Hey, you’re the Honeys!” I then stupidly asked Marilyn why she was there. “Oh, we’ve known Phil forever,” she patiently explained, and I thought to myself, “I’ve been here for thirty seconds and I’m already hanging with the Honeys – thanks entirely to Art Fein.”

When Art arrived, I rose to reintroduce myself, and we had our very first in-person conversation. It did not go well. Art Fein did not believe in small talk. He immediately started to quiz me: “When I say this, what does it mean to you?” He then recited something I did not recognize. “Not a thing,” I replied. “OK, how about this,” he continued. He recited something else, and my reply was the same: “That means nothing to me.” This inquisition went on for a while longer, and I couldn’t help but think to myself: “Here I’ve known this guy for two minutes, and I’m already failing a test!” It turned out that he was reciting the lyrics to Bo Diddley B-sides from the late 50’s, and he was giving me the equivalent of a school placement exam. Was I going to be in a class with the bright kids, or with the slow kids? I was clearly one of the slow kids. I had no way of knowing this at the time, but thirty years earlier he had put John Lennon through the same ordeal, and poor John also flunked the test and had to stay after school at Art Fein’s Academy of Rock ‘n’ Roll.

Why is this story important? Because it shows that Art treated everybody the same. He didn’t care if you were a Beatle, or (in my case) a letter carrier (better known to Paul Body as “The Twistin’ Postman”). Art Fein was happy to offer remedial education to both John and me, and we both benefited from his expertise.

But it wasn’t just about music with Art: “Have you read the comic novels of Peter De Vries?” he asked me one day. Well, I hadn’t, but you can be sure that I did. Everyone who knew Art Fein can list the discoveries they made thanks to him, but what I’ll remember most are the phone calls I received out of the blue: “You wanna come over?” he would ask. This meant that I was in for an unforgettable day, and unless I was stuck going to work I always headed out to Art’s place with a smile on my face. He just loved to hang out with somebody who was on the same wavelength. One day he would sit me down to watch rare videos of the Collins Kids on The Steve Allen Show. Or I would help him paint his daughter Jessie’s bedroom purple. Or I might accompany him on his daily errands (to the library, to the auto mechanic, to the thrift shop), but it was never boring because he kept up a running commentary that made each moment magical. Is this hyperbole? Not at all. He was always bumping into people that he knew, and once they parted ways he would tell me fascinating stories about that person – what they did for a living, how he knew them, etc. – which made me want to know them too.

In the end, though, it all came down to music with Art, and his love of music changed my life. Again, this is not hyperbole. If you were fortunate enough (and only after enrolling at his academy!) he would contribute to your continuing education by sending you expertly crafted cassette mix tapes. I’ve still got ‘em all. Each tape had its own catalog number, a clever title and a typewritten list of its carefully curated contents. A rare and amazing rockabilly record would be followed by a Broadway show tune, then a swinging track from a long out-of-print Sammy Davis Jr. LP, and so on. I never consulted the song list before listening to these tapes because I wanted to be surprised – and I always was.

Then one day Art really threw me. I finally heard a song I recognized: “Beyond the Sea” by Bobby Darin. But wait a second: it was sung by a woman in French, and the lush arrangement featured gorgeous swirling flutes. I was flummoxed: “This sure doesn’t sound like some guy visiting his girlfriend on a boat.” Something had been concealed from me, I realized. Art had included Juliette Gréco singing “La Mer,” Charles Trenet’s ode to the wonders of the sea, and upon further investigation I discovered that the American pop version (while quite adequate for it purpose) had stripped away every bit of poetry from the original French lyrics. I wondered what else I had been missing all this time (i.e., my entire life) so I started to investigate French pop music. This quest inevitably led me to Johnny Hallyday, the French Elvis, who was known to me only as a complete joke (on this, all music experts were agreed), but who turned out to be indeed the French Elvis – and thanks to a tip from an eminent Francophile named Paul Body (by now my good friend) I became acquainted with the music of Johnny’s best friend, Eddy Mitchell, who turned out be one of the greatest singers and songwriters of the 20^th and 21^st centuries. I eventually met Eddy Mitchell.

All of this happened because Art Fein somehow took a liking to me.

One day Art called me up and said: “They’re gonna be showing Jailhouse Rock in a new print at the Egyptian and Mike Stoller will be there. You gotta come!” I did, of course, and there on the wide screen was Elvis Presley in all his 1957 glory. At one point Art tapped me on the shoulder, leaned over and whispered: “Wasn’t he beautiful?” I certainly couldn’t argue with that.

This moment was characteristic of Art Fein. It wasn’t enough that he saw something beautiful in the world, be it in a film, a book, a record, or in a tiny nightclub – he wanted to make sure that you noticed it too.

And now when I think about Art, those three words keep coming back to me.

Wasn’t he beautiful?

God bless you, Art. I know that you blessed me.

Neal McCabe

 

P.S. When I saw James Intveld at Art’s memorial service, I was suddenly reminded that Art once handed me his video camera (which I had never operated before) at one of the Elvis Birthday Bashes, and I shot an absolutely perfect video of James in performance. I have no idea of how that happened - let’s just say I was in “The Art Fein Zone,” and something magical occurred. Art described me as “James Wong Howe” when he captioned this video, and for those few moments that’s exactly who I was...

I am so proud that I made this small (but significant!) contribution to the amazing legacy of Art Fein:

James Intveld / Bossa Nova Baby - Elvis’s Birthday Bash 08