I really wanted to post about Larry Sweeney, but I thought something as simple as "RIP Larry Sweeney" would be insincere in a facebook post. The truth is, he was part of the reason I fell back in love with wrestling.
When I heard that, during our second trip to Anime North, both Jyushin Thunder Lyger and Ultimo Dragon were going to be wrestling the next town over, I basically grabbed the wheel of the ship and veered our nerdfest right over to the converted church in Mississauga for UWA Hardcore Wrestling. There was no way I wasn't going to see these guys wrestle. I have several boxes worth of VHS tapes littered with their matches which were all watched in Mountain Dew fueled (little known fact, Canadians, it's actually fuel in the US) Puroresu sessions. So whether they liked it or not, they were going to learn to love them, because it was where we were going that day.
I had a cursory knowledge of the independent wrestling scene so I saw some guys that I knew, such as Claudio Castagnoli. But for the most part I was pretty out of my element. There were some good matches, there were some ok matches. They had a little Japanese salsa dancer come out and I thought "Ok, this guy looks pretty entertaining". And then "More, More, More" by the Andrea True Connection started playing and out walked this bleached-blonde guy with pink and purple boas and I knew this was going to be entertaining.
After some textbook back and forth grappling, that pastel coloured man took the mic and demanded that this match be settled by a STRUT OFF.
MACHINE GUNNED HIM DOWN.
This guy's charisma was incredible. This guy was Larry Sweeney. Later, he was out by the merchandise table selling everyone his shirts. I had no idea what "12 Large, Brother!" meant, but that was his catchphrase at the time. I wanted to relate this story as Mike Quackenbush, his trainer and friend, told as to the origin of that phrase.
Apparently on an indy show, Sweeney was out there hawking his wares with former WWF Superstar The Patriot. Go ahead and Wikipedia, it won't take long. Anyway, after the night was over and they were back in the locker room, Larry asked him how much he made.
"I'm up Twelve Large, brother!" He said with a smile. He had made 12 bucks off of merchandise.
Sweeney made a lot more than that in that church hall. He was cutting promos on everyone who went by and most left with a lighter wallet. He had a knack for this business that, if it were 30 years ago, he'd be a top flight manager. He was that good, and if you ask around, everybody knew it. But there are no managers today. Sadly, there is no Larry Sweeney brightening up the scene either.
He was also bi-polar. It's amazing to think that a guy who, anytime you put a camera on him, or a crowd in front of him would light up, could also have a side to him that would eventually have him take his own life. His energy and his hijinx were the reason I kept popping in on YouTube and reacquainting myself with wrestling. Not the glossy, overcrowded arena rock WWE, but the roots of wrestling. The fun side, the interactive side. I remember thinking just a few weeks ago, how great it would be to see Sweeney on my next trip up to Toronto.
In a better wrestling world, Larry Sweeney would've been making good money with the WWE, getting a bunch of those big oafs with no mic skills over as monsters. I don't think the WWE is bad, but it's not as good as it could've been with Larry Sweeney.
I'm going to leave some clips here, and I think they say a lot more than I could about how great he was.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Bill Dundee vs. Wayne Ferris and Tojo Yammamoto
I think this is the first match I wanted to post about because it reminded me of something I saw in current wrestling that I never really understood. That is basically the SUPER MEGA STAR who destroys anywhere from 2 to 5 guys in a handicapped match.
What I love about Memphis Wrestling is that, for all it's inherent goofiness (The tag team of Frankenstein and Leatherface...) it always made sense.
Bill Dundee was one half of the Southern Heavyweight Tag Champs with Wildfire Tommy Rich. As Lance Russell explains, Tommy couldn't be there because he's 'stuck in Nebraska due to contract issues' so Dundee is left to fend for himself as Jimmy Hart isn't going to let this opportunity slip away.
