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!

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

Asking a musician who was in attendance at the gig, the very gig I spent umpteen words describing in great detail, what he thought of the performance. I respect this guy and his opinion would be valuable. Hoping for insight, I wait and get:

"When?"
(This is not going well already)

"Last week at Okays."

"Was I there?"
(May Day! May Day!)

"Yes."

Others: "Dude, are you having a senior moment?"

The subject is changed when a wave of laughter engulfs us all. Must have made a huge impression on him.

When we want something, the universe does its best to derail it. Some suggest our very wanting thwarts the universe's intentions and therefore it is our fault. My sense is that we are denied because of a very spiky sense of humor.

"so passes the glory of the world"