To a New Year

Though it doesn't seem like it, I have been a teacher much longer than anything else.
Last semester, I taught only three students. This was the smallest enrollment I have ever seen. Two were advanced and one was a beginner.

The advanced students were tortured with the ideas I gathered from my four days with Fripp. The beginner?....well. He probably couldn't play an A minor chord for you right now even though we worked together for about 13 weeks. He is not unusual. Some end up absorbing very little.


These pics are from the UC classroom. Every week I'd come back and see my same wacky scrawl still on the chalkboard. UC has gotten rid of the Music Major program. It's like they have an aversion to the liberal arts in general. I have watched and waited since 1987 to see this day. Private lessons flew so low under the radar that they missed being cut. I feel very lucky to teach.
At this point, I no longer feel a little angry at colleges in general for their "part-time" way of handling qualified teachers. You know, all of the work, but no security or benefits. I jumped ship and found a full-time job, saving me from the path I was on of no less than five part-time jobs at one time. It was an insane schedule and I don't miss it at all. I hardly knew where the hell I was half of the time.

[ABOVE Torture for the advanced students.]

Teaching is fun for me anymore. Even when they try to get an easy grade, wiggle out of work or try to get under your skin - an old and inevitable trick. Female students will flirt (Skirts get tighter and shorter. One gal came to a lesson in a black micro-mini. Subtle, yes?) and male students puff out their chests. But in the end, this is useless puffery. I let them know it's about one thing: passing or failing baby.

An old, old trick is when a student tries to name-drop-the-famous-guitarist to make me feel inadequate as a player. When a student tries to push perceived buttons of my insecurity, I floor them a bit when I say, "Oh yeah. That guy's a great player." Or the bomb "I can't play that, no." I am realistic in my assessment of my place in the pantheon of players, but the irony is lost on them. They who can barely play place me up against the best players in the world. It shows ignorance yes, but it shows I am getting to them. I am holding a mirror up to their flaws on the instrument. I am to encourage, but to challenge always.


I have an idea for a guitar class. It's going to be exciting if I can launch it for Fall '09.

No doubt certain students will try to wiggle out of working as best as they can and some will soar. But I am willing to make my life just a little bit less comfortable by trying this out.

So. Happy New Year.

And for you potential students, here's some free advice: Keep a good posture, play in the mid-range and leave the mini-skirts at home. Daddy's not interested.

Winter Pages

We didn't have a white Christmas.
But here's hoping for such.

Happy Holidaze Everybody!

Quotable Quotes

The following are true and accurate quotes.

"I can make some remarkably mediocre food."

"While I'm making a bird sandwich..."

"big ol' trashy whore..."

"My brain power was switched off."

Priceless

Point-and-Shoot: not that much.

Capturing nosy, cranky old lady's expression:

oh yeah.

Untitled

Ugly is Thy Name

This past summer, I saw the fattest and most hideous fly I've ever seen. I had to take a few shots of this winged monstrosity.

Looks tasty, yes? Full of hairy, crunchy goodness.

This Is WV

To Play, To Freeze

The journey of this gig is a long one, but I will make it brief. (Brief is tough for me.)

In the summer, we played a wedding and it was right after the ceremony that this little wisp of a young gal asked us for a card.

When she called, she informed us that the gig would be out of town. About an hour and a half out of town in fact.

Rule #72: Always charge for travel. Gas, time and hassle, especially hassle, all factor in greatly. So, like every sensible group, our in-town and out-of-town fees will differ greatly.

This bride was intense and needed almost weekly or biweekly contact to reassure her that we were in fact going to be there and sound good. She also wanted to haggle over the price which she felt was high. Certainly higher than the two other musicians she was considering for the job. Li-Li did more than her share of keeping to her guns price-wise.

True story: A law firm once hired us and put a young intern in charge of dealing with the musicians. Every time she called, she would try in no uncertain terms to try to get us to lower our fee. Let me say this: our fees are comparable to any one's in the valley. But this little shark kept biting at me until I said,

"Mam, do your clients set the hourly fee for you?"

A sheepish "No." came forth and then the truth: "They wanted me to see if I could get the best price possible." OK. You were trying to impress your superiors at the firm. Now we are on the same page.

Rule # 14: Be willing to walk away at any negotiation, especially a wedding gig. For what they will pay for ONE flower arrangement, they can easily afford you.