Dundee is a tiny Australian guy with a short temper and so he's not going to turn down a fight. I'm pretty sure Tojo's heyday was the 60's and 70's, or at the very least he moves like it was. Wayne Ferris shows all the early signs that he would be the Honky Tonk Man - namely not being particularly good at anything wrestling related.
The story of the match is that Dundee doesn't have to beat them, he just has to survive the 30 minutes to keep his tag belts. A lot of the beginning is Wayne Ferris not really improvising well with Dundee's carny drop toe holds and wrist locks. The moment Tojo comes in and strikes his karate pose the ref is quick to tell him that there will be NO Martial Arts in this match.
This was, of course, the 80's when martial arts were capable of killing people in short order. It'll just be plain old closed fist punches in this match, thank you very much.
At about the 8 minute mark, Dundee starts to recognize that fighting 2 men takes it out of you and he starts biding his time, including working the count to 9, quickly sliding under the bottom rope and back out again. It's a tribute to the connection guys like Dundee had with the fans that he had the fans ecstatic at these lulls in action, which included him taking a seat with the studio crowd.
Dundee seems to have things in hand before the future Honky Tonk Man busts him open with a chain. As noted, Australians have ridiculously fragile tempers and he goes nuts swinging away at both men. In the ruckus, Tojo tosses some salt in his eyes, rolls him up and we've got new Southern Tag Team Champions.
It begs the question, is it that we have to perceive our heroes as being supermen now? Is that why Triple H beats up regular tag teams with relative ease? Dundee couldn't be any more popular here, and it's not because he picked up people over his head, or fought off 10 guys, it's because he was human. That's a fairly simple concept. There aren't a lot of stories that go "He was the greatest guy ever and he never lost, the end."
Anyway, I loved the story of this match and I love that Martial Arts are deadly.
What I love about Memphis Wrestling is that, for all it's inherent goofiness (The tag team of Frankenstein and Leatherface...) it always made sense.
Bill Dundee was one half of the Southern Heavyweight Tag Champs with Wildfire Tommy Rich. As Lance Russell explains, Tommy couldn't be there because he's 'stuck in Nebraska due to contract issues' so Dundee is left to fend for himself as Jimmy Hart isn't going to let this opportunity slip away.
Dundee is a tiny Australian guy with a short temper and so he's not going to turn down a fight. I'm pretty sure Tojo's heyday was the 60's and 70's, or at the very least he moves like it was. Wayne Ferris shows all the early signs that he would be the Honky Tonk Man - namely not being particularly good at anything wrestling related.
The story of the match is that Dundee doesn't have to beat them, he just has to survive the 30 minutes to keep his tag belts. A lot of the beginning is Wayne Ferris not really improvising well with Dundee's carny drop toe holds and wrist locks. The moment Tojo comes in and strikes his karate pose the ref is quick to tell him that there will be NO Martial Arts in this match.
This was, of course, the 80's when martial arts were capable of killing people in short order. It'll just be plain old closed fist punches in this match, thank you very much.
At about the 8 minute mark, Dundee starts to recognize that fighting 2 men takes it out of you and he starts biding his time, including working the count to 9, quickly sliding under the bottom rope and back out again. It's a tribute to the connection guys like Dundee had with the fans that he had the fans ecstatic at these lulls in action, which included him taking a seat with the studio crowd.
Dundee seems to have things in hand before the future Honky Tonk Man busts him open with a chain. As noted, Australians have ridiculously fragile tempers and he goes nuts swinging away at both men. In the ruckus, Tojo tosses some salt in his eyes, rolls him up and we've got new Southern Tag Team Champions.
It begs the question, is it that we have to perceive our heroes as being supermen now? Is that why Triple H beats up regular tag teams with relative ease? Dundee couldn't be any more popular here, and it's not because he picked up people over his head, or fought off 10 guys, it's because he was human. That's a fairly simple concept. There aren't a lot of stories that go "He was the greatest guy ever and he never lost, the end."
