Know Your Essentials

You Can't Slag a Stone

Watching a show last night on BBC America about the Rolling Stones made me realize that the Brits have a conflicting identity crisis. When I was at Peabody, I was talking to a British colleague and he told me, "Every Brit thinks he's got a golden pot to piss in." While I would have to agree that they possess a keen sense of nationalistic identity, there is also a tendency to crush anyone who aspires to rise above the mud of every day life. No one must be better than a workaday Union Jack. Brian Eno has stated that the British press and Brits as a whole hate dilettantes, and consequently his work because of the many avenues it has taken. Even Bill Bruford, whom I interviewed in January of this year, told me that when Yes started the whole attitude was, "Well, I wouldn't try that if I were you, sonny." This attitude is pervasive. As comedian Eddie Izzard says, "Dial it down a bit. You're British."

The British press is notorius acidic and destructive when it comes to its own. Peter Gabriel has frequently talked about a "fair slagging" from the Brit press for a number of his albums and projects. Watching this BBC doc on the Stones, this ugly monster raised its head a few times.

One critic said that the Stones stopped being the Stones after Let It Bleed. Really? I think the only good thing I heard was at the end when one of these bobbleheads said, "The Stones are the people's band." In other words, these lads are nothing more than average blokes who, instead of crawling around inside a coal mine - the only decent way to make an honest living, wear funny clothes and play loud music for a living.

I think that it's easy to downplay what the Stones have contributed to music. When we hear the music, we hear basic rock'n'roll and the group has become so infamous and iconic that it's almost impossible to hear the music without prejudice. I tell you, recently I sat down and played along with Wild Horses. I was amazed at all the details and chords that I just hadn't noticed. This song was released in 1971!

The doc had a few funny moments and Richards was always the one with the razor sharp wit.

At one point, they ask Richards in the 70's about his upcoming trial and legal troubles.

Brit press vulture: "What do you think will come of all this?"

Richards, after shrugging: "Maybe we'll get a song out of it." You should have seen Jagger's smile.

That's my boy.

Pizza, Fame and the Name Game

I didn't really want to play the gig.

I love Lola's for the most tasty pizza in town, but after watching a poor strumming and singing guitarist barely having enough room to stand, I didn't want to be that guy. As I have noted many, many times in this blog, people will walk on you in such spaces and this was crammed city. Maya sent an email offer of a gig there and in these funky financial times, I cannot turn down a paying gig. Hell no.

Gotta stay sharp. Gotta play. Gotta practice.

My wife had to endure my practice, as she does on an almost daily basis. My right hand finger exercise regime is truly maddening for her. Can't say I blame her. While I find them intoxicating, they are punishingly repetitive and no one would call them music.

(Photo: At one point, a friend said, "Tell grandpa to lose the glasses." Oh no. Then all those notes become black ants!)

Finally, she said, "You're going to sing, aren't you?" I had been working up some Renaissance pieces and some easier Bach. This was the question. I had no idea what was expected of me, I only had seen strumming singers there.

Finally, I worked up a couple of songs that I felt were appropriate and that I could manage. I was as prepared as I was going to be. It's show time.

Sitting on my amp to save space for my music stand, I set up and hoped for the best. The solo gig is one that I haven't done for a while, so I had some butterflies. Even with the Arctic blasts from the front door contrasting with the pervasive kitchen heat, my guitar stayed in tune. That Takamine beast is a real reliable guitar. God love it.

I placed a capo on the third fret for the Renaissance and Baroque music for two reasons. The first is that it makes it easier to play. The left hand does not have to stretch as much. The second reason is that I believe that the higher sounding guitar projects better in such noisy environments. The guitar can be too much bass and mud when you are trying to play background music.

I had no clue how this music was going over. I almost never look up when I get into the music, so I am no gauge of anything. There was a couple standing close and I could see the girl swaying in time to Bach minuets which struck me as bizarre (It didn't help that she had very shapely attributes either.). Was this a bit of mocking or was the Old Man Bach connecting?