She tried everything, even citing declining gas prices. We did not change our fee. Though Li was the main contact for the gig, she even tried the old divide and conquer by calling me. She was polite, but even though I avoid confrontation at almost any cost, I can get real with people if I am pushed enough. With a calm that hopefully masked my annoyance, I tried to sell us and justify our fee compared to the other musicians.

It must have worked and we certainly had one ace in the hole: she wanted a song sung at the ceremony. The other musicians, both of whom play in the symphony, I gambled would not be able to fill this order.

We were hired and the calls still came, but each one certainly contained an inquiry about "How is the song coming along?" "Does he know it yet?" "Does it sound good?" There was even a suggestion that she HAD to hear it over the phone.

Oh boy. What hath we wrought?

I, of course, delayed learning the song as long as possible because it sounded a bit painfully cheesy when I listened to it on YouTube. Do you blame me? Duty bound, I will endure anything for the right price and learn it I did. Sans twang, of course.

The drive was wonderful. Lisa and I have been pals for a long time and we are comfortable with each other like an old married couple. In fact, people ask us if we are married. She snidely retorts with this gem: "No, that's why we are good friends." (If people get the sarcasm, they don't show it on their faces as it is frequently met with just a polite smile.)

The sun burst through at one point as we passed over the New River Gorge. We have to keep reminding ourselves that a constant vigil must be kept or we will keep talking until we end up in another county.

Rule #24: musicians must be obnoxious when it comes to parking. People will get pretty bitchy about parking, so you must explain that you have more than a backload of equipment to move. I parked as close as possible and ignored the warnings from the caterer. It's my back, dammit.

The setting was gorgeous and perfect except for one major thing: it was freakin' freezing when the sun wasn't out which was most of the time. If you squint at some of the pics of the bridesmaids, you'll see they were exposing quite bit of skin. I did feel really sorry for such an weather inappropriate choice for the bridesmaids.
It was suggested that we set up on the walkway. Nope. Rule #121: The people who hired you usually have no clue as to where you should be. Sometimes you have to stand up for what you believe is a better choice both from a sound perspective and from a staying out of the way of foot traffic one. A guitarist is relatively safe, but Lisa's instrument could knock her teeth out with a clueless guest.

Why don't people see you?

Because we are invisible.

We chose to set up at the back entrance, under covering, facing our amps out towards the ceremony. We still froze and Lisa suffered the most. At one point, she didn't look so well. Eyes watering, shivering and her playing started to get an exaggerated vibrato to it. She had my jacket on and still was bone cold.

I got through my song; singing in the fall freeze, looking out on the New River Gorge. Lisa told me later that it sounded pretty good. That's all I need to hear.

My fingers were fine until the procession song and then my left hand decided to become almost nonfunctional. The freeze had caught up to me.

After the gig, we warmed up inside with food and beverage. Nothing like a deep freeze to make you appreciate basic comforts.

On the way home, Lisa told me how burned out she felt about the whole gig. The calls, the constant reassurance, the planning, the price haggles, etc. She said that the gig had taken quite a lot out of her. Sometimes we cannot calculate how much a simple operation can cost us from a personal perspective.

Back at her house, her husband, being the perfect host, offered me a vodka and cranberry. "Hell yes." was my answer without hesitation. Lisa had to roll out in less than two hours to play a gig. Ironically, I had been invited to play this gig, but the band leader had forgotten he had invited me. I told her I was going to show up, sit in the table closest to the band and play along. Or I could play the disenfranchised band member who had in turn become the band's biggest supporter by applauding way too loud and too long.

In the end, I would have liked to have played, but appreciated the luxury of staying home. Oh yeah. It's good to play, but it's also nice to appreciate home life.

Local Boys Make Some Noise

My friend and fellow muso Doug had his 50th B-party not so long ago. Listening to the local boys, the Soul Doctors, make some noise, it really struck me how good they sounded. Downright kickass in fact.

It also reminds me of the myth that because a musician lives in a small town, somehow he may not be as good as someone living in the major cities of America. It's bullshit. Charleston can put its talent up against any place, anywhere. These cats can play baby.

We also have this idea that somehow fame is equal to talent. Talent is something difficult to measure until you see it in action and it has nothing to do with fame. Fame is more about ambition, looks and incredible luck.

So, as I watched and listened to the local lads, I was truly impressed. I felt proud to think that the musical community counts me among them.