Anyway, I loved the story of this match and I love that Martial Arts are deadly.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
The Times They Are a Changin'
Bruno Sammartino vs. Randy Savage
Bruno of course is "The Living Legend". I've heard a few interviews and he seems like about the nicest guy you could ever meet and definitely the nicest old guy who could probably still beat you up. I have nothing but respect for Bruno. With that noted, Bruno is one hairy Italian man. At this point in his career, Bruno was probably in his late forties early fifties. He didn't look decrepit and orange as many pro wrestlers tend to settle into as they stay in the business too long. His age only showed in the abundant hair growth in areas not near his scalp. Truly, he looked like the proverbial (I believe it's Proverbs 2:23) brick shithouse. The crowd was crazy for this hairy old Italian guy and I remembered "Ahh, this is the Pro Wrestling I love." Savage was the lithe, flippy young heel with the Lovely Miss Elizabeth as his curvy riot shield against the still-chivalrous faces.
The match was surprisingly good, though I was mostly swayed by the fans really buying in to Bruno taking it to the young guy with his offense of stomps and punches. In reality, the match was ok to good, with Savage picking up a count out win after dropping the dreaded ax handle from the top rope to the floor on Bruno. Savage was cheating throughout the match of course and he ended up pushing Bruno a step to far. The best part of this match was the post match. Bruno, this feral mountainous bear, just mauls Savage. As the WWF moved to the WWE via the World Wildlife Fund's protest, perhaps no better metaphor could be made than this ravenous manbeast throwing Savage into the ropes and wrapping his arms around him in a Bearhug. Savage screams and grimaces and fights for all he's worth as the life is squeezed out of him. A squad of referees try to pry the monster's arms apart to no avail. They fall to the ground still in this deathly embrace. The locker room clears out as the faces try to pull the old man's calloused hands apart. After 3 minutes which seemed like a lifetime, nature's fury had made it's point and it yields to the oxygen sucking and seeping back into Savage's lungs. Man is no match for the animal kingdom. A million stars.
Bruno of course is "The Living Legend". I've heard a few interviews and he seems like about the nicest guy you could ever meet and definitely the nicest old guy who could probably still beat you up. I have nothing but respect for Bruno. With that noted, Bruno is one hairy Italian man. At this point in his career, Bruno was probably in his late forties early fifties. He didn't look decrepit and orange as many pro wrestlers tend to settle into as they stay in the business too long. His age only showed in the abundant hair growth in areas not near his scalp. Truly, he looked like the proverbial (I believe it's Proverbs 2:23) brick shithouse. The crowd was crazy for this hairy old Italian guy and I remembered "Ahh, this is the Pro Wrestling I love." Savage was the lithe, flippy young heel with the Lovely Miss Elizabeth as his curvy riot shield against the still-chivalrous faces.
The match was surprisingly good, though I was mostly swayed by the fans really buying in to Bruno taking it to the young guy with his offense of stomps and punches. In reality, the match was ok to good, with Savage picking up a count out win after dropping the dreaded ax handle from the top rope to the floor on Bruno. Savage was cheating throughout the match of course and he ended up pushing Bruno a step to far. The best part of this match was the post match. Bruno, this feral mountainous bear, just mauls Savage. As the WWF moved to the WWE via the World Wildlife Fund's protest, perhaps no better metaphor could be made than this ravenous manbeast throwing Savage into the ropes and wrapping his arms around him in a Bearhug. Savage screams and grimaces and fights for all he's worth as the life is squeezed out of him. A squad of referees try to pry the monster's arms apart to no avail. They fall to the ground still in this deathly embrace. The locker room clears out as the faces try to pull the old man's calloused hands apart. After 3 minutes which seemed like a lifetime, nature's fury had made it's point and it yields to the oxygen sucking and seeping back into Savage's lungs. Man is no match for the animal kingdom. A million stars.