One thing is for sure: you cannot underestimate the support that friends give you at a public gig. They alleviate a whole boatload of awkwardness and nervousness. At some point, it was time to have some fun. The Rolling Stones Dead Flowers is a tune I have been obsessed with and so I let 'er rip. The owners' twin girls were being hoisted by my wife and her friend, so this odd little dance party started. The irony of lines like "talkin' to some rich folks that you know" in South Hills was not lost on my compadres.

Little David, a seven year old version of myself, hung around while I played a version of "The Bed's Too Big Without You." It's just three chords and I wasn't singing it, so time to have fun. He said, "What about wrong notes?" I wasn't sure what he meant, but I would stop at certain places and play some distinctly sour notes just to make him laugh. The gig was casual and fun at this point.

There is always a loss in playing ability at the live gig. It is always a mixed bag for me of terrible and stupid mistakes and unexpected triumphs. Sometimes the hands flow like silver and others they hobble along the strings in utter confusion. Part of this is my approach which is to challenge myself. Improv #1 last night went nowhere. Improv #2 was far better and even garnered some applause. A little Jobim and Ralph Towner later, we have arrived.

I had played an hour and 45 minutes without a break, so time to eat. Lola's makes awesome pizzas, but I ordered a salad. These are just delicious. The food, while a bit pricey, is excellent with everything you order. There is an obvious love and passion for food there.

Time to pack up and get paid. I asked Mike, the bartender extraordinaire, how I did, as I wasn't sure what they were wanting or expecting. He said that all went very well and people seemed to enjoy it. "Play what you want." That's all I need to hear. A little bit of everything.

A FB friend gushed and said that I should record a Christmas album. She would buy at least five herself. Sounds good to me.

As I was moving about, I passed the girl who had been moving to the music. She gave me a very nice smile. Can't beat that. Gee. Money, food and a bonus. It's more than enough for an old married guy.

With that money, I headed straight for a gas station and promptly spent all of it, save two dollars and some change. It sure don't last too long, does it?

I return to Lola's in about three weeks and already I know one thing. Novelty wears off quickly and friends, and even wives, stop coming. Next time, there might not be a support system, but only a room full of strangers. But that's ok. You do the best you can.

As shown in the picture, the performer gets his or her name in lights. Well, not exactly in lights. More on a chalkboard. On the wall. By the kitchen.

And not exactly spelled correctly either.

Alas.

Simple As What?

Monster musician Trey Gunn recently did an interview describing his new all digital setup. To read it, go here.

I find it amusing after describing this complex chain of techno-gizmos that he states, "Simple as that."

Trey plays a Warr Guitar. You have to read about to understand it, but it is both and bass and treble electronic string instrument. Makes the common six string guitar look pale, doesn't it?

I believe that Gunn is one of those musicians who is not only willing to take on such incredible musical challenges and complex technology, but ultimately makes music out of it. With all these techno sound choices, it's easy for the music to get lost in empty business.

My "rig" is incredibly simple. Beat up nylon string eclectro-acoustic Takamine, c. 1987, Spectraflex guitar cable, bass Polytone amp, circa 1981. I am considering adding a reverb unit and perhaps a looper just to spice things up. I keep it simple because even after playing for 38 years, I still feel like I have much to learn about the guitar and music. Perhaps it's the old adage about old dogs and new tricks.

I have nothing against technology, in fact I think it's wonderful, but those of us who first heard MIDI being lauded as the next great thing realized how crappy the sounds were and that computers played music in a distinctly unmusical fashion. MIDI has changed for the better, but still wasn't it technology that both hid and revealed the truth about Milli Vanilli?

No one is ever going to accuse me of being a purist, that's for sure, but there's a good reason why I go so primal: there is a high probability that it will work. The more elaborate your setup, the more you increase the chance of it failing. I remember seeing Adrian Belew in D.C. Ade came out all smiling, complete with that Arabian ballet style clothes he was sporting during the 80's, hit a few notes and then zap! Nothing. He apologized, exited the stage and let the roadie techs find the problem. The moment of excitement has passed, but Belew, being a great showman and front man, came back (after what seemed to a half an hour of equipment fiddling) with a great show.

So, my hat goes off to you guys who daisy chain gismos and run your elaborate maze of wires, but just remember:

It's never simple as that.

"Lynn's Creek" and Little Debbie Cakes

This is a rather crazy example of what not to do with your iPhone. Driving WV roads is insane enough, let alone juggling a camera.

