A tribute to Elmer Aho
Imagine driving along a two-lane blacktop highway that cuts through a forest of pine, tall trees lining the road; it's twilight, it's May, and you are learning that twilight in May goes on forever. The sun sets, leaving behind a deep orange scratch tearing open the horizon which you see, first in flashes through forest green, then in fullness through a sudden clearing that reveals a broad, deeply purple lake. You flip on the radio. There's Willie Nelson, singing about blue skies, nothin' but blue skies.
Imagine the depth of winter: Outside, a deep freeze; layers of snow sparkling, undulating under a full moon, long shadows from bare trees cutting a checkerboard across the yard. Inside, a fire in the woodstove. You turn on the radio. There's Bobby Bare, urging you to get singin' in the kitchen.
Imagine a September evening. The bugs have dwindled, the trees are full, nightfall quickens. Sitting out on the patio you watch the occasional car, camper, 18-wheeler pass by on the highway. Wood smoke from a neighbor's campfire trails through the sky. You switch on the radio. There's Red Foley, singing about another lonely day.
Midnight ...
I've spent another lonely day,
thinking of you.
Have I mentioned it's Saturday night and you're listening to American Country Gold with Elmer Aho?
Midnight ...
tomorrow is on its way,
empty and blue.
It was Elmer who introduced me to Red Foley and his song "Midnight."
I'm so lonely,
so lonely at midnight for you.
It may not have happened if Elmer hadn't had a heart attack and had to ease back into his Saturday night, 7 to midnight show at WJPD, 92.3 on your FM dial. Traditionally he plays "Midnight" at the end of the show, and, you see, I'm no longer a stay-up-until-midnight kind of gal. But I am a Saturday-night-with-Elmer kind of gal, and one Saturday night last September Elmer ended his show around 9:30, and I heard "Midnight" for the first time, and I swooned.
Midnight ...
oh what a lonely time to weep,
I ought to know.
Midnight ...
I should have been fast asleep,
hours ago.
The lyrics work. The guitar works. The voice works. The slow lopin' cowboy boogie works, moving me to dance and smile 'cause yeah, I'm so lonely and
Still I'm crying,
I'm crying 'cause I miss you so.
♪ ♪ ♪
I wouldn't call myself a country music fan, but I do like music of most kinds and having spent most of my life around Chicago I've been able to listen to, live or otherwise, most any type of music I wanted. There are a gajillion radio stations in Chicago, AM and FM, and at least half will change their format on an annual basis, giving you something new or old or somewhere in between to listen to. During the summer you can take your pick of outdoor jazz, country, blues, and gospel festivals. You can find symphony orchestras and local rock and punk and mariachi bands tuning up and letting loose at neighborhood parks and in concert halls. The big names never stop coming through. The smaller, more obscure names never leave.
Yet there is nothing like Elmer.
For that matter, neither is there anything like Les Ross, Sr., and the Finnish American All-Stars. Imagine: An 80-year-old guy playing the harmonica with no hands, no holder. But that's a different story.
Elmer plays what he calls classic, traditional country from Johnny Cash to Loretta Lynn, Waylon Jennings to Jean Shepard, Ernest Tubb, George Jones, Roger Miller, and a bunch of folks whose names I don't know. He also plays local music, much of which is Finnish (including Les Ross and his "lumberjack harmonica") and some of which is country (imagine Tiny C. Hart and the Hart Beats). Elmer even plays himself, most often his classic "Gwinn Model Town Blues."
I admit, to appreciate Elmer you have to appreciate country music. You have to appreciate lyrics such as "I'm tired of playing second fiddle to an old guitar" and "My tears have washed 'I love you' from the blackboard of my heart." You have to enjoy songs about trains and trucks, love and heartache, roller skates and buffalo herds, chickens and tambourines. When a singer suddenly starts yodeling, it must make you smile. Then, you can move on to Elmer.
