Determination

Wheat From the Chaff

A friend of mine has asked me to do voice overs for his independent film.

Like any creative mind, his is restless. We have tried more than a couple of approaches. Every week, he pops in to ask if I can do them again.

He's worried that he's driving me nuts. This relentless evaluation of one's work is all part of the creative process.

Today, I worked for an hour on 30 seconds worth of music. Spending hours on photos is not unusual either.

Barring the occasional nod from the gods or a bit of luck, very few of us get it right the first time. Editing has to be a labor of love, otherwise it is sheer drudgery.

Eventually, you realize when you need to let a work alone and let it stand on its own two feet.

There's always more chaff than wheat.

Annoy Me Now, Please

Mister Freep gets annoyed at many fan's behavior and with the buffoon bent over looking at his floor pedals, you can kinda see why.

Didn't the guy think that such close inspection of a musician's equipment during a performance might be a distraction? He probably started talking to Fripp about it at the earliest and most convenient opportunity for all concerned-



right then.

Once Upon a Time

Once upon a time, there were three guys and a drum machine.

They met a guy named Tito at a wedding. He said that he liked our latin music. He was Latino. He said he was a drummer.

We hired Tito immediately.

Tito took us on a trip to his homeland of Puerto Rico. With Radio Salsoul pulsing salsa rhythms everywhere we went, we experienced quite a lot. These pictures are of one of the best days we had. Incredible.

I found some old notebooks. These notebooks contain information about the songs we were playing. These are relatively good notes considering my recollection of this time period is one of constant disorganization and chaos.

Last night, CR, the guy asleep in the hammock, and I talked for hours and even rehearsed over the phone.

So many memories.

One important CR quote:

"Let's scooby some notes."

Scooby some notes? How do you do that?

But scooby as a verb was used tonight by another friend who was never in the band.

That's weird.

On another topic, these notebooks are chock full of lyrics. This page amused me.

I have always had trouble with lyrics. A comparison between one source and my interpretation varies wildly. Looks like I had trouble with this old Tommy Bolin tune as well. Oh well...

Actual lyrics:

Savannah Woman dressed in white

Stands out of tropical rains

She pulls her gin and tonics tight

And curses her lonely domain

Brazilian winds winds blow warm in Rio

A white estate they call "La Nada"

Meant for her soul or so she says

Hides her sadist gin-made eyes

No one knows but me

How she left me so behind

Savannah WomanI could never leave you so unkind

Snow white and with desire

That vamp from the magazine

Cold and distant as the moon

Why can't she burn like fire?

No one knows but me

How she left me so behind

Savannah Woman

I could never leave you so unkind

Velvet Rising

"Surely the odd confluence of events hasn't escaped you, Clarice."
-Hannibal Lecter

The planets must aligning in a funny way because what we had stored away, forgotten, ignored or simply moved on from, has suddenly become a possibility; even one that could be fun.

Is it possible that a band that hasn't played in over 15 years could get back together and do a reunion gig??? If you had asked me five years ago, my answer would have been a direct "no."

Enough time has passed where I think I can be objective and not merely brag or wax nostalgic. So here is the viewpoint of an old man looking back (take with a grain of salt):

Back in the day, the Velvet Brothers were kings. Succinctly put, we were on top, in constant demand and played every gig that any other band could get and more. Our sound was original: latino meets lounge meets rock. And then there were the odd dabblings in funk, experimental and parody. And we could have fun like nobody's business. The fun was the appeal to the public who came sometimes just to watch what would happen and to dance like fiends.

At the core was not a business, but friendships. It was a blast to play with your friends, slowly get tipsy, have fans enjoy the music and all the time get paid at the end of the night.

We were a melding of distinct cultures and styles in a very unique way-eclectic, crazy, fun, wildy disorganized and sometimes tight and playing with the fire of the gods. We could fall flat on our faces or burn down the house. No one knew what was going to happen-least of all us. That was the beauty, the mystery, and the frustration.

At one point, the band's popularity took over everything; at least from my perspective. Our egos swelled, our weekends were spent playing and weekdays were spent recovering or rarely, band practice. A band can be a monster that swallows its members whole. We weren't big time, but if that's even a taste of that life, then I am glad we didn't. It was insane.

And like most bands, we broke up. For practical reasons and personal ones.

One cannot recreate the past and to try is silly, but all former members are willing to discuss a reunion gig. This might be crazy, but I am willing to play once again with guys who gave me some of the best musical experiences I've ever had.

Hell, the Eagles did it.

And hell still isn't frozen.

The Lens As Photographer

Birthday=new camera. The best camera I've ever owned.

Right now, it's a better photographer than me.

I am like a caveman with a stick hitting a rock.