Love in the Key of Macho
Randy Savage vs. Honky Tonk Man
from Saturday Night's Main Event
This match took place in the midst of Randy Savage's face turn. The lovely Elizabeth, up to this point was always the objectified girlfriend. Sometimes riot shield, as noted before, sometimes rope holder for the Macho Man's entrance. Always the pretty girl being held back by the prick who's just using her. A victim of her own self esteem. Maybe she thought she could tame this Savage and his wicked Harley that is the Intercontinental title, but in the end she is stripped of her self-worth and serves only as an example to women that can view from outside of the fury and excitement.
The Honky Tonk Man is the Honky Tonk Man. Cool, Cocky, Bad. He's accompanied to the ring by his girlfriend Peggy Sue and manager Jimmy Hart. They are your douchebag greasers for the evening. He and his cohorts show up to the malt shop just as Randy was about to make Elizabeth pay for the bill.
Despite being his girlfriend, Peggy Sue seems to have little interest in stopping Honky's pelvic gyrations directed at Elizabeth. Savage had enough of this guy the minute he walked in the door , however, and commences with the bionic elbows and jabs.
Honky is a lover and not a fighter and is not above letting his tiny wingman Hart grab Randy's leg and cause all kinds of mischief so he can waylay Rand. Each blow giving more valuable time for Mr. Man to thrust his hips while making Elvis song puns masked as conversation.
Peggy Sue is the confused young girl who herself is in a one-sided relationship and thinks by helping Honky into a PG Threesome she can cement a promise ring and his eternal love.
The melee spills outside and no clear winner is really determined. Still, from the catcalls and hoots of the onlookers it seems Honky was the one who was all shook up after. His pride damaged and his potential Cinemax-rated kiss parade on hold indefinitely he grabs his great equalizer. Guitar in hand he stalks Savage.
Fueled by lust and anger Savage argues the case of civility. His case is an accusatory finger to Honky's face. He's indignant that he might be done in by an object and not a man. He makes his cases with his fists. He persecutes with the flesh, but it's the lack of persecuted Flesh that drives the Tonk's honourless attack.
As he lay in the corner subdued and delirious, it's Elizabeth who puts herself between Honky and her man. Honky winds up to put the finishing touches on this epic cockblock but is surprised to see his woman protecting him. His moment of contemplation is cut short as Randy blocks the guitar and runs all three greasers back to the fairgrounds from which they came.
Finally, Randy realized that maybe he was on the wrong track. Perhaps an honest living and a girl to call his own were all he needed in life. And who was this woman who would sacrifice herself for him. This was not the subservient wench he walked in here with. It was then he remembered all the aisles that she cleared, the dinners that she bought and the ropes that she had opened. She once again prepped herself to open those same ropes as she always had.
"No. Today it's my turn."
In private, there have been countless chivalrous acts that have been selflessly played out at Dennys', KFC's, and on special occasions, Applebee's. In this instance, they were all validated by the most uproarious reaction to holding a door for a lady that has ever occurred. I should be so lucky as to wipe away tears as my date walks into the Truck Stop through the door blocked by my calloused, loving hand and I hoist her onto my shoulders.
from Saturday Night's Main Event
This match took place in the midst of Randy Savage's face turn. The lovely Elizabeth, up to this point was always the objectified girlfriend. Sometimes riot shield, as noted before, sometimes rope holder for the Macho Man's entrance. Always the pretty girl being held back by the prick who's just using her. A victim of her own self esteem. Maybe she thought she could tame this Savage and his wicked Harley that is the Intercontinental title, but in the end she is stripped of her self-worth and serves only as an example to women that can view from outside of the fury and excitement.
The Honky Tonk Man is the Honky Tonk Man. Cool, Cocky, Bad. He's accompanied to the ring by his girlfriend Peggy Sue and manager Jimmy Hart. They are your douchebag greasers for the evening. He and his cohorts show up to the malt shop just as Randy was about to make Elizabeth pay for the bill.