Listen to Elmer for a half minute and you know: This isn't your everyday radio show. This is local; this is genuine. This guy knows his music, and he knows his audience. Elmer takes requests, and requests come in from all over, including, as he says, "the suburbs," like Mohawk, Fulton, Ahmeek, and Tamarack; suburbs like Shelter Bay, Deerton, Au Train, and Trenary. Many a Saturday night Elmer will tell us that we have to hold back on our requests because he's got too many to get to already. There are requests from wedding parties, from the guys out at deer camp, from one sweetheart to another. Dedications go out to places like Chuck's Pub in "beautiful downtown Palmer," to the snowplow drivers at the mines, and a tinkling ivory tune goes out to the piano lady at the vet center. Without fail, every Saturday night somebody's going to ask for "Singin' in the Kitchen," and Elmer's going to play it.
Elmer spins the platters for all those who like something just a little bit different.
And just imagine - it is platters that are spinning. It is the original issue, the LP, the record, the 33, the 45. Sometimes there's a skip, a scratch, or a piece of dust catching the needle, and we all get caught up in a little transcendental loop-de-loop of repeating time, a hiccup of melody. Then Elmer gives the needle a little get-along, and we're back in the swing, we're back in the heartache, we're back in the groove. Sometimes a tune begins playing at the wrong speed. Elmer chuckles. Sometimes (but not too often) he announces one song and plays another. Elmer doesn't serve up perfection, just a dang good time.
At eight o'clock, we get our Western set. Goodbye, Old Paint, and git along you li'l dogies down that old dusty trail. A little before nine, Elmer warns us it's time to roll up the rug; the bluegrass set is about to begin, and we may feel like doin' a little jig. If it's May or June and he has to mention the word "snow" in the weather forecast, he apologizes, and he apologizes sincerely.
So, imagine a haunting song sung in Finnish accompanied by accordion and mandolin. You don't understand a word, yet you know.
♪ ♪ ♪
Midnight ...
I lie in bed awake and stare,
at nothing at all.
Wondering ...
wondering why you don't care,
wishing you'd call.
Tears keep flowing,
like drops from a waterfall.
♪ ♪ ♪
Imagine: It's Saturday night. You turn on the radio.
Imagine driving along a two-lane blacktop highway that cuts through a forest of pine, tall trees lining the road; it's twilight, it's May, and you are learning that twilight in May goes on forever. The sun sets, leaving behind a deep orange scratch tearing open the horizon which you see, first in flashes through forest green, then in fullness through a sudden clearing that reveals a broad, deeply purple lake. You flip on the radio. There's Willie Nelson, singing about blue skies, nothin' but blue skies.
Imagine the depth of winter: Outside, a deep freeze; layers of snow sparkling, undulating under a full moon, long shadows from bare trees cutting a checkerboard across the yard. Inside, a fire in the woodstove. You turn on the radio. There's Bobby Bare, urging you to get singin' in the kitchen.
Imagine a September evening. The bugs have dwindled, the trees are full, nightfall quickens. Sitting out on the patio you watch the occasional car, camper, 18-wheeler pass by on the highway. Wood smoke from a neighbor's campfire trails through the sky. You switch on the radio. There's Red Foley, singing about another lonely day.
Midnight ...
I've spent another lonely day,
thinking of you.
Have I mentioned it's Saturday night and you're listening to American Country Gold with Elmer Aho?
Midnight ...
tomorrow is on its way,
empty and blue.
It was Elmer who introduced me to Red Foley and his song "Midnight."
I'm so lonely,
so lonely at midnight for you.
It may not have happened if Elmer hadn't had a heart attack and had to ease back into his Saturday night, 7 to midnight show at WJPD, 92.3 on your FM dial. Traditionally he plays "Midnight" at the end of the show, and, you see, I'm no longer a stay-up-until-midnight kind of gal. But I am a Saturday-night-with-Elmer kind of gal, and one Saturday night last September Elmer ended his show around 9:30, and I heard "Midnight" for the first time, and I swooned.
Midnight ...
oh what a lonely time to weep,
I ought to know.
Midnight ...
I should have been fast asleep,
hours ago.
