Red Krovvy, Anyone?

Meeting Ryan for the rehearsal at 6pm to set up for New Year's Eve gig involved crawling off the couch into the deep freeze, but I didn't think it would involve bleeding.

We were doing a tune called Affirmation which involved lengthy strumming with the thumb followed by a funky bass riff. I was happy as a clam, trying not to mess up, when something caught my eye.

Looking down at my thumb, it was bleeding pretty good and had gotten on the bass strings. I had cut myself digging through a Haydn box set earlier in the day and thought that it was not an issue.

The look on Ryan's face was hilarious. Methinks my six-string compadre has a bit of the wheezies when it comes to the red, red krovvy flowing real horrorshow.

"Didn't you know?!" he asked in horror.

"No. I didn't." I said to my own sincere disbelief. I am no soldier nor tough guy. Far far from it. No pain involved, so I never noticed.

I was going to take a pic of it for the old blog, but then thought that might be too much.

As opposed to the bloody strings? Ha!

Another thing: the man brings in these complex tunes and expects me to deliver. I told him flat out last night, "My man, you sure do have a lot of confidence in my reading ability." It's a rough ride at first, then slowly the music feels easier. Some of them are his own and that makes you want to really do them justice. I know the agony of having other players butcher original music and it is destructive.

These freakin' tunes can be quite a lot to tackle. All these complex G9#11 type stuff and a maze for a roadmap. In fact, most of the time, once you get a decent fingering for these seemingly complex chords and a grasp of the rhythms, figuring out the form is the hardest thing for me. I find that's very true in Latin and rock music as well. Easy chords-tricky form.

A two and half hour rehearsal with him (or a gig) is unlike most rehearsals that I attend. Though we have lots of laughs, it's a workout, baby. Oh yeah. The hilarious difference is that he was off to a gig after that session while I was a bit shagged.

The New Year's Playathon at The 'Stro should be blog worthy, so if I don't see you before then,

Happy New Year's to you!

I'll be working.

And looking for you-know-who.

Bear Up Thy Ascot

Looking part Dickensian and part hippie, the young Roberto Freep sports what appears to be a variation on an ascot. Not one for smiling, even back in the golden 60's.

But the real keeper is that glorious Les Paul, a guitar he sold recently I believe.

Remembering Snow

This is a good read, kiddies, written by Uncle Bill.

http://dontprintthis.blogspot.com/2009/12/remembering-snow.html

Merry Holidays Everyone!

The Velvet Kings

We three kings of Velvet are.

Wandering casually

to meet at the bar.

When people play together in a band, they develop a rich history. It can also be annoying to "outsiders" who have to endure faded glories that may have not been so glorious in the first place. That's why last night was so much a treat- we were all into it.

There we were: the original Velvet three. The three lunkheads that decided that our loopy, quirky, Latiny music ensemble was worth taking out of the basement.

We weren't at Casa de Weg very long before the rum flowed and we started listening to band tapes. The first reunion tape, from about a year ago, sounded really rough. Even if it's knocking the rust off after sixteen year absence and combine that with a very a forgiving attitude, I still wouldn't want to subject anyone outside the band to that aural torture.

A few tunes made us look at each other and say, "What the hell?" It sounded like two different rhythms at once and three different interpretations of chord changes. Yikes. Spirited, yes, but not polished.

We are not a group of guys who spare any sharp comments when things went awry. Oh no. We might have worn shades, but never rose colored ones, babe.

Then, we dug back even further into the video archives. We had done some "interviews" from the late 80's with our fictitious characters: C.R. Smoothie, Johnny Velvet and Denny La Groove. There is some genuinely funny material in these free rambling, very cheaply shot videos. You'd have to edit the hell out of those and make them into something worth watching.

Which led to an ongoing discussion about making a Velvet mockumentary. Yes, I keep asking my band mates and others if an idea like this is too adventurous and vain to pursue, but no one seems to think it so. Done right, I think this could be very funny. At worse, we have something to laugh at during the holidays.

The last video was of when the Veebs were a quartet and playing in downtown Charleston at a place called Bentley's. In our typical open-ended policy, musicians joined us at different intervals. Totally casual.

I was shocked at how we sounded. This wasn't the Mahavisnu Orchestra, but it was clear that we knew the material and were growing stronger as performers. I looked over at Weg and said, "Damn. We sounded good." In his typical casual style, "You gotta find a part." Yep. Very important to find a suitable part and play it as well as you can. On guitar, it's easy to lose your way in noodling and overplay or attempt things (as I so often do) way beyond your reach.

Our classic combo of Black Magic Woman - Oye Como Va sounded very good. When it was over, I stated, "That was part badass and part goofy." No matter the tune, there was always something a bit quirky about the delivery. I don't think that has ever changed.

Alas, it had to be an early evening for us and soon it was time to head home.

You can say, "So what, dude? It was just an average band that broke up a long time ago. So what?" I agree, bands come and go.

One thing's for sure, the friends you make in those bands tell you the truth. They get to see you at your best and your worst. And in spite of every solo that went nowhere and every time you sang out of tune, they forgave you. And you them, yes?