But mistakes are to be made. It's ok.
To appreciate these, enlarge by clicking.

A Bit O' the Beef (Captain, that is...)

Bat chain Puller
Bat chain puller
Puller, puller

A chain with yellow lights
That glistens like oil beads
On its slick smooth trunk
That trails behind on tracks, and thumps

A wing hangs limp and retreats
Bat chain puller
Puller puller

Bulbs shoot from its snoot
And vanish into darkness
It whistles like a root snatched from dry earth
Sodbustin’ rakes with grey dust claws
Announces its coming in the morning

This train with grey tubes
That houses people’s very thoughts and belongings.

Bat chain puller
Puller puller

This train with grey tubes that houses people’s thoughts,
Their very remains and belongings.
A grey cloth patch
Caught with four threads
In the hollow wind of its stacks
Ripples felt fades and grey sparks clacks,
Lunging the cushioned thickets.

Pumpkins span the hills
With orange crayola patches.
Green inflated trees
Balloon up into marshmallow soot
That walks away in forty circles,
Caught in grey blisters

With twinkling lights and green sashes

UuhPulled by rubber dolphins with gold yawning mouths
That blister and break in agony
In souls of rust
They kill gold sawdust into dust.

Bat chain puller,Puller puller.

Odds and Ends

You can see an ongoing obsession here.

Obsession? This guy? Nah.

I have yet to take any action against aforementioned carpenter bees which are chewing up the wood in the carport. I hate to admit that I find them adorable. Not to wax all Timothy Treadwell on these tiny creatures who care not for human contact or company, but so far we have come as close to one another as possible. One actually fell on my head; another onto my hand. Nothing. These are not aggressive creatures, otherwise, if it were wasps, I'd be in a world of stung, baby.

I don't think there's much value to anthropomorphizing Mother Nature, but she sure do put on a display. Makes you scratch your head and ponder your place in it.

Also, bottom three are shots with new camera.

This last one looks I messed with the tree in the background, but the rain just distorted it.

A Mosquito's problem

You get a new camera. You look at the box. You stare at the box. The box looks good. It's a nice box. Snap out of it! Get thee out there and make me some perty pictures, boy!

It's night. Porch light on. See large mosquito. Aha! Get complicated camera ready and...
where did it go?
Mosquito has fallen for the oldest trick in the book-the spider web by the porch light. (Know why it's the oldest trick in the book? Because it works.)

Mosquito hangs pitifully upside down, struggling, twirling and generally panicking.

Spider knows this movement. Spider advances. Spider is way too small to stun, spin and save.

Spider tries his best, but retreats. Spider knows all things struggle until they struggle no more and then time to have lunch.
Mosquito has found solution: better to leave some things behind (like his legs) than to stay for dinner.

Why I Do What I Do

Email from listener:



"Have you ever gotten any grief for playing CB? In all the years I've been listening to radio, and as various as that listening has been, I think you've given Beefheart more airtime than anyone I've ever heard.

Oh Blobby, aren't you great.

Sue Egypt! SSSSue EEEEEEEEEEEEgypt!? She's not bad, she's just...."

Captain Beefheart-not exactly any station's first choice in programming.

Last night, I was chatting online with a friend while the show was on. All was ok until the Beefheart segment came on. Conversation then went something like this:

Me:"Beefheart."

-nothing-I don't give up easily

"Have you heard of him?"

"Well, so-and-so is into him."

"Have you listened?"

"I'm sure if I listened enough, I could get into it."

"That's just a nice way of saying nooooooooooooooooooooo."

lol

Beefheart is not something you want to put your listeners through all the time. It is simply too intense and the musical language too idiosyncratic to attract or sustain a large audience. Certainly, I won't get any pats on the back for playing it; the above listener's email a rare exception.

Listeners come with expectations. Ralph Towner, one of the great jazz/classical guitarist-composers of our time, said that listeners want to be about 50% right when it comes to their expectations. With Beefheart, all the familiars are gone: pretty guitars are replaced with razor, gritty electric guitar riffs, lyrical singing has been replaced with guttural, crazed witch doctor ranting, lyrics are surreal and most of the time, the band sounds like they are trying to play in a sandstorm or create one. In short, everything you expect music to be, is turned upside down by the magic man.

So, it doesn't matter how many accolades are heaped or how much praise is piled upon the Beef, audiences (including numerous musicians-often the most conservative) are probably not going to like the music.

From Wiki:

Don Van Vliet's (his real name) legacy is one of limited commercial success, but nonetheless one with a devoted following. Despite this lack of commercial success, his influence on musicians, especially those of the punk and new wave genres, has been described as "incalculable".

To which I would add:

Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat chain puller

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Oddities, Part 1