Wednesday, May 25, 2011

Cut Me Once Again

Now you know why sinus infections are a bitch.

"Gloom, despair, and agony on me Deep, dark depression, excessive misery If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all Gloom, despair, and agony on me"


Well, kids, it seems the medical community has found a new plaything: me.

I had escaped any surgery my whole life save for some impacted wisdom teeth that were removed in high school. But evidently when I hit my fifties, it was time to play catch-up. Catching up in a big way. Two heart caths, an appendectomy and an open heart surgery later, time for the nose to be invaded via sinus surgery. Yay!

The Mayo Clinic radiologist had reviewed my CAT-PET scan and said there was evidence of a polyp in my left sinus. It was time to visit one of my favorites physicians, Dr. Goins. Dr. Goins is one of the friendliest, most down-to-earth doctors I've had the pleasure to know. I love his enthusiasm. He speaks plainly without condescension nor brusqueness.

After a quick X-ray, he came in with the pictures and told me not only did I have a mass or polyp in my left sinus, but it was huge. He couldn't understand why I complained about the right side being stuffed up all the time. He asked about headaches and I replied no. I'm a curious patient. I have things wrong with me, but I am asymptomatic.

You'd figure I'd be used to this view by now.
Fast forward to yesterday at the One Day Surgery Center where this dude was in gown waiting for the show to begin. Or rather, when the happy, calming meds were going to be administered. Ah, Versed, how I grown to know you.

I was jittery, so I tried for some TV coma on the form of the In Session channel, formerly Court TV. It was tedious and slow enough to take some of the edge off, but inevitably nothing really calms you down.

Dr. Goins popped in to tell me that "We are going to do a lot of work on you today." He was his usual cheerful self when I asked about the pain afterward. He just told me that most patients experienced a "burning sensation" and to later expect some congestion. Ok and off he went.

The anesthesiologist was fairly business-like tossing off words of comfort: "Since you've had heart surgery combined with your age, you are considered high risk for anesthesia." Gee, and I thought things were going to be a breeze. Thanks for that. I feel confident now.

Happy meds were delivered and I felt that special dizzy rush and then the mild mellowness kick in. You know it's time to go when happy meds are delivered.

Off to Never-Never Land

A cheerful woman has put the proverbial anesthesia mask on me. "This is just oxygen, honey."
"OK" comes my muffled reply. Then the oxygen begins to have a funny taste and smell to it. You know that the lights are going out soon.
 "Think of somewhere that you like going. Where do you like to go for vacation?"
 "The Outer Banks, North Carolina."
"Oh yes, that's beautiful."
I watch as the white ceiling tiles do a slightly wavy dance and then I'm out.

When I wake up after surgery, I know where I am, what has happened and I'm glad as hell that the whole damn thing is over. Two rather chatty nurses seem happy to see me (or perhaps they are happy that another patient is out of the woods?) and the two of them begin to sing the praises of my hair. Huh?
"Oh yes, you have beautiful hair. It's so thick. And there's no gray in it!" While a discussion of my hair wouldn't normally make me uncomfortable, I am wondering the big question: when can I leave?

The Hard Part Comes Next

You know how you bump your knee and you don't really fell the full impact until later? That's surgery in a nutshell: the worst comes after. Goins operated on my nose for 1.5 hours. He opened both and removed this and that. It was a mess. You know there's going to be hell to pay.

The usual discharge papers dance and endless instructions from the nurse, blah, blah, blah and soon we are free.

I'm hungry as hell and we decide to dine in Sahara. The food is heavenly, but there's that pesky blood streaming from my nose that makes me a less than ideal dining partner. I looked like a freak with a huge piece of gauze beneath my nose. In fact, I must leave and go out to the car to get another gauze.

"You look like Adolph Hitler." I had shaped the gauze into a square and taped it directly below my nose. Attractive, yes?

The Afterglow


In short, misery.

I have felt like a metal band is around my head, squeezing ever tighter. The pain behind my eyeballs is the worst and that's where I reach for the pain meds. That's why he wrote the script, after all. My nose has been impossibly blocked. Lately, this has opened up, but I still sound like I am recovering from a cold. Food tastes really off, except for sweets and even those taste cheap to me.