So, congrats on hitting 50, Doug. You sound and look good baby. Own it!

"gorge"-ous

The Signs Are Everywhere

This Band Plans Ahead : )

Friday comes after a long-ass week. One spent working for four days solid on a two-hour symphonic program. Yes, that's four days to a two hour result. You do the math. That's also right on the heels of a ten day fund drive. Blah.

I was in the mood for grub and the couch. The call came forth: "Lisa called."

"Is it about a gig?"

"She left a message."

I listened to her message. She was being her usual sweet self, but said "I have a question......I've got a gig." A bit enigmatic.

Hmmmm. She knows my grumbles, so she says, "You think about it. I'll call you back in a half an hour." Good plan. Give the old goat time to think, he may agree. I do.

Gee, wouldn't it be nice to somehow plan these things? Evidently not and that's what makes it so crazy and charming at the same time. Lisa was combing the paper that very afternoon and saw our name listed as entertainment at the club.

After grub and a quick nap, I headed out to the gig. What the hell? This would be the third time I have stepped in as a sideman for this group. No surprises, right?

When I arrived, my usual parking at the bank across the street was now Parking Lot L for the Clay Center. What? Part of the charm living in Podunk Town is that parking is never a hassle. Don't take away every insider's parking areas. Despite the big sign, no one approached me for money.

Looking over at the club, I see people seated at tables where the band sets up. Rule #32 of the musician's gig guide: never lug equipment until you know where or if you are setting up. Something could have gone wrong and most likely has.

We were indeed playing as there was a handwritten sign outside advertising the band. The correct personnel was not listed nor did it have my name on it. I laughed. This is the way things go for me.

On or off? Could I just slip into the heavenly reward of a pint of pale ale or would I have to earn my keep? Yes and no. It's just the normal chaos of the place. We would have to wait until those folks finished before we could set up. Brian had a good laugh and I'm glad. He's the leader and the pressure is more on him to make owner and band happy. We are used to the disorganization.

Tonight, the dramatis personae would involve Chris, not Tim, who would be our drummer. I hadn't seen him in over a decade. After the Velvets called it quits, a quartet called The Wine Consultants was formed and Chris was our powerhouse percussionist. Getting older does bad things to you like gaining weight, losing hair, but sometimes it can bring a person a certain mellowness and focus. This is certainly true of Chris.

Back in those days, Chris was the man of chops, but sometimes at the expense of ensemble interaction. There is always a time in a musician's life when showing off one's chops is the primary concern. This may come from the ego or from an imagined standard that everything must be complicated. He was really an intense guy back then and seemed to be on his own planet wave. The chops remain, but the guy is far more relaxed, focused and listens to the group.

We began in the usual way: one man short. Ryan is always late because he always has a gig beforehand, so your humble narrator must discharge the guitar duties alone. This means you better call tunes I know and that's a mighty short list.

This is the roll of the dice, kids, and the potentially embarrassing element for me. Although this is a laid back gig at a small restaurant-club, you never know who's going to show up and listen or when you will be placed squarely on the hot seat. Both happened.

Indeed, sure as rain, one of the local jazz players and friends show up and take the table right in front of us. Although we have been in bands together and are old friends, still he is truly a jazz musician and a great one. I still feel like an interloper- a guy who once played classical only, but drifted into jazz by circumstance. I am adrift musically-neither this nor that. This may be an unfair assessment, but still this is how I view myself.

Do I feel pressure to be something I somehow cannot live up to? Nah. It's not like I'm on stage at the Clay Center about to play a show unprepared. This is jazz baby. Besides, I have a fake book if things get hairy.

Ryan shows up and finally I can relax. He is an amazing player and I have a lot of balls to sit next to him. It shows either blind arrogance on my part, stupidity or as I would like to think, a chance to learn. Some of his solos were simply astonishing last night. At once, I am lost in supportive admiration and at the same time I am jealous of how easy it appears for him. He glides along the frets laying down some serious jazzopothy. Still, this old man doesn't have thirty six years under his belt for nothin'. I wasn't firing as well as I could, but a few times I laid it out. If all else fails, lay down a tight rhythm.

When the two of us play, it soon becomes guitar madness. There is a symbiosis between us that reflects our mutual love of classical, jazz, the avant garde and a dash of King Crimson. In fact, it dawned on me that if I couldn't bring the fast lines to Ryan, he would bring the Fripp interlocking guitar lines to me. We took off into this improvised section that was amazing.