While we didn't change the world or impact music in any way, it's was a rich experience that changed us. That's the power of music.

More importantly, the power of friendship.

Arrogance Doesn't Win

Yep. We admit it: we watch Survivor. I'm going to up the ante: PBS is the least thing we watch. Laurence Welk reruns have their (zzzz)charm, but if there's any reality TV to watch, it's Survivor. Good or bad, this show started it all.

[The Evil Russell got ripped off.]

I have to admit when we begin to record a new season, there is a bit of weariness. New faces, new annoying people and the first couple of weeks, the pacing can be slow even when the show's producers try to rev it up. But, by the time the season draws to a close, you are sucked right in.

Last night, it was a shock that Natalie won over the expected and rightful winner, Russell. Russell, a ruthless manipulator played the hardest game and yet, in the end, it was his arrogance that lead him to let Natalie, a person who hid behind him and followed every one of his moves, steal the million dollars away from him.

[It helps to have a nice body in Survivor.]

Every season, some player stands on the proverbial soapbox, making their plea to the jury, and talks about integrity and honor, but lying, manipulation and ruthlessness are built into this game. It's a simple matter of numbers: each week, somebody is going home. Besides, "integrity" seems to go out the window when product endorsements, movie roles and even Playboy photo shoots are offered to Survivor participants.

Russell was very hard to like because he was always reminding the viewers at home that he was the puppet master and the other players were doing his bidding. He forgot one very important element: likeability. Ultimately, you have to burn people and lie to them to vote them out, but in the end, you have to do it with charm. Russell had directly or indirectly burned every one of those jury members and so his fate was sealed.

Natalie was chosen over Mick because she truly was the underdog. The other major factor was Mick, like Russell, failed to deliver a moving speech before the jury. In fact, when Mick and Russell delivered their speeches, I thought:

This is not going well. This thing could turn. And did.

Lesson learned: you can burn every one you want

but, in the end,

be likeable.

Quote of the week

"People believe that their experience is absolute."

One Man's Trashure

I love crappy, cheesy albums. People generally find it very difficult to understand that unintentional humor and mediocrity are truly hilarious. At least, that seems to be my experience.

As we all know, there are web sites dedicated to posting albums pics, like here.

But NOW, you can buy them, here.

The thing is, I want to hear some of these golden tracks. And so, I have sent out an email to Black Gem Records hoping for a compilation. We'll see.

I know the Ultra Lounge series has some wonderful nuggets.

So, keep those lps. They are making a comeback.

These Dark Hills

Gonna get in da hot tub
Yeah!

West Virginia is a most curious place. It exists in extremes. Poverty is five minutes away from untold wealth. Engaging open-minded people one minute and then camo wearing gun toting rednecks the next. It's all a bit schizo to be honest, but I have seen all sides to this hilly state-one that is constantly ridiculed by Hollywood and the national media. But the difference is now that I laugh instead of getting miffed because the stereotypes come from some grain of truth. Ask any social worker and your mind will be blown.



Article 1: The Curious Case of the Coach-Cook Hot Tub Cabin Incident

CHARLESTON, W.Va. -- Next week, Kanawha County school board members will decide whether to appeal a grievance board decision won by a former Riverside High cheerleading coach who school officials say posted pictures of topless cheerleaders in a hot tub on a social networking Web site.

Jill Kimble, the former coach, won her appeal to keep her job as a cook at Mary Ingles Elementary School, although she is not allowed to continue as a Riverside cheerleading coach.

I'm confused. A cook that coaches?

School board attorney Jim Withrow said that in December 2008, Kimble was in the hot tub with the girls at a cabin near Summersville, and later posted the pictures on her MySpace.com Web page.

Excuse me, how did the parents NOT know about this? Posted on the web? Way to keep it on the DL.

A caption under a photo remarked that the girls acted like their true selves: "hoes," according to Withrow.

To quote Fred Flintstone, "Oh, boy."


School officials were concerned with both the photos and the caption, let alone that a Riverside principal had told Kimble not to take students to the cabin again after an initial trip in 2007, Withrow said.

School board members Pete Thaw and Bill Raglin argued Thursday that Kimble should not be allowed to keep her job as a cook at Mary Ingles. A meeting where all five board members will vote was tentatively scheduled for Tuesday at noon.
In its decision, the West Virginia Public Employees Grievance Board found that as a cook, a large part of Kimble's job did not require interaction with students, Withrow said.

Still, Raglin said if there was ever a case to appeal, this is it.

"It's outrageous," Thaw said. "We can't allow them to openly call our students those names" -- or, he said, taking topless pictures of students in hot tubs.

You mean that wasn't on the syllabus?

Article: If You Are From Out of Town, You Are a Danger to Our Children

[ http://wvgazette.com/News/200912090794 ]Photographer arrested at mall after taking holiday photos

I do think it's stupid these days to assume that no one is going to get suspicious if you aim a camera anywhere near someone's child. It's a national paranoia and with some justification, but this guy seems innocent. He did bring the arrest on himself when he provoked the cop who was being a dick.