I took this picture of Lens Creek Mountain on the way back from dropping off my aunt Audrey in Seth. Oh Seth, what a pastoral hamlet!

For years, I thought it was Lynn's Creek Mountain. That's because of the WV accent. An accent, I might add, that Hollywood has never captured. Jody Foster as Clarice Starling was supposed to be WV, but the accent was not even close. You see, in West Virginianese, my name has two syllables: Gee-um. That should come to you with a little practice.

This is deep WV country. Creeks, narrow ever-winding roads, little shanties mixed with modest middle class houses and mountains make evening fall early in the winter. People drive these dangerous serpentine roads like they are on the Indy 500. Some of them, on a good Oxy bender, probably imagine that they are. West Virginia drivers are not slow pokes-hell no. They will push you and the envelope to the max. On the way back, a scary large truck decided to take his half of the road out of the middle. I had just enough room to avoid him and yet stay on the road.

The hills look tired, imperial, worn down and have a feeling of isolation. The scenery is very brutal and beautiful. That's what we are-extremes. Drive a few minutes from cosy cafeville of Taylor Books, which quite nicely mimics a big city coffee shop, and you soon see camo ball caps, trucks emblazoned with number 3 and gun racks and all the expected WV redneckanalia.

I rarely adventure out beyond my comfort zone, but when my batty (I mean that sincerely, but with love) aunt Audrey comes to town for her bi-annual Kroger shopping expedition, I get a little road trip to Boone county. Yep. The county seat of Jesco White. (For you non-hillbillies out thar, you have got to see "Dancing Outlaw." Priceless.)

Audrey likes to stock up and when she comes to town, she go a-Krogerin' in a huge way. It must take her at least three hours to snail her way through every aisle, talking to whomever will talk back, and thoroughly cover every perceived food need. For example, she decided one year that she would buy one of EACH kind of Little Debbie Snack Cakes. This year, it was juice and Pringles: one of every kind. She is batty, but methodical.

She thinks nothing of having me wait all day for her phone call. The elderly have no real concept of everybody else's time. My other aunts are the same. I have told the story of how my aunt Effie's request caused me to traverse the length of Kanawha City a total of six times. She thought nothing of it. Love them, but that's the way it is.

Sunday was beautiful and the ride was filled with her stories which usually follow no discernible connected train of thought. But I like the old stories of her childhood.. You'd never believe anything changes, but she'll tell you where once stood her home; now a park. She cheerfully talks about her funeral like it's a upcoming vacation. She's not afraid at all.

I don't have to load the groceries into her trailer. Oh no. No one steps a foot into there. Another eccentricity well documented. I load them onto the porch.

Then she offers me a check for my trouble and I am supposed to decline because she's family, but she hears none of it. Then, with all the swiftness I can muster, I wind my way back to Charleston. Boone County ain't for me.

Not for every kind of Little Debbie Cakes in the world.

My Favorite John Cage Story

There was an international conference of philosophers in Hawaii on the subject of Reality.

For three days Daisetz Teitaro Suzuki said nothing.

Finally the chairman turned to him and asked, “Dr. Suzuki, would you say this table around which we are sitting is real?”

Suzuki raised his head and said Yes.

The chairman asked in what sense Suzuki thought the table was real.

Suzuki said, “In every sense.”

Any Velvet Will Do

Yo soy un hombre sincero
De donde crece la palma


Brother Rudy did a nice review with some photos. Thanks, man!

The Brothers Vel took the stage once again (I think this makes number six) for Live Mix's Halloween bash. It was the most impromptu gathering yet. We didn't talk about tunes until we were on stage. It's such an intimate venue anyway, so no sense hiding our distinct lack of preparation from the crowd. The Velvets have always had a distinct self-effacing sense of humor and it works for us. Many pros would tell you that this is a big no-no, but for us, honesty is always the best policy. It's what our listeners expect quite frankly. The chaos is part of the entertainment. (Hell, we even made drinks on stage with a blender one night and gave it a "solo." How many broken musician's union rules is that?)