Afterwards, Lisa said, "Do you guys need a cigarette?"

I thought the band sounded pretty good and thought the night was over when someone wanted to hear Autumn Leaves. Without warning, Brian announces, "We're gonna let this be an acoustic guitar number." Wha? Thanks for the spotlight. This is the hot seat I was referring to earlier. Does anyone care that I am seated next to a Berkley graduate and quite possibly is the best jazz guitarist in town? Time to fly or fry, baby.

I did my best with some hazy changes on the end of the B section. Ryan had
"no complaints." Small mercies-thanks.

Soon I was with my friends and delightful pale ale. All other beer tastes like sh*t to me without a lot of hops typical to this style of brew. Gots to have my hops.

My friend Kai and I go back quite a ways. Kai is a monster player and teacher. His style of teaching is a bit like a samurai sword master-swift and to the point. He said, "You got the radio thing going great, but you really need to play, man."

Something tells me he is right. Goddam right.

Keeping Creativity Alive

This is an interesting post from Fripp about Eno. The question for us is: how can we apply this to own creative lives?

15.13 In response to a question from an American writer, planning a biography of Captain Eno…

The quick answer is: Brian was right!

The question is, does knowledge get in the way? My own approach is: know enough to begin, but not enough to stop you getting where you’re going. Brian’s point was, Fripp’s knowledge was preventing us from moving into interesting territory.

So, in principle, I also hold Brian’s position.

The longer answer leads us into consideration of the backgrounds of the various characters at work in popular music of the time. There was the art school approach & the player approach: the two we’re considering now; with a third – those who were entertainers and / or wanted to be rock stars. The musical / artwork in that case being shaped outside the inner momentum of the piece itself and aimed at supporting the interests of the aspirant star / entertainer.

Brian has exceptionally good taste plus a set of working procedures developed from a different background to mine: (Brian’s is) the fine arts; and one form of his guiding principles are articulated in the Oblique Strategies.

My own background is that of the working player. The musician has guiding principles from within their particular discipline. The sense of form (arithmetical & geometrical) are comparable to notions of form within the (visual) arts. My own guiding principles can be found at the bottom of the DGM page. So, there are similarities & also differences; but mainly similarities.

Musical thinking has its own procedural dynamic – we follow where the music leads as it takes on a life of its own. This overrides any other procedural dictum or strategy. So, for someone based in musical procedures, occasionally there may be a divergence from the direction of a “non-musician” (noting that Brian’s musical life over the past 37 years now puts him outside that category).

Two points:

Brian has better taste, a more interesting mind & developed sense of play than almost all the musicians I have known.

A good professional musician knows what they’re doing, so they do what they know. This is death to the creative life.

So, working with Brian is usually a lot more fun & musically creative than working with good professional players (mastery in musicianship is necessary to go beyond the strictures of professionalism).

But, occasionally, there may be a divergence in outcome given the divergent backgrounds. I remember only one moment when an Eno musical procedure did not fully convince me musically, and that was very early in Brian’s life as a solo musician, over 30 years ago.
Regarding the specific example Brian referred to, I’d have to listen to it again today to judge whether the musical example convinces me now.

Willie at the Clay

Willie Nelson
Tuesday, Sep 30 7:30p
at Clay Center Charleston, WV

Malcontents (I've been called the same) bitch all the time about Charleston's lack of concerts. Seriously, we need to get off our hipper-than-thou attitudes and appreciate what we do have. Last night, I saw Willie and Jakob Dylan and paid nada for parking, literally walking less than a block from the venue. We will never ever be the nightmarish hassle of those big city concerts and thank God for it.

The Clay Center was packed to the rafters. It was a curious mix of professional types and Willie wannabes: silver haired ponytail types with biker-denim-outlaw casual wear. On the whole, this was an older crowd. One story: A girl with a mega bosom bumped into my wife and to her amusement, the twenty-something apologized, "We are so sorry" - pointing at her breasts. A+ for creativity.

Jakob Dylan opened and was very underwhelming. My wife said, "You were expecting him to be." Maybe so. This is the stuff college radio is made for: boring, predictable and bland. There were two songs that I found enjoyable, but his voice was buried in the mix (a common theme there for some reason) and what lyrics I could decipher were cliches. He has found his own identity from the seemingly insurmountable task of coming out from shadow of his father, but the depth is not there. At least not for me.