Despite being his girlfriend, Peggy Sue seems to have little interest in stopping Honky's pelvic gyrations directed at Elizabeth. Savage had enough of this guy the minute he walked in the door , however, and commences with the bionic elbows and jabs.
Honky is a lover and not a fighter and is not above letting his tiny wingman Hart grab Randy's leg and cause all kinds of mischief so he can waylay Rand. Each blow giving more valuable time for Mr. Man to thrust his hips while making Elvis song puns masked as conversation.
Peggy Sue is the confused young girl who herself is in a one-sided relationship and thinks by helping Honky into a PG Threesome she can cement a promise ring and his eternal love.
The melee spills outside and no clear winner is really determined. Still, from the catcalls and hoots of the onlookers it seems Honky was the one who was all shook up after. His pride damaged and his potential Cinemax-rated kiss parade on hold indefinitely he grabs his great equalizer. Guitar in hand he stalks Savage.
Fueled by lust and anger Savage argues the case of civility. His case is an accusatory finger to Honky's face. He's indignant that he might be done in by an object and not a man. He makes his cases with his fists. He persecutes with the flesh, but it's the lack of persecuted Flesh that drives the Tonk's honourless attack.
As he lay in the corner subdued and delirious, it's Elizabeth who puts herself between Honky and her man. Honky winds up to put the finishing touches on this epic cockblock but is surprised to see his woman protecting him. His moment of contemplation is cut short as Randy blocks the guitar and runs all three greasers back to the fairgrounds from which they came.
Finally, Randy realized that maybe he was on the wrong track. Perhaps an honest living and a girl to call his own were all he needed in life. And who was this woman who would sacrifice herself for him. This was not the subservient wench he walked in here with. It was then he remembered all the aisles that she cleared, the dinners that she bought and the ropes that she had opened. She once again prepped herself to open those same ropes as she always had.
"No. Today it's my turn."
In private, there have been countless chivalrous acts that have been selflessly played out at Dennys', KFC's, and on special occasions, Applebee's. In this instance, they were all validated by the most uproarious reaction to holding a door for a lady that has ever occurred. I should be so lucky as to wipe away tears as my date walks into the Truck Stop through the door blocked by my calloused, loving hand and I hoist her onto my shoulders.
The Buffer
So as to satiate the fan base and give myself some breathing room until I own a decent keyboard again, I'm releasing bonus footage from when I had a blog and didn't tell anybody! So note that the next few posts are a limited time offer.
The Project
Upon meeting people on my current jaunt through Canada I usually am forced to reveal that I'm from the United States. And no not New York or California or any of those bustling metropolises, but rather quaint, corn-fed Indiana. Invariably, I hear "Wow. Well you don't have an accent at all!". I have no explanation for this. If I could convert 'ain't' to some kind of currency while coming of age I would now be retired and have one of those novelty Johnny Paycheck hats that say "Take this job and shove it!". I spent a good portion of my youth in towns where the livestock outnumbered the people by a 3 to 1 margin. It is not for a lack of evidence that I have no southern drawl . There are things I couldn't escape, however.
In Huntingburg there were precious few activities. But at least once a month, be it in the Huntingburg Gymnasium or the Jasper National Guard Armoury, there was live wrestling to be had. Of course, the big company when I was young was WWF. Hulk Hogan, Andre the Giant, Randy Savage were alternately worshipped and laughed at at school. It was a delicate line lending out the information that you liked wrestling. For the most part, I just kept it to myself.
It was rare that rural Indiana, or even urban Indiana for that matter, saw the WWF in town. There was an organization that made the rounds from Tennessee to Kentucky and all the way up to Indiana (and on occasion even to the ominous, inebriated halls of Dubois County) though. At about 11 PM every Saturday night, just after Highway to Heaven re-runs, USWA Wrestling came on out of Memphis, Tennessee. This wasn't really the ideal time slot to reel in 10 year olds, but I taped it every week and watched it every Sunday morning.