The lyrics work. The guitar works. The voice works. The slow lopin' cowboy boogie works, moving me to dance and smile 'cause yeah, I'm so lonely and
Still I'm crying,
I'm crying 'cause I miss you so.
♪ ♪ ♪
I wouldn't call myself a country music fan, but I do like music of most kinds and having spent most of my life around Chicago I've been able to listen to, live or otherwise, most any type of music I wanted. There are a gajillion radio stations in Chicago, AM and FM, and at least half will change their format on an annual basis, giving you something new or old or somewhere in between to listen to. During the summer you can take your pick of outdoor jazz, country, blues, and gospel festivals. You can find symphony orchestras and local rock and punk and mariachi bands tuning up and letting loose at neighborhood parks and in concert halls. The big names never stop coming through. The smaller, more obscure names never leave.
Yet there is nothing like Elmer.
For that matter, neither is there anything like Les Ross, Sr., and the Finnish American All-Stars. Imagine: An 80-year-old guy playing the harmonica with no hands, no holder. But that's a different story.
Elmer plays what he calls classic, traditional country from Johnny Cash to Loretta Lynn, Waylon Jennings to Jean Shepard, Ernest Tubb, George Jones, Roger Miller, and a bunch of folks whose names I don't know. He also plays local music, much of which is Finnish (including Les Ross and his "lumberjack harmonica") and some of which is country (imagine Tiny C. Hart and the Hart Beats). Elmer even plays himself, most often his classic "Gwinn Model Town Blues."
I admit, to appreciate Elmer you have to appreciate country music. You have to appreciate lyrics such as "I'm tired of playing second fiddle to an old guitar" and "My tears have washed 'I love you' from the blackboard of my heart." You have to enjoy songs about trains and trucks, love and heartache, roller skates and buffalo herds, chickens and tambourines. When a singer suddenly starts yodeling, it must make you smile. Then, you can move on to Elmer.
Listen to Elmer for a half minute and you know: This isn't your everyday radio show. This is local; this is genuine. This guy knows his music, and he knows his audience. Elmer takes requests, and requests come in from all over, including, as he says, "the suburbs," like Mohawk, Fulton, Ahmeek, and Tamarack; suburbs like Shelter Bay, Deerton, Au Train, and Trenary. Many a Saturday night Elmer will tell us that we have to hold back on our requests because he's got too many to get to already. There are requests from wedding parties, from the guys out at deer camp, from one sweetheart to another. Dedications go out to places like Chuck's Pub in "beautiful downtown Palmer," to the snowplow drivers at the mines, and a tinkling ivory tune goes out to the piano lady at the vet center. Without fail, every Saturday night somebody's going to ask for "Singin' in the Kitchen," and Elmer's going to play it.
Elmer spins the platters for all those who like something just a little bit different.
And just imagine - it is platters that are spinning. It is the original issue, the LP, the record, the 33, the 45. Sometimes there's a skip, a scratch, or a piece of dust catching the needle, and we all get caught up in a little transcendental loop-de-loop of repeating time, a hiccup of melody. Then Elmer gives the needle a little get-along, and we're back in the swing, we're back in the heartache, we're back in the groove. Sometimes a tune begins playing at the wrong speed. Elmer chuckles. Sometimes (but not too often) he announces one song and plays another. Elmer doesn't serve up perfection, just a dang good time.
At eight o'clock, we get our Western set. Goodbye, Old Paint, and git along you li'l dogies down that old dusty trail. A little before nine, Elmer warns us it's time to roll up the rug; the bluegrass set is about to begin, and we may feel like doin' a little jig. If it's May or June and he has to mention the word "snow" in the weather forecast, he apologizes, and he apologizes sincerely.
So, imagine a haunting song sung in Finnish accompanied by accordion and mandolin. You don't understand a word, yet you know.
♪ ♪ ♪
Midnight ...
I lie in bed awake and stare,
at nothing at all.
Wondering ...
wondering why you don't care,
wishing you'd call.
Tears keep flowing,
like drops from a waterfall.
♪ ♪ ♪
Imagine: It's Saturday night. You turn on the radio.