Dylan had a very relaxed stage presence, speaking very little except to remind us that it "was great to be back." Really? We feel so special. Dylan's acoustic guitar work was more interesting than his singing, but was even more buried in the mix. That was a shame because he was doing some creative things with retuning.

His guitar player was quite good. His style reminded me of Albert Lee and Mark Knofler. His playing was very subtle at times, creating musical lines and fills that went perfectly with the harmony-not a common thing among players. His sound was a bit biting and on the treble side for me, but you have to consider the source. He eschewed the rock star persona and played. That was appreciated. He kept switching back and forth between three instruments. I find that annoying and pretentious on some level. What can't you get out of one instrument? For a 40 minute set, do you have to switch to the Les Paul just to rock out on one song?

The drummer's (who resembled Rasputin), setup was pared down to the basics. He might have had five pieces. Good grooves that never too busy, but he was too loud in the mix. This didn't help Jakob Dylan's soft voice in the mix at all. Ditto for the bass player-economical and solid, but too loud.

I found myself drifting a bit during their short set. That's bad. Maybe I'm too old. A couple of girls screamed during his brief patter. Without a doubt, this is part of the appeal. At least he's not John Mayer. On that one, I am clueless.

Willie took the stage unceremoniously, opening with "Whisky River." At 75, he's still got all the charm, charisma and that don't-give-a-damn attitude that makes Willie so enjoyable and ultimately lovable.

Nelson looks he's just as comfortable on the world's stages as he would be at a bar or among friends backstage. He has no cocky celebrity vibe even after all these years. He's just a rowdy boy from Texas.

The big hits were there including the lessor known "Me and Paul." - an ode to drummer Paul English who took the prize for most pared down musician of the evening-only a snare. That's all you need if you can play. In light of certain local events, we burst out laughing at "Almost busted in Laredo, but for reasons that I'd rather not disclose."

Then there's that damn guitar of his (I should talk). Trigger has a rather conspicuous hole right next to the bridge, no doubt due to the rather forceful down stroke style of playing. I have to admit that either I have missed how well Willie has been playing the guitar over the years or the man is getting better. Every TV appearance I have seen, his playing was always a little rough and often he seemed like a lack of technical skill would often limit what ideas he was trying to get out of the instrument, but my opinion has changed. Willie still clobbers the beast, but his melodic and harmonic ideas were wonderful; revealing an understanding of harmony that's rare among players with greater technical ability. That's what counts, baby: hearing it.

Nelson is not really a true rhythm player, but rather uses it to constantly do little fills, bass lines and leads. Sometimes that seemed to occupy so much of his attention that the vocals were an afterthought.

The rest of the band reflected complete and professional support to one aim: back up the man. It was a very sparse lineup with an equally simple equipment setup. The atmosphere onstage was professional, but totally casual. At one point, drummers switched places and even one took over bass duties for a song.

The auxiliary percussion guy added nothing significant. He even added bongos to "On the Road Again." Bongos? Willie Nelson? Hummmmm.

One of my colleagues said that he was expecting a larger band and cited no lead or steel guitarists to be found. I agree that a steel player would have been nice, but with each added band member the musical space becomes fuller and more cluttered. Willie would have had to adjust his style of playing.

Musicians talk about "behind", "on" and "ahead" of the beat. It's hard to explain in words, but suffice it to say that the drummer, Paul English, most likely is used to and ignores Nelson's offbeat (way behind) sense of time. Nelson is never on the beat in any way, especially his voice, which wanders on its own. This is not a criticism, but a very strong observable fact. Nelson's guitar playing reflects this same liquid sense of the beat, but surprisingly

not nearly as much as his voice. Curious. Perhaps it's the percussive nature of the guitar.

One of my colleagues told me his girlfriend told him regarding the drummer, "That man is getting on my nerves." Even non musicians felt this intuitively.

Then there is Willie's voice. How does someone who sings almost like he's speaking communicate such intimacy and sincerity? That can never be answered in Nelson's case. How does he pull off "Georgia" after Ray Charles? Don't ask me, but it sure works.

Frankly, I'm going to take off my malcontent's shield and tell the truth: many times I was completely swept up by the whole magnetism of this man and his wonderful music. He is an American icon, an unlikely survivor, still untouched by the star machinery, representing that Martha Grahamism "salty and original." A great show.

