Michael Stanley
On just about every Summer night in 1982, I had to make a half-hour drive home from my girlfriend’s house. She lived in the town where I had been sent to a Catholic prep school, which was where my circle of friends and social activity had shifted, up a 20 mile stretch of dangerous interstate, where as a young driver I logged a great many miles and saw more than my share of bloody wrecks. Those late trips called for an open cockpit, the windows down and radio blasting, to keep me awake and alert as I flew solo through the dark.
At some point I started hearing this mysterious but amazing song that never came up in the regular rotation or especially in daylight hours. On it would come at a night, though; my guess is that the nighttime DJ simply liked it - for good reason. It lent itself to getting cranked immediately: fast, pulsing guitars getting faster and a wailing saxophone solo, the first of two, unleashed after only seconds, followed by a passionate lover’s plea: the sound of youth, like lightning trapped in a bottle.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HplvE-GXUtw
‘Have you heard this song?’ I’d ask my girlfriend or others we were with. ‘Michael Stanley Band, ‘He Can’t Love You.’
They’d be surprised by the question, thinking I was referring to an old, familiar Tony Orlando and Dawn song, ‘He Don’t Love You,’ which anyone could sing. ‘That one?’
‘No, no, no. This is totally different. It’s fast. It’s great - but I only hear it at night.’
I never convinced them this song existed, and I couldn’t find the album, HEARTLAND, in any record stores. ‘Come on, buddy,’ I’d say to the DJ once I was alone, rolling past dark houses on sleepy neighborhood streets. ‘It’s that time of night.’
He’d rarely let me down. To this day, I picture a certain stretch of highway whenever I hear it.
Michael Stanley died this past week, news that has staggered his hometown of Cleveland. All over social media and local news sites, folks are posting their remembrances of concerts and the role Stanley played in special moments in their lives. ‘He Can’t Love You’ came out in the era of big hair, half shirts, short track shorts, and knee high socks, according to a great many Facebook pictures, and that song was championship material for sorting out the best air guitar bands of the day.
The song did crack the BILLBOARD Top 40, reaching number 33 in 1981. It was also one of the first 50 videos ever played on MTV, that same year. According to an article by Cleveland’s WKYC, “Stanley was part of what would become known as the genre of "heartland rock," emphasizing the values of blue-collar middle America, along with such artists as Bob Seger and John Cougar Mellencamp. But as popular as MSB was locally, they just couldn’t quite ascend to national stardom.
"We couldn’t get arrested in Columbus,” Stanley said in an interview. "We were big in San Francisco, but we didn’t do much in LA. We were big in Denver, we were big in Texas and Florida, but we couldn’t get into Indianapolis."
This would explain why they barely penetrated New England. I was in on a secret. Having just graduated high school, those long drives at night were when I was beginning to realize that all of life is a solo flight.
“Anyway, that you want to
Anytime, that I can show you
Listen to me
And you won't be regrettin'
And the
Time we spend, well you won't be
Forgetting, baby
'Cause when I hold you
I'm gonna show you why
It's like I told you
I'm no ordinary guy, and...
[Stacy Patton] was a classic beauty, a strawberry blonde and a cheerleader whose brothers were football legends. She dated star athletes and was the kind of girl most of us worshipped from afar. She was way out of my league.
Still, around Christmas I wound up face to face with her at a party at her house, in her giant, crowded basement with its pool and ping-pong tables, couches, and stereo. I could scarcely believe she was willing to talk to me, let alone laugh through a few minutes of beer pong. This was utterly thrilling, though I had to play it cool for the remainder of the night and the following few days in school. In a crowded hallway I caught a snatch of conversation between two other seniors, one of whom proudly declared that at some other party he was at a table ‘playing quarters with Stacy Patton.’ Dropping her name was both a claim to status and an expression of awe. I was instantly jealous.
That I was even at that party and in a position to entertain thoughts of a long-shot romance was testament to strength training, of course. As senior year began, I was already squatting 400 and gaining notoriety for guzzling a quart of milk from a cardboard carton on the train every morning. Socially, my horizons were thrown wide open by having cred in the eyes of the football players. Physically I was transformed; mentally, too - my confidence had increased with all my lifts.
It was basketball season, so the general plan was to chat up the cheerleaders at halftime. The clock would wind down, they would do some kind of routine out on the court, and a bunch of the lads would wander down to the floor. For the first few times, I’d run into Stacy just casually, completely by accident, and take the chance to say hello, but then I began to notice that other guys weren’t coming around. Score one for the squats. I could head for her right off the bat.
Then came the night I had to ask her to the Valentine’s dance. I could hardly watch the game. My eyes kept going to the scoreboard as the first half ticked away. They’d do their cheer, and I’d slip down to the floor and go for it.
‘You have to give me a sign. Let me know how it goes,’ a friend said - which I did. The deed was done; other cheerleaders swirled around where we stood, and when Stacy looked away for a second, I pumped my fist so that high in the stands, he could see. When Stacy looked back, I was back to normal.
Soon after, we were inseparable. Life had blessed me with quite the love affair, and every night Michael Stanley reminded me how lucky I was.
35 years later, assigned to Cleveland, I was rolling down a highway, fooling with the stereo when the afternoon DJ identified himself as none other than Michael Stanley.
I shouted in spite of myself, ‘Hey! How’ve you been?’ like it was a back slapping bear hug with an old friend.
Stanley was Cleveland born and bred. After his touring career was done, he hosted local TV shows and began DJ’ing, which continued for 30 years. His song ‘My Town’ is a Cleveland anthem, which teams like the Browns, Cavaliers, and - [the Indians no longer] - the baseball team, along with numerous sports journalists, have confirmed will remain THE theme during games and shows.
Even without the isolation of a pandemic, or when in fact there is a good showing at the church, funerals are lonely experiences, as families turn inward. I can only hope his children and grandchildren can read all the stories people are posting. In some of life’s most awesome moments, it was Michael Stanley laying down the soundtrack.