A while back ago, I had an interest in what 2 guitars, a quatro and percussion would sound like and here I was, without planning, performing with this subset of the group. Actually, not to sound too cosmic, I had a picture of this group in my head for months. Though the bass was really missed, it was quite fun. That's Mr. Swizzle Sticks, Brian Young, on the drums. What an incredible player! He did a dazzling solo and promptly stole the show as far as I was concerned.

Chaos follows us. Guantamera was called in A, but this was deemed too high. F, which is practically the only key I sing in, was chosen. The tune is three chords traditionally, so what could go wrong? The number one thing in Latin music is rhythm. It doesn't matter that it's three chords, that's not the point. If the rhythm ain't there, you might as well be playing Freebird. Eventually, I figured out what rhythm we were all trying to play and locked in. Sheesh!

(The key of a song, for me, is something that is not all that malleable. I can remember keys of almost every song the band ever did. Now, lyrics are always an issue for me. Chord changes quite another, but keys remain in permanent long term memory.)

I truly missed my other bandmates, but this may be a jumping off point for a small group that can land smaller venues. I need to play both for financial and artistic reasons.

Eventually, I hope the full group can get it together to play at the Empty Glass and maybe a few private parties, until then it's solo, duet and even quartet gigs.

Any Velvet will do.

Pretty Leaves and Boney Freeze

The Dynamic Duo once again traveled to Fayetteville to Smokeys On the Gorge to play yet another bone chilling wedding. Last time, Lisa shivered and shook, so she prepared by wearing layers including a coat, scarf and gloves with holes cut for the fingertips. Even then, the wind cut right through. Damn. One man looked her straight in the eye and smugly remarked, "It's not that cold." The gentleman, and I use that term loosely, had not been out on the cold for over thirty minutes holding a metal rod (which leeches the warmth from your hands) all in the vain effort to play music. People are cattle.

She had been driven nuts by the wedding party, the father in particular. Normally, you can make arrangements by phone or by attending the rehearsal the night before, but these folks insisted on a sit-down at her house. For what seemed days, she answered questions, played her flute and explained all the pertinent details. Then, the family asked, "What if you can't make it at the last minute? What if something happens to you?" Dumbfounded. Never been asked that one before. Let me consult my crystal ball.

Then they had a rain plan. A very reasonable idea, but there's was to call us on the day of the wedding and tell us whether the ceremony was to take place at a church or at Smokeys. Logistically, this would mean that both the church and Smokeys would have to be decorated in time. We never did get a call, but later found out that the florists had put a stop on the duel decorating idea. Besides, after meeting them, they were clearly gay and we know gay doesn't do sloppy decorating. It's a wedding people, not a fire drill.

Smokeys is high on a mountain overlooking the New River Gorge. To have a wedding outside late October is a complete gamble, especially atop a mountain. When we left Charleston, it was in the 60's, but as soon as we arrived, the chill crept into your body. There was easily a ten to fifteen degree difference and the sun appeared to have other plans that day. I abandoned the idea of my suit jacket and opted for a thick sweater I had brought just in case. Turns out, it was a smart move.

When you are a duet playing for a public event, you must remember that if someone can walk on or over your equipment they will. If you play flute, you stand a good chance of getting your teeth knocked out. People are cattle at these events, mindlessly plodding into or onto anything. We are invisible. We took a position directly outside the door leading down to the deck. We put our amps in front of us in order to project the sound to the deck below and to create a barrier that hopefully would discourage people from walking on our stuff. We even put up a music stand and the dolly to create a solid wall between the amps. Sure enough, a woman decided that instead of walking a few more steps, she would just amble over. Unreal. I am convinced that if Lisa was not standing there, more people would have done this.

The sky was gray, little bits of drizzle and sudden Arctic blasts were the norm, except for one moment. The minister said the Irish blessing to the couple and just as he said, "May the sun shine on your faces and the sky be blue above you", as if on cue, the sun transformed the scene into warmth and light. People collectively gasped. The minister reiterated "the sky being blue above" one more time for a welcome laugh. Then, it was back to deep blue freeze.

After the ceremony, we played some jazz and with each tune, it got colder and windier until our final tune was just a joke. All sensible people were warm inside while the idiot musicians played to no one and fulfilled the remainder of their contracted service. I finally declared that I was frozen and had no more music to play. It was ridiculous, but this is what we mighty gigsters do for money. We have to. It's a pain, but the pay is good. It makes up for the indecision and craziness of wedding families. And the blue freeze.