The merch booth had T-shirts for $40. We all agreed that that price was a bit steep. Perhaps the tax man stills haunts the Texan legend.

Word was that as soon as the gig was over, the man was on the bus. No doubt off to another city. Another among countless other gigs.

The road is a terrible place they say, but somehow Nelson has survived with his mind "still fairly sound", but more importantly, his soul still intact.

Seriously Dudes

"South Charleston Patrolman S.W. Miller was following O'Connor's car and could smell a strong odor of marijuana coming from it, the officer wrote in the criminal complaints."

It's a Work in Progress

That's the Reverend Tim, master of the kit and quite a good keyboard player as well. He's got that Billy Cobham kind of build, but he's quite a subtle player. My poor ears do not suffer from any damage from decibel overkill.

It's nice to play with these folks (Though I still don't know the songs). I don't consider myself a jazz player at all. Maybe that's what saves me. I am hanging by a thread.

Standards are played, respective solos taken.

Funk grooves arise and all is smokin'.

The moment when the music derails into a King Crimson foray or Steve Reich or John Cage -it's no longer strictly jazz. It's the moment that I most enjoy. Shit goes out there. That's all I know.


Legendary drummer Bill Bruford calls soloing "the research and development of the evening."

Yeah. It's when you look up and realize that two hours and twenty minutes have passed.

The Use of Memory

My friend Ed has been blogging about the old days at SMA. It is remarkable. His recall of details is quite simply stunning.

His new installment is about daily life.

Ed's recollection is from '74 to '75. I did a little math.

I was 16 when I arrived mid-term. Bewildered, confused, scared, newly shorn and definitely pissed off. I remember standing in my new prison cell, my laundry bag of new uniforms on the floor in front of me, while a host of new faces came to the door to see the new kid. I felt f**ked three ways from Sunday. That's my first memory. Welcome to SMA.

To Tell the Tale

There are folks who live by "never look back." That attitude is a bit mystifying for me. Hell, that's not any fun. I like hearing the old stories. Most of them I have forgotten. Memory is a collective retelling of past events. That is, each person remembers bits that others have forgotten.

The past seems to have come to my doorstep.

I had a rather unusual high school experience. I started out at Charleston High (long demolished and now a doctor's building) then abruptly sent to Staunton Military Academy, all to finish at Charleston Catholic. No wonder I am weird.

I wasn't really surprised when my old bud from SMA days, Ed Newbegin, contacted me. There are people you meet that, despite the passage of time, you never forget. He's one of them. Oh yeah. Crazy Ed Newbegin.

Ed, "Boots," Andy, Pete and I were a tight little bunch during those hellish times. I will tell my tales at a later time. Right now, enjoy Ed's account. Obviously, his memory is intact.

And, by the way: Truth, Duty and Honor my ass.

P.S. Henry blows!

The Same Old Song Still Singing

Got a phone call from someone this afternoon. I knew why they were calling, but was hoping they had some info for me. No.

This person wanted to know how the meeting went with the new padre (see last week's post).

I told her all about the meeting.

She said. "He said you all didn't talk about the job."

Man, oh man.

The Same Old Song

The world usually follows this little motto:
before it ever gets better, the deal will always get worse

This time: no deal at all.

Loyal readers of these pages (all three, including the author) may remember the events that ultimately lead to the ending of my last church job. Father Fiasco had done his level best to dismantle the music program and terminate my employment. Why? Because he has a long history of being the master of disaster (well documented by his brethren) and was siphoning off money for himself. Yes, you read that right. So, I was filled with great curiosity when the new priest called me and said he wanted to meet with me.

Could this be a golden opportunity? Would I slide right back into those comfortable shoes?

For being as old as I am, I am so naive. I trust, I believe. Then ugly reality comes up to shock me back into sanity.

Nay.

First, a lovely and sincere apology from the new pastor regarding the behavior of the previous and aforementioned priest of pandemonium. Then I recounted the whole tale of horror in full detail. After the tale ended, he began asking me about what I was doing.

He wondered where I was attending mass.

"I'm a vagabond."

This is mostly true. I don't go anywhere.

Stated with true concern. "I am concerned that this experience may have turned you off to the church."