I'm sure that after all is said and done that this will greatly improve my breathing. I just assumed that everyone used a Neti pot daily, used nasal sprays when desperate or just accepted the fact that one nostril is constantly obstructed. It's amazing what we will accept.

Above all, I'm sick of all this surgery. I was gaining momentum from my graduation from Cardiac Rehab and had just gotten into the groove at Heart Fit. Now, I have to regain lost ground.

Oh well. I'll do what I always do: dig my heels in, whine like a baby all the while, and be solidly stubborn in my refusals to give up as ever. That's me. Part winner, part whiner and mostly, just happy not to be on a goddam surgeon's table.

Thursday, May 19, 2011

The Velvet Papers, Pt. 10




Velvis is IN the Building

“Defending himself against his critics, (author)Albert Goldman told an interviewer: "People were scandalized by my use of humor and ridicule in (the Elvis biography). Elvis was someone they were accustomed to taking in a very sentimental way. But I feel he was a figure of the most bizarre and grotesque character. . . . “


After reading this account of Elvis, my view of him changed forever. Apparently Goldman began to dislike the Elvi God (Andy Kaufmann’s moniker) as the research grew and maybe he should have discontinued the work, but nevertheless, fact or fiction, I gobbled the juicy stories of excess up like crack candy. I began to share these stories with CR and Greg. One of us suggested that maybe we should go live with Velvis; an out of control, delusional, musical demi-god, kinda-sorta tribute to the excesses of  The King. Think a coke fueled, pill poppin’ John Belushi gone Elvis and you have Velvis. The maniac in the suit? You guessed it.


We worked out the tunes, worked in some skits and booked (where else?) Le Cantina for New Year’s Eve.
The rented white Vegas style jumpsuit I stuffed with pillows for that extra bloated look, donned cheap black wig with sideburns that were like curly fries most of the time, scarves and the requisite dark glasses. The whole thing was a mess from top to bottom: precisely what we were going for.


Velvis was the second set, so I had to do the costume change in the horrid bathroom. The glamour of show business aside, I enlisted the help of a female friend to transform me into a hunka hunka bloated ballistic missile. I cannot tell you that amount of adrenaline that was pumping through me when I heard the opening for Also Sprach and then the drum fanfare for C. C. Rider. The band kicked into the tune and out a runnin’ I came. Karate choppin’, pill spillin’, maniac Velvis was in the building.

CC Rider went real quickly as all opening numbers do. I believe we moved into a slow number; the classic Can’t Help Falling in Love. We since this was Velvis, the lyrics got a small rewrite:

Well, I can’t help falling in love with ME. The “me” had a subtle sledgehammer accent.

I tortured that ballad with some really wobbly vibrato just for extra “mock” appeal and I know some people were getting it. However, there was one very drunk girl who kept heckling me. I don’t think she was trying to put the act down, she was just really feeling “happy.” Velvis was explaining why he had such an extended public absence with, “Ladies and gennlemen, I put on a little weight.” She yelled, “No shit!” At one point, I took off my sunglasses, looked at her, and then looked at the crowd, all the while smiling trying to indicate that this is parody, lady. She wasn’t getting it or too drunk to care, so back in Velvis character I yelled, “Back off, baby. The King is in the house.” Don’t fuck with the King. Even if it’s a cheap and bad parody.

One planned skit involved a lady coming up to get an autograph and Velvis, sensing a threat, began some spastic karate moves. The band yelled at Velvis, “Hey, she just wants an autograph. Chill out!” Velvis mumbled his apologies and gave the autograph while she stole his scarf.

The Cantina’s burgers were the original heart cloggers as they probably were equal to about five Whoppers. They was dino-huge. During the guitar solo of Jailhouse Rock, Velvis couldn’t wait and started seriously chomping on a mondo chee-burga. When Greg’s solo ran its burning course, I came back in with a verse with mouth stuffed full of food. If that didn’t send the message home, I swung it round and round al la Pete Townsend with burger flying off on music stand. After the song was over, Velvis eyed the aerial burger with some lust: “That burger sure look good. Thank-ya-very-much.” Ah, you just get quality entertainment like that anymore.