We were hoping for some food and beverage afterwards, but all the food was taken away by the time we finished. The father of the bride had given us a check, the wedding party was being introduced and it was clearly time to leave. (You should never expect food, but like the hungry scavengers we are, sometimes it's good to get a little extra. It's payback for the humiliation, you see.)

Humiliation? What? You ungrateful bastard! Let me enlighten you.

SIDEBAR: A bandmate of mine revealed this little tale to me and it fits perfectly. He spent an evening at the home of a fellow Latino and his wife. After dinner, they played music from their native country and it must have sounded good because my friend innocently suggested that they play out somewhere. The look of insult on their faces was quite clear. He had crossed a line. It was as if he had just suggested dessert and a three-way. The man worked for Dow or some place like that and how could he stoop so low as to play music in public? My friend was truly hurt and astounded by this attitude. You see, people truly think like this. They may patronize musicians and even admire them, but in some circles, they are no more than low-life beggars.

Back to our humble tale.

We cranked up the heat and headed on 19 South. I was beat. The cold had really gotten me this time around. I was happy to head home.

The road hummed along, the heater keeping us toasty, I started to reflect privately about my so-called career as a musician. What strange and unexpected paths. No ivory tower for me. Nope. Lisa and I have been doing this for a long, long time. I think of us as front liners, seasoned pros who go where we're told, as long as the money is right. I'm absolutely sure that some of our ilk would think themselves above such a common gig as a wedding. (I could name names, but I don't need to make my point that way.) I don't have the luxury of such a position and I am proud of what I do. Besides, all of this is good blog fodder.

On Sunday, I felt fine all day until evening when I sensed something had gotten a hold of me. At bedtime, I got hit with the chills. I shook and shivered under the covers. Body aches and fever followed. One more parting gift from playing outside on a mountain in late fall.

Robey, Where Art Thou?

Sci Fi channel, now SyFy, has established itself for very lame original programming guaranteed to disappoint. Anyone remember the ads for Ice Spiders? And forget about zombies.

You can count on them for Twilight Zone marathons and the occasional rerun of Friday the 13th:The Series.

This series had nothing to do with the hockey masked mass murderer Jason, but producer Frank Mancuso, who had done Friday the 13th part deux, shamelessly used the name to attract viewers. Bad or good, it worked. In fact, you can find fansites for a show that went off the air nearly twenty years ago.

For a quick review: Cheap and cheesy, but sometimes creepy with some interesting story lines. The acting is oft over-the-top and the budget seemed very low, but it has just enough moments to make it very enjoyable.

SyFy has been sporadically running mini-thons of this Canadian horror lite series. Since this aired '87 to '90, I began to wonder what happened to the actors.

The lovely "Micki", always listed simply as Robey, Louise Robey was the eye candy for the series. With her huge, I mean '80s huge, flaming red hair, the series benefited more from her looks than acting ability. Robey has her own website which looks clunky and stuck in a time warp. Here we can hear her music (???), read her lyrics (???)and generally learn that she is working on new "projects." Of the three central actors, she seems to have done the least with acting.

The show's anchor was Chris Wiggins who played Jack Marshak. I thought I sensed The Bard and then I read, "Member of the prestigious Stratford Festival Acting Company in 1960 playing the roles in Romeo and Juliet, and in A Midsummer Night's Dream"." Wiggins brought a sense of gravitas and when you think about it, there should always be someone in a horror series who brings a seriousness to the story line. His filmography is quite long and varied.

For two seasons or the three, Ryan Dallion (groovy name, eh?), played by John D. LeMay, was Micki's cousin. I always thought their on-screen chemistry belied a real life relationship, but maybe that's just speculation. LeMay is still in the industry in some decent movies, but not any major roles.

The character that replaced Ryan in the third season, Johnny Ventura, I never really cared for. he was all blank looks and cockiness.

We watched an episode last night and both of us commented on the washed out look of the series and the sometimes grainy picture. Not sure if it's just our ratty TV, or the transfer is just bad.

All three seasons have been released on DVD.