Indeed it has. I felt the church betrayed me. Something that had given me safe harbor, a place to find quiet and meditation and even fellowship had turned sour for me. I simply don't go. I mistrust organized religion on some level now and even feel suspicious of clergy. The church turned its back on me and so I return in kind.

When he explained that he had called me in just to meet me and to offer an olive branch, I felt as if an anvil had fallen on my head.

Gee, no offer of a job?

Though not one person has spoken of me with disdain and he had heard only glowing comments about my time as music minister, there wasn't even the offer of a job on the table. He wanted me to attend the services and join the church. Then, he might use me, but only in "an advisory capacity." Oh, I get it: do it for free. Ah, no thanks. I even heard: "It would feel wrong to hire you back." What? Putting my ego aside for a moment, this is about money, plain and simple.

In short: the old Catholic mentality of volunteerism is still in play. The "because you love God and the church, you should work like a dog for nothing" mode of thinking still lingers from the '60's. Those times are as relevant as antiquity. The whole world has changed and the church with Vatican II was a reaction to try to bring the church into the 20th century; yet this preposterously outdated attitude has remained. Women have come further in the Catholic church than musicians. That's not an exaggeration.

But I am not an part-time musician. I have given my life to it. It is my passion, my soul and my closest friend. Pros like me deserved to be paid for their experience, education and sense of liturgy. I will not accept anything less. It's bullshit. Right now, my sources tell me that the folks involved with the music program are all volunteers. Some say only one gets a stipend for his work.

I had the sense that he wanted to meet the man who had been so inextricably "linked to the parish's history." I also, God forgive me for saying this, felt that bringing me back might bring a little bit more attention to the music than he wanted. He is the new king, the bright one, the worldly traveler, brought to this humble church filled with Appalachian folks whom he sees as being insular and provincial. The mountains and valleys being a barrier to the outside world - a world he has seen. This church, seen by his superiors, as a "penal colony." In his words: "send them down there. They can't do any harm."

He's been sent to clean up the mess. Sounds like everything is hunky-dory. That's great, so why bother me?

Before I go further, I have to say I liked the new guy. There's a touch of arrogance there. Two arrogant men can't really bond - they are always too impressed with themselves to be impressed with others. Still, I think we felt comfortable.

And I can't say I was shy about my opinions. I think my bitterness swelled up inside me and was let out my mouth too fast before I could catch it. "Tacky churchy gay" is how I described how the previous priest decorated the church. He looked a little stunned as he repeated it. Sorry, Padre. I almost never reveal my true thoughts about people. That stuff stays hidden, but this time one got out.

I have consulted two friends, both female - one still going and one who left because of the disastrous way my employment was ended. Here's what I have found out about my female friends: they are far more willing to tell it like it is than men are. When I told one about the apology, she said, "If that's all he wanted, why not just send a postcard?" She has been hurt as well and has stopped doing endless volunteer work because of it. Good for her.

We can learn a lot from the hurt the world blithely tosses our way. Believe me: any hopes, dreams or ambitions of one day returning to that church as a music minister have been dashed.

They are gone.

Thanks for reminding me.

Can You Sing Our Song? - Overture

It has already begun.

If you saw the tag at the end of the last wedding blog, you may have wondered what was coming. I am wondering as well, but I know this particular syndrome very well: the bride-to-be is expecting perfection.

She has a right, of course, to make sure that she is getting what she pays for, but this can go into the realm of making one's hair turn gray.

Singing at a wedding (No, not a Adam Sandler Wedding Singer) is sui generis; that is, it is a creature unto itself. It is as easy and light as morning fog or a beast with claws. Mostly a beast.

When we were hired, the deal breaker was that I would sing a song. She only heard us instrumentally. While interrogating my musical partner, she asked about my abilities.

"Well, he was a choir director for many years." (until he was unceremoniously shit canned)

"Do you think I should contact them and ask about how well he sings?"

Evidently, she did not see the overwhelming irony in her inquiry, but continued on when she called me:

"Are you singing anywhere I can come and hear you?"

"No. I did quite a bit of that in the '90s. That was when I was in a band and performed regularly."

"Do you have any CDs?" (No. The swinging song stylings of Johnny Velvet will not be out soon.)

"No. Never did get around to making a CD." (File that under big regret. Thanks for reminding me.)

That was a few weeks ago, but I knew that this would not be over. Not by a long shot.

The latest:

I am to sing the song to her

over the phone.

To quote the man: good grief!