Velvis Does the Glass

We drug the Velvi God out one more time at the Empty Glass for Halloween. The Veebs did their “regular” Latino-rock-lounge first set and then I scurried out to the alley where a van was parked that served as a changing area. It was the same tired white jumpsuit stuffed with pillows, el cheapo horrible wig, etc. I remember telling Bwana Shawn, local DJ and all-star VB fan, that I didn’t want to do it. “Let’s go somewhere, seriously.” Repeatedly my offer of escape was refused and I was told the old adage of the show must go on. My mantra: Adrenaline and nerves, adrenaline and nerves. Nothing helped, not even drinking.

The band started with Also Sprach and then kicked into CC Rider. Velvis charged in with no less than three, count ‘em, body guards all looking like Secret Service. The King wasn’t havin’ no trouble tonight, honey chile.

The big gag was that Velvis, being so overweight and over medicated, would pass out in the middle of a song. All attempts to revive him would fail save one: a cheeseburger and fries. Sure enough, chee-burga munching did the trick and Velvis was back. Pills also would fall out of my pockets. Albert Goldman would have beamed.

I know musicians who would never in their lives ever, ever do anything as wild as we did and I fully understand why. Many might feel that their reputation might be permanently damaged or perhaps they would be seen as lesser musicians. Again, I respect this. The obvious attitude of not making a fool of oneself is a perfectly acceptable reason as well, but to all of that I want to say: in the end, what the hell does it matter? A local guitarist once told me I “had a lot of balls to play Volare.” Hmm. I never thought playing that tune required courage of any kind. Putting on a white jumpsuit and turning Elvi on his head, now that takes balls or a complete lack of concern. I was just having fun with no limits.

All the rules in the musician’s union we broke with glee. We had a cocktail blender on stage and gave it a "solo." I remember a musician coming up to us afterwards and said, “You guys blew my mind with the blender.” How else were we going to get our drinks? After all, it’s a long way to the stage.

What reputation we did develop was one that was fun, unpredictable and unique with our Latin influence. We won Graffiti’s Most Fun Band poll every year. Plus, our fans were growing. We became, without bragging, the hottest band in the small city of Charleston. That is not to say there weren’t better bands. I would not be so foolish, but we rivaled anyone in popularity. I’d say we hit the ceiling.

When you make an impact, you piss some people off. People get jealous. Case in point: Rarely did I ever go out and hang posters, but one time, after loading in at The Levee, I decided to duct tape some of them along Capitol Street. I went back to the Levee and grabbed CR to show him my work. In the short time I had merely walked around the corner, someone had ripped them all down. A mook stood outside of The Edge and I asked him point blank, “What did I ever do to you?” “I didn’t do it, man.” “Well, did you see who did?” “No.” That pissed me off, but in hindsight, what did that do or prove? It proved we were making waves. Of the smooth kind, of course.



Tuesday, May 17, 2011

The Velvet Papers, Pt. 9

Pre-ramble:

Ok, so I was a bit overboard on the flyers.
Are there coincidences or is there destiny? I have asked myself this a few times in my life. Things literally fell into place in the fall of 1987.

If I hadn’t moved in with my old high school chum, then our musical relationship wouldn't have been as steady. I also wouldn’t have gotten a call from another friend who just happened to be working at Pied Piper then who said, “You better get down here and look at this guitar.” It was one of the first electro-acoustic nylon sting guitars by Takamine. It had the hell beat out of it by some redneck and looked kind of sad, but the tone was rich and its playability was great. Besides, I wasn’t ready to jump into being a full-time electric guitarist. That's never been my forte anyway.

In 1988, Beetlejuice came and I heard Harry Belafonte sing Day-o and Jump in the Line. I had never heard such cool music in my life. The deal was sealed. Let the velvet games begin. Bring on the Caribe, baby! 


The Velvet Theater

Always having been a Genesis-Gabriel fan, I liked how music performance could include theatrical elements. Why not push the absurd envelope a little further with some antics? We were already a "joke" anyway.

Get off the floor, you idiot.