Every few weeks Lance Russell would come on the screen in a dimly lit room. "Hey all you fans down in Evansville, I hope you got your tickets ready. Jerry "The King" Lawler is comin' to town and hoo boy is it gonna be something when he and Jeff Jarrett get their hands on those Moondogs. Don't ya dare miss it!" And I rarely did.
In fact, I sat front row when they came to Huntingburg to face those very Moondogs. I remember being scared to death as they brawled all over the place, up and down the cement stairs. The Memphis style, in simplistic terms, is mayhem. You didn't see a lot of top rope dropkicks or somersaults, but if you ever got the chance to see Memphis Wrestling, it was worth catching again.
I left a lot of Indiana behind, but wrestling has stuck with me. It's been my invisible wingman through life, teaching me lessons and pointing out the flaws in society. Most of all, it's just a lot of fun.
Now that I'm older and technology has advanced, I will soon be in possession of a lot of wrestling from the 80's. A good chunk of that wrestling is Memphis Wrestling. My memories mostly reside in the 90's when Jeff Jarrett was beginning his run towards the top and, yes, Jerry Lawler was still the eternal Unified Champion.
So, this new blog is going to be my education on an era that I know of, but am not familiar with. As a pugilistic archaeologist, I'm going to look back at a decade of Memphis Wrestling. Should you care to venture down this rabbit hole with me, expect some stories about redneck relatives, concessions stand brawls and the transcendental nature of punching someone in the face.
In Huntingburg there were precious few activities. But at least once a month, be it in the Huntingburg Gymnasium or the Jasper National Guard Armoury, there was live wrestling to be had. Of course, the big company when I was young was WWF. Hulk Hogan, Andre the Giant, Randy Savage were alternately worshipped and laughed at at school. It was a delicate line lending out the information that you liked wrestling. For the most part, I just kept it to myself.
It was rare that rural Indiana, or even urban Indiana for that matter, saw the WWF in town. There was an organization that made the rounds from Tennessee to Kentucky and all the way up to Indiana (and on occasion even to the ominous, inebriated halls of Dubois County) though. At about 11 PM every Saturday night, just after Highway to Heaven re-runs, USWA Wrestling came on out of Memphis, Tennessee. This wasn't really the ideal time slot to reel in 10 year olds, but I taped it every week and watched it every Sunday morning.
Every few weeks Lance Russell would come on the screen in a dimly lit room. "Hey all you fans down in Evansville, I hope you got your tickets ready. Jerry "The King" Lawler is comin' to town and hoo boy is it gonna be something when he and Jeff Jarrett get their hands on those Moondogs. Don't ya dare miss it!" And I rarely did.
In fact, I sat front row when they came to Huntingburg to face those very Moondogs. I remember being scared to death as they brawled all over the place, up and down the cement stairs. The Memphis style, in simplistic terms, is mayhem. You didn't see a lot of top rope dropkicks or somersaults, but if you ever got the chance to see Memphis Wrestling, it was worth catching again.
I left a lot of Indiana behind, but wrestling has stuck with me. It's been my invisible wingman through life, teaching me lessons and pointing out the flaws in society. Most of all, it's just a lot of fun.
Now that I'm older and technology has advanced, I will soon be in possession of a lot of wrestling from the 80's. A good chunk of that wrestling is Memphis Wrestling. My memories mostly reside in the 90's when Jeff Jarrett was beginning his run towards the top and, yes, Jerry Lawler was still the eternal Unified Champion.
So, this new blog is going to be my education on an era that I know of, but am not familiar with. As a pugilistic archaeologist, I'm going to look back at a decade of Memphis Wrestling. Should you care to venture down this rabbit hole with me, expect some stories about redneck relatives, concessions stand brawls and the transcendental nature of punching someone in the face.
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