Imagine the tourists that this story is going to bring in!

Where No One Knows Thy Name

Where everybody knows your name,

and they're always glad you came.

"Hey. What's up, man?"

"Nothing. What's up with you?"

"I'm going to ask you a question. (Pause) And I know you're going to say yes."

Laughs. "Ok, what is it?"

"Can you play tomorrow?"

He knew the answer before I did. Don't even bother asking it, dude. I am there.

I kind of had a feeling that this would come my way. The universe is a really strange place. You see, I had taken several days off playing the guitar because my right hand had developed some pain. Naturally, a gig would become available. Especially one where 100% is required.

Rule #42: If thy hand hurts, never push it. There is a temptation to ignore what our body is telling us, the no pain no gain philosophy, and in terms of playing an instrument, this can do some serious damage. But there is always a quid pro quo, Clarice. Giving your hand time to heal is beneficial, but you lose your edge.

The place was packed and parking outside was really ridiculous. This is a very successful place. A great location, great service, nice atmosphere-it's a local blue blood hangout.

Highlights:

Local attorney wanted to impress his female companion by letting her hear "the hot guitarist." What am I, chopped liver? I let this pass because I know who is the star and I celebrate my friend's notoriety. He has been doing this gig for two years and I love playing with him. He makes playing so easy.

Yep, Big Red made it and even sat down right in front of us. Fly Me to the Moon was requested and a piano was mentioned. "Next time, I'm going to bring my piano!" What are you going to do, have a moving van pull up and load in your Steinway?

[Spot the Red. I have blurred the faces of her friends because I'm just cool that way.]

What's up with the piano thing for her? To quote my compadre, "I do not claim to have any insight into her thinking." Always a gentleman, that guy.

After the old vino had had its chance to work its magic, she started singing along with us. "Are the words written down?" Lucky for us, nay.

I must admit that The Red One was in some fine looking company. One attractive cougar was definitely making friendly with my friend and I thought I caught a wink. Yep. I'm sure I did. She came over and requested The Highway Man, a tune made famous by Willie and friends. "Do you know it?" Although I have heard it many times, it is not in my repertoire. Requests come out of left field all the time.

Some of repertoire is very unusual and our version of King Crimson's The Sheltering Sky is one of these oddities. The fact that we play it at all and people like it (or at least do not complain about it) is totally mystifying for me. When we started the groove on this one, Red was raising a ruckus. "Woohoo! What is this?" as she started dancing in her chair. Mademoiselle Rouge is very enthusiastic to understate the obvious.

After the statement of the theme in this long piece, certainly an odd thing unto itself, the solo section finally resolves into continuous 16th notes figures which go on forever. After this curious musical marathon, we got applause. Go figure.

One of Red's companions requested Mary Jane's Last Dance- a Tom Petty standard. We tore into that tune like hungry dogs. I think Ryan was a little shocked that, when the chorus came, I started singing it. Oh yeah. I likes me some Petty. Being the musician he is, he nailed the harmony right along with me. Can there be better pleasures? Nay, say I and all the court. It is truly fun after all the complex harmonies to come down to simple chord progressions. Nothing better.

We even did Walking On the Moon and The Bed's Too Big. I wouldn't say they were exactly polished versions, but the territory we are starting to cover is exciting to me. Jazz standards, not matter how wonderful, can all start sounding the same. Variety is key in my thinking. Key to a happy duet.

After over three hours without a break, we finally settle down to some food and beverage. Personally, I find I have to decompress a bit before I can enjoy my food. I feel like I've been doing laps on the Indy 500 and now have to drive through a residential area.

To my relief, we wrapped things up after dinner. It was past ten, time to break down and go home.

As we did the load out, I noticed the picture of my guitar mate prominently displayed by the entrance. I find it ironic that his place of employment finds it to be a good idea to have his picture up and yet it is something my place of employment finds so foreign. Pictures of our hosts on the web site? Nay.

It was a good night. Certainly for Madam Red and company. Certainly for us.

So, nothing left to do, but drive

namelessly, of course,

off the hill and straight home.

Which One is Crim?

Tony Levin, simply one of the best musicians on the planet, has recently unearthed some old blogposts. The guy was blogging before it was called a blog, so shut your mouth right now.

Here's the link.

Here's some highlights.

"Ade's computer fell on my head. Nuts taxi ride to band dinner, Robt. was not a happy puppy. After checking twice w. waiters that his pizza would be without meat, it came with both ham and sausage. Robt. tossed the ham out the restaurant window, in a classic example of pork defenestration."

"He also plays stick, a richly sounding 10-string instrument that looks 'as if a monster from outer space had put strings over his penis and tuned it at the utmost possible degree of erection. Most disgusting."

"Robert, to reporter at same interview; "You asked two questions. The answer to the second is no."

"Robert, asked by two fans if they could take a photo, "Yes, as long as I'm not in it."

"From Mexico City Crowne Plaza Hotel room svc. menu: "Vegetarian sandwitch-avocado, alfalfa germs, smoked chicken, boiled egg ...."

"Buenos Aires - man from poster company, asked us, while hanging band poster, "Which one is King?"

"These dual interviews (with Bill Bruford) are more fun for me than solo ones - I get to listen to Bill's answers - and sometimes write them down myself. Some examples: "Making an album nowadays consists of this: fifteen months of phone calls, five days of recording, fifteen more months to get it released. (Then you wait another year to get paid.)

When asked what it's like playing drums in King Crimson, Bill made the analogy to lying on a bed of nails. Laughingly urged interviewer to look at the scars on his back."

Keep Thy Pretense Low

We are the hollow men

We are the stuffed men

There's a lot spoken about pretension in music, but I find many examples of such in CD reviews and liner notes.

Here's a review of a King Crimson CD:

Time Out review of Thrak; "Starting out with seven minutes of portentous, turgid instrumental nonsense, 'Thrak' eventually settles into a spineless blend of vapid, overproduced, highfalutin' bombast.... all such hope or promise is quickly subsumed beneath their suffocatingly dreary miasmic muso meanderings."

Pretension is always aimed directly at Crimson and others like them largely because there are people who believe that rock should never venture outside of certain musical parameters. Nothing against The Ramones, but rock can be much more than two to three minute, four chord songs about wanting to be sedated.

I really believe that writers of this kind consider themselves to be far above the musician in the realm of the intellect. One critic actually stated that "music was far too important to be left to musicians." You see, musicians may have talent, but they believe that we are all a bunch of dumbasses when compared to wordmeisters.

It doesn't end with rock critics. Classical has some of the most hilarious writing ever. From a CD liner notes:

"The C major Fantasy's stormy, multi-faceted gestation suggests an analogous ebullition. A litany of cryptic phrases and references impinge like shards-"

Perhaps the story could be told this way:

"Look, the dude (Schumann) was in love. He was 26, she only 16. Her dad said no. It was extreme bummage for him and so he wrote his blues."

Funny post that I found. The flute? Pretentious? Hey, I liked Jethro Tull. Still do, actually. The guy calls the Stick a joke. He loses me there. I do think triple neck instruments go beyond the pale of good taste.

Keep the verbiage to a minimum and the pretense even lower.

Just Say Yes

Freelance musician's credo: Always say yes.

On the way to Chum's, home of the yellow slaw hot dog, my compadre Ryan gave me a ring and asked if I could play the "Beast-tro."

He already had a call into another player, but had not received confirmation and needed backup.

I always say yes and make life as simple as possible for gig leaders.

We did our usual two and a half hour playathon. It was really crowded. People were all in our personal space, but what can you do? Keep one eye on the chart and the other on the guy who keeps backing up into the music stand. Try to concentrate on the music and not the vacation stories being told by the blue blood cougars sitting less than two feet away.

Even Big Red showed up with daughter in tow. The Red One requested Happy Birthday be played when her blond friend showed up. No prob, Red.

Evidently Big Red's daughter, attired in a magnifico mega-cougarific outfit complete with necklace, was rather rude to one of our party. I was not surprised at all. She just has that vibe.

Still, despite the din of alcohol-fueled upper class come-ons (two guys were working really hard on one gal who had to go because she had to play tennis the next day) the crowd is strangely appreciative. No doubt about it: if there are women, the men will spend the money and the party continues.

After a half hour break, we returned to finish the night. We played over the time alloted.

"Technically, we are done, but there are still people here."

Nothing to say, but

yes.

Jeffrey Butler, 50, of Cross Lanes died November 30, 2009.

He was born September 12, 1959, in Charleston. He was retired from the state of Virginia Mental Health and Retardation as a program director, a 1977 graduate of Charleston High School and a graduate of WVU, of which he was an avid fan and supporter, and a member of Charleston Moose Lodge 1444 and Moose Legion 123.

He is survived by his mother, Betty DeBolt Butler of Cross Lanes; father and his companion, Kenneth Butler and Karen Gray, both of Charleston; and uncle, Raymond DeBolt and his wife, Sharon, of Cross Lanes.

Funeral services will be held at 11 a.m. Saturday, December 5, at Bartlett-Burdette-Cox Funeral Home with the Rev. Bernard Toppings officiating. Burial will be in Spring Hill Cemetery, Charleston.

Visitation will be from 6 to 8 p.m. Friday at the funeral home, where there will be a Moose memorial service held at 7 p.m.

Condolences may be sent to the family at www.bartlettburdettecox.com.

Bartlett-Burdette-Cox Funeral Home, Charleston, is in charge of the arrangements.


This came as a sudden shock. Jeff had has some health problems, but certainly no one would have thought this would happen. In fact, it still seems surreal. How can he be gone?

Jeff was one of the most intelligent people I've ever known. I always thought he could have worked for the FBI or CIA not only for his razor sharp memory, but because he could be very hard to pin down.

During a pleasant social visit, he would suddenly say, "I've gotta go."
"Where are you going?"
"Down the road."
And despite any and all further kidding, jokes or inquiry, that's all you would get. He had plans to meet a girl or attend another friend's house. He had many friends-all over the valley. Who knows where he was headed.

He was excellent at directions as well. He actually studied maps and could recall directions to all sorts of destinations. I have been in WV since 1972 and I have no doubt Jeff had seen more and knew more of it than I ever will. The same with history: facts, dates, names. He was an encyclopedia.

He was an avid WVU fan. Some might say obsessed. He and three of his buddies wore football helmets to those games. His vintage helmet was dubbed, "The Helmet of Knowledge." That was typical of the mayhem at those games.

Then there was his sense of humor. Not only was he was incredibly funny, but it was humor that was truthful about human nature and it was extremely broad. He could make a room full of grandmas crack up or go with a twisted remark about the torsos he had hidden in his basement.

I keep looking for some mischievous sign from Jeff to let us know that it's ok. It would be just like him to do something like that.

There really will never be another Jeff Butler.

Can't Explain

This is the work of one of my demented colleagues. I always dreamed of being an astronaut.

When the Music's Over

For the music is your special friend
Dance on fire that it intends

This past Saturday I did something unusual: I went out. When Friday rolls around, being wasted from the work week, my needs are simple: food and a nap. But Saturday,a good band, Chaise Lounge, was in town and I just had roll out to see them. After navigating the tricky and treacherous marital waters of who and who isn't going (women complicate these matters so), it was apparent that it was down to me and my old friend, Kat.

With CDs already received and aired, plus an interview with their band leader, Charlie Barnett, already in the can and on the web, I was ready to spend an evening with some swinging music, baby. Let's face it, with my history, anything with lounge in it and I'm there. I even wore a medallion, although carefully hidden beneath a buttoned up shirt, due to a fervent request to avoid public embarrassment.

Kat was late (as always)and so I waited outside in the hallway. There I saw some faces that I recognized from the CD covers: Marilyn, the singer and Pete, the bass player. Now, we all want to, as my friend puts it, "geek out" and run over and introduce yourself. I was the radio guy after all, a persona which is handy when you want free tickets, and had "done the interview." Even Charlie told me "to get there early and make sure you introduce yourself." Nay. Follow Rule #1.

Rule #1: Know when to geek out. To fawn over the musicians that early would have been premature, a little awkward and besides, I hate to be bothered before a gig. So, I played with my iPhone. Gotta check those FaceBook news feeds, you know? How else will I know if someone I've never met has walked their cat this evening?

Show time. Let's get those comp tickets. No. Radio guy evidently was not on the list of folks who had reserved tickets. The "Sorry, I don't see your name." was followed promptly by, "That'll be 50 dollars."

This is not going well.

Where's my radio guy clout? My on air cache? What happened to my connection? This is why, for the most part, I take none of that radio stuff seriously: too often it has no clout. My friends will introduce me as the radio guy (curiously never as a musician anymore) and then the blank stare from the person who supposed to be impressed. The face says, "Oh, that's very nice, but I still don't know who the hell you are."

"Oh, those should be comped." I explained the whole radio-did-the-interview thing and was under the impression that blah blah blah. Eventually, I was let past the guardhouse and allowed to enter. I saw Charlie the band leader, but followed Rule #1.

In the Montgomery Room (Which famous Monty was this one named after in the Ramada? Python?), Chaise Lounge played to a very enthusiastic audience. The Italicized enthusiastic is because we have to put it through the Charleston lens. I find audiences in Charleston to be a bit odd and curiously silent during live music performances. They need a lot of juice and banter from the stage to keep them fired up. This could be a sign of being respectful or are they treating it like their favorite cable program? I'm not sure, but it's something I've seen at every concert. We are an odd lot for sure.

The band was even better live than in their studio releases. Some of the songs that I didn't like on record, came to life on stage and favs like Burning Down the House sounded even better.

The band sailed through obviously very rehearsed numbers. The music was retro cool: an eclectic mix of lounge, 60's jazz, bossa nova, old time swing, and a really cool take on rock tunes like Donovan's Sunshine Superman. The arrangements, done by Barnett, were perfect for the players on stage. Their dynamics were superb. Tommy Barrick on drums proved that indeed drummers can play without annihilating all the other instruments on stage.

What's that like?

Pete, the bass player, could walk like nobody's business. He was killing it. Plus, the dude worn a pork pie hat. Props to that.

The brass section was Gary Gregg on sax, clarinet and flute. And the world's quietest trombone player, John Jensen. I was amazed at how soft and subtle he was. Never once did he blow the joint wide open. Later in the show, he did some singing, scatting and goofing around that set crowd alight.

Marilyn is the singer in the group and unlike many singers, she does not belt out the tunes nor project a diva-like self-confidence. Although sometimes appearing shy, she can deliver the goods in spades. Her voice is truly an instrument. What distinguishes her is how she takes care with every word and phrase.

At the center of all this is Charlie, smiling, strumming and occasionally singing. Hopelessly and outwardly engaged by the music around him, he is the group's arranger and composer.

In that intimate environment, the music has to keep coming or banter has to fill the spaces. I was surprised at the delay at times between tunes. Someone had changed the set list and not told the trombone player. Confusion on stage? I cannot cast stones. "Reminds me of the Velvet Brothers" came the observation from Mr. K-someone who back in the day supported the Veebs unwaveringly.

Rule # 2: watch what you say when geeking out.
When the music's over, the socializing begins. It is time to geek out. People crowd around the musicians wanting to chat, get autographs or somehow take possession of the artist or the music. Music makes ordinary people seem extraordinary. There is nothing extraordinary about musicians, not at all, but in that brief bubble called performing, they become something a little better. It's music's special quality that makes ordinary people look all shiny and lifts them above the fray of every day life. That's why musicians get addicted to the feeling to being on stage. It's not a real place and the more you try to make it real, the less real your life becomes. There are more examples of this than we could list here. But these were not people who were suffering from bloated self-importance, and so I imagined that conversing was going to be easy.

I wandered over and introduced myself to Pete and gushed about his sound and his playing. He said thanks, but looked a little surprised like, "I'm the bass player. Nobody ever talks to me." A nice guy, but sensing my geek time was over, I wandered off.

Charlie was very warm and very much like the cheerful, approachable person he is on stage. I didn't tell him that I was guitar player because that could have been a stumbling block. Better to hide behind the radio thing and that way musicians don't feel threatened. Why do I make such a statement?

Even excellent musicians can have hidden, almost debilitating self-doubt. The more you pour on the compliments, the more the little voice of doubt tells them not to believe it. In fact, it's a good idea when geeking after a show to talk something other than music. In our case, we had the interview in common. For once, the tables were turned and he complimented me for making him sound smart and for taking out all the natural "ahs, ums, etc." By beer #2, I am always friendly and I saw the singer looking like she was out of place, so I took a gamble. Plus, beer#2 said, "Go talk to the pretty girl." And I obeyed.

"You rock." I told her. I had geeked totally. I told her she had a real gift and how most singers just kind of sing, but she really gets behind the meaning of the words. All these were taken with a sincere graciousness. During the interview, Charlie told me that after an audience hears her sing, they want to be her best friend. What I had surmised from that statement and what I suspected is that men fall for her. I have to admit that with that voice, those looks and a sharp sense of humor, mixed with a hint of shyness, she was quite nice to be around. Or maybe that was just beer #3 talking.

Kat came over and soon we were talking about poor West Virginia, the stereotypes, shotguns and trailer parks. Then it was time. Time to quit basking in the glow of music and chatting to people we don't really know and get back to reality.

On the way home, I rolled down the windows and let the coolness flood the car. My old buddy, Sting, was wailing away about losing his faith and I strained along with him. It is, after all, music and music is just a transitory thing. Which brings me to Rule #3:

When the music's over,

go home.

Big Red, Lost Charts and a Man Kiss

People never fail to surprise me.

A brief summary of recent gigs: (all events are true, however bizarre)

A friend commented repeatedly how "surreal" the scene is. This "great" music (his words) being treated as "musical wallpaper." He kept repeating this like he was shocked. Hey, they are here to dine and drink. I dunno. I'm kinda used to it. He is also the first man to kiss me on the cheek.

One woman requested that we play "something more lively." Can't say I blame her, but we're two geetarists- what can we do? Rock out the house? Suddenly a full band appears, sound system in place (set at a correct volume) and it's Party Central? People lack understanding, that's all. Besides, that's not what the owner wants.

Last week, this mature red-headed woman requested Fly Me to the Moon and then Girl From Ipanema. I could tell that this woman was well into her drinkies and so I told her and her companion, "We don't know that last one, but we play The Girl With Emphysema."

Well..said mature redhead returned last night and was really, really into her wine (or whatever) and say kept talking about a piano player. Did we have one? Which one of us is the piano player?

Lady, there ain't no piano player here!

Quote of the night from Big Red, a name given to her by the bartenders, "I'm going to leave my glass here. Make sure no one puts anything in it.......like acid."

On the opening tune, I lost my place in the chart. That's embarrassing. Great way to get the duet started on solid ground. In my defense, I was sight-reading, but still...dude. I made sure that never happened again the whole night.

Big Red made a memorable quote to a bartender: "I like you, but trouble is...my daughter does too."

I told Big Bill the Wrestler to audition for Survivor. And I am really serious about that. He could kick total ass.

To be discreet, I will only quote an enthusiastic man: "I'm sorry, man. I know I've been talking too much. I'm just crazy." Can't fault the guy there.

Last week, my guitarist compadre was really into talking about his deficiencies and frustrations with music. My advice? "You should really worry more about a good moisturizer for your face and one for the hands."

I was told later that one of the young patrons wanted to be part of "a sandwich between" the evening's musicians. Yowsa. Is my face red?

P.S. Last time I saw Big Red, she had returned from whatever table in the back and looked around for her wine, which the house had cleared away. She stood at the bar, trying to look as sober as possible, getting ready to order another drink. She was beyond another drink.

And well into the Twilight Zone.

Crush Thy Velvet

"We few
we happy few
we band of brothers"


(Al's montage of the Velvet Four-many years ago)

I know this blog has become terribly tedious in that I am not revealing deeply held and suppressed black memories of my days at Staunton Military School nor the wild and carefree days of high school and college (I will write them down. That's a promise.), but rather have been concentrating on my current musical life. To be truthful, the guitar has been a faithful friend through all these years and one that I can always count on for support. Yes, I anthropomorhize a box of wood, but it has always been my terra firma, my grounding, my center. It has brought me to despair at times and seemed to be nothing more than an empty dream, but it always returns as an important release valve.

I lay no claim to being a physic, but months ago a picture appeared in my mind of four Velvets who could emerge not only as the group's center, but could function as a separate and different musical entity. The Veebs are scattered at this point: two live out of town and others have many other projects that keep them busy. When an opportunity arose for this group to play, I jumped in with both feet.

Last Friday, we had our first rehearsal. A casual gathering at the House O'Weg, the instrumentation is simple: percussion, two classical guitars and Cuatro. Oh, and fine rum. That's essential. The Weg was a most generous host.

What I want and what the other members want is unclear at this point. In fact, we didn't even talk about a general direction, when I arrived, rehearsal was already underway. Get guitar out, and jump in, baby! I had visions that we might discuss the general direction, but in our typical fashion, right to the tunes.

I was really surprised at how it sounded. Finally, we got to work on some vocal harmonies. This came through on Cana Brava, an old tune about sugar cane. (Fits right in, yes?)

That sounded so good, I thought like we could contribute to the coro of the next song, Chan Chan, we had Nelson sound out the words slowly and phonetically. Talk about tough. While the song is only four chords, singing the not-so-easy chorus is going to take some work. This is good. We need challenges.

Weg started playing a salsa type line on his Cuatro. This began a long exploration with a song just beginning to take form. Out of the repetition that is exploring and shaping a tune, a chorus started to emerge. Right now, this remains a sketch.

I called an old tune, Dame La Mano Paloma (The Puerto Rican song.). I did not realize it was Christmas song. What the hell, who's going to know? It's a merengue and they generally have a ripping tempo.

Rehearsal came to an early close. Weg and I sat around and finished the Solera. It had been quite a while since we had a chance just to talk. Back in the day, we were hanging around all the time, calling each other every day and constantly coming up with the most experimental music you can think of. It was a time, as I see it, when anything was possible and a certain amount of youthful naivite fueled our crazy pieces. The recordings are full of analogue noise and the equipment we had, especially mine, was primitive, but I still have affection for them. I think all composers think of their pieces as children and they become a part of your personal history regardless of their musical substance.

Our friendship has a rich personal history that got sidelined for a while after the band broke up. I'm glad we are back to beings buds and fellow musicians. We always had a unique musical chemistry. No doubt. His life has undergone some major changes and he reflected about those life changing tidal waves. But, what can you do?

He took me down to the basement and what a wonder it is. It's like the Old Curiosity Shop. You could spend days down there.

On the shelf, jumped out a memory: a recording of the Just Say Yes Tour. I told him, "You are the archivist. I thought I had some old stuff, but you have the collection." He told me that tape has been on the list to be digitized. Oh lord. Let's keep that among band members, ok? I can just imagine.

I cruised back home at an hour unimaginable early. Driving slow through my favorite place, Kanawha City, my meager brain began to get all philosophical. We are older now. Old guys with mortgages, gas bills and all the inescapable burdens of adulthood. Yet, there is still fun to be had in music, in friendship and,

of course,

in fine rum.

Back in the Groove

In the middle of the journey of life

I found myself in a dark wood, for the straight path was lost.

-Dante

Absolutely right.

As stated previously, I kinda quit the whole playing scene for a while in the mid 90's and even gave up the guitar. I felt like I had burned out on both personal and professional levels.

I made a deliberate choice these past two years to get the hell off the couch and play. So far, it has felt really good. In fact, it is the thing that brings me the most joy these days. I feel like a kid with a new toy.

I am convinced that people come into our lives to teach us something. The purpose may not at first be clear, but then the penny drops. After several gigs with Ryan at the Bistro, some things have become very clear. He has been a significant part of reviving my musical life. He would roll his eyes to even imagine I would say that, but for me, it is true.

One thing is oh so clear: the kid is a phenom on the guitar. He plays things that are beyond my comprehension both from a technical point and a musical one. On Tuesday at rehearsal, he launched into a solo version of All the Things You Are that had my head scrambling. That doesn't happen very often to me, kids. Me, at 51, with 38 years experience and this 28 year old guy making me see cross-eyed.

Let's just say it: lesser musicians would have run and made excuses not to play with someone so obviously gifted. But, then there is no "becoming," as Joseph Campbell would have put it, no opportunity to learn and stay sharp. The ego would be placed above the love of the guitar and that can not be so.

But there is a common ground between us that bridges the disparity in jazz ability. We have classical, King Crimson/Robert Fripp, experimental and improvisation that creates this bridge. I truly feel a musical connection with my fellow guitarist and when we play together, that what we have to offer is greater than the sum of its parts.

It would be an easy gig to sleep through-three hours of "background" music for the post-work cocktail and light dinner crowd. Despite the noise of a crowded restaurant in the middle of the week, we try to make the music happen. We give it everything we have without a break for nearly three hours.

Other arisings have me excited. Solo gigs, and now a quartet is being discussed. In fact, we have our first rehearsal tonight. That will prove to be interesting. It's good to be back in the scene, babe.

Before the gig, Ryan said, "How do you feel?"

"Like a mean motherfucker, Sir."

He smiled. He knows his Apocalypse Now.

He knows I'm really to bare my teeth and sink them deep into the music.

Back in the groove.

Ahh...Family!

Nothing says fucked up like family.

Yep. That's original and you can quote me. I think fucked up and family are one of those universals painful truths. Family is where our darkest secrets lie, where people really know our ugliest sides, where we can shout and scream and be ourselves. The world, for the most part, gets the phony part, but family knows all. After all, they had no choice. You're not voted in or out: you just are.

I love this site. Enjoy the awkwardness that is FAMILY. Enjoy the glorious fucked-up-ed-ness of these family moments.

Back Into the Bucket

A friend of mine was bitching about his job.

"It's like a crab bucket."

I was puzzled.

"Have you ever been crabbin'?"

Have I ever.

He explained further, "When you get a bucket full of crabs, eventually it gets so full that one crab starts to crawl out of the bucket, but the other crabs latch on to him and pull him back in."

No need to draw me a diagram.

burgle and gurgle

it is one thing to attend a meeting
it is altogether another level of torture to listen

the skittish laughter
nervous and false
the distant voices
only wanting to hide

organizers
disorganizers
opinions that are roadblocks
control issues

i shut the door

From the Old Goat's Diary

From the Frippacious entry.

"Words presented on quiet journeying: talking is expensive."

My short experience with Fripp and company made me realize that words on a Guitar Craft course are more about utility and purpose than socializing. Certainly, talking with some people is more of a give than a take. It can wear you down quickly.

"A practical example from my own experience, in a professional musical context… Seeing myself looking out through the eyes of a particular group member, watching the movement of their hands & experiencing their experiencing; and recognizing their personal Blind Spot (which was what I had believed it to be). This, in a flash; but a Point Of Seeing is not into the functional world, where time is one thing after another. There is something creative involved in a Point Of Seeing, and in the creative world, creative time is of an entirely different order. A creative insight moves into our consciousness, and continues resonating."

I would never presume to be able to crawl around in someone's head and recognize their shortcomings. Doesn't this assume a superiority on Mr. Fripp's part? A Point of Seeing, in GC terms, is a sudden revelation about something- an insight that reveals something you might have missed before.

The pictures of the performers remind me of Heaven's Gate with the black uniforms. Guitar Craft is a very specific way of doing things, from the solemn looking, emotionless expressionless faces (all Zenned out as someone put it), the Ovation guitars, the different tuning, all playing in a circle which is defined as sacred with very specific rules as to how to enter/exit. They all look like Fripp. There's something about that that rubs me the wrong way.

"Leave our licks and tricks at the door! These have no part in what we do."

It's so easy for all those guitarists to dissolve into an entanglement of blues and rock cliches. I ran a guitar group for 16 years, I know that you must sometimes allow a little freedom from the strictness of the printed page, but any group must have a defined aim and goal or otherwise you have chaos. And not even good chaos. Crafters don't even talk about chords. In fact, Tony Geballe got defensive one night when asked about the GC approach to chords. He played a G and a C in rapid succession and exclaimed, "See? Guitar Craft has chords." This was to silence any further inquiry. Nothing must veer from the Master's Path. Again, this bothers me.

In fact, there was an attitude of being treated like a child. The staff walked around on egg shells for fear of invoking the Master's wrath, and not all, but some had this attitude of superiority. One teacher mocked my roomate openly for a comment he made. There was a distinct "you dumbasses" attitude from this one teacher. I suppose if Fripp was my teacher and I was part of the inner circle, I might be a bit arrogant as well.

During teatime, while socializing, I let out a hardy laugh. I looked over at You-Know-Who. He opened his eyes and then shut them. That's all I needed.

I will never be a hardcore Crafty. I can't afford it for one very practical reason.

But another:

I don't like Koolaid.

...'cause you people are BASTARD PEOPLE!

"I'll always have a place at the Dairy Queen."

Priceless.

Guest's second mockumentary remains my second favorite (Nothing will take Spinal Tap out of the top spot.).

I am assuming that everyone has seen this little gem. I had the chance to watch it this weekend. Funny as hell, yet the truth about dreams... We all have a place waiting for us at the DQ.

Another thing: don't we all fall hard for Parker Posey? Just search YouTube and you'll see that we are not alone in that opinion.

Trivia.

Refresh your quotes.

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.