It was at the Charleston Playhouse (a former Mexican restaurant) where we implemented our first theatrical stupidities. The place was owned and operated by local actors who decided Charleston was hip enough to need a place for local music and plays. Throw in a bar and you’ve got a very cool place (By the way, this is where I learned of the horrors of Pikeman (sp?) rum. A ghastly, strictly bottom shelf rum that was good for one obvious purpose: oblivion and memory loss).

We had these silly ideas that lounge was born from primordial ooze and so the band played Also Sprach Zarathustra while I was narrating the birth of lounge. I was “hidden” from the audience by lying on the floor behind a wall. Needless to say that while the rush of trying something new was exciting, it’s when you’re doing these stupid things that you realize how damn dumb they are, but stupidity has never stopped me from being stupid. After the big setup, I emerged in complete Johnny Velvet regalia: smoking jacket, ascot, sunglasses, a monster size cocktail glass and the fervent hope that I wasn’t making a complete ass of myself. Or worse, no one would laugh. That’s the real stinger, isn’t it?

My friends laughed and that was enough encouragement to continue down this most ridiculous of paths. That gave rise to the most outrageous of incarnations: Velvis. But first, let’s get a few more things in order here.

Al, Dave, Greg, CR, Tito, Nery, JV and Nelson
Hide your daughters and lock your liquor cabinet.
The Velvet Horns

At some point, I realized that Dave, a master of the trumpet, might make a great addition to the band. I remember playing him All I Know at the university and him making a recording. The horn lines he composed were the perfect compliment to that song. It gave it a lift and emphasized the intended fun. I don’t recall when we brought on Al, trombone-meister, singer and percussionist, but the two of them became The Velvet Horns. Their long-time friendship and playing level brought musical solidarity from the first moment they played with us. I thought that this couldn’t get any better. They added a rich, creamy layer to the Velvet cake. The humor and the grooves were not lost on them either. They quickly joined the brotherhood (I still enjoy playing with Al and Dave. Some things remain.)

Meanwhile, word was getting out and we had regular gigs at the Empty Glass and the Levee. I remember CR, Weg and I having a meeting where we all agreed that we wouldn’t play more than two weekends a month.

That didn’t last long.

 We were booked virtually every weekend and we were getting calls from people who wanted us for their weddings, social events, etc. but it was the Levee where some said we sounded the best. I take that as gospel.

The Levee and the Land of Herb Hollywood (1990-93)

The Levee, a dark and dingy bar-cave, was a place my brother frequented long before the band was formed. It was known for having a keg night (inside an old bathtub if I recall), a pool table and plenty of rednecks. When Jon took it over, it still was a shithole, but it was a shithole run by cool people. The main character in the form of barman of this madcap place was Herb Hollywood. Herb was a supporter of the band from the beginning and he was a vital part of the scene. Herb is one of those guys that have a dynamic personality and an easy winning way with people that I envy. He was hilarious and made a mean cocktail - strictly not for amateurs.

When the owner and the bartenders like your music, it is a tremendous amount of support. The band has to win over the crowd ultimately, but with the support of the house, you are going to feel pretty confident. Maybe that’s why people said it was their favorite place to hear us.

There were times when I felt that we certainly didn’t deserve the applause we would get and others I felt like we were nailing the tunes, but the response was tepid. You can never predict how a crowd is going to react, so you dig in your heels and plow forward; even though inside you might feel otherwise. There were times when I felt like, “OK, you’re not with us, so we’re going to have a good time playing in spite of you.” Sometimes that was authentic and sometimes I was just kidding myself- the crowd has to give energy to the musicians or the music never comes to life.

The Levee Follies

Pre-show ritual

Because CR and I were roommates, our pre-show ritual would involve a cocktail to get in the right mood. One evening, we overindulged, oh yes. What was to get us in the mood to play turned out to be a really quick road to being hammered. As we went about our respective rituals of getting dressed, etc., we kept making more rum and cokes. So many, that I told him, “Craig, if I have another drink, I am going to be blitzed.”  Off we went in my car together to play the gig.

When we arrived, the lads were in high spirits, but eagle-eyed Greg True saw something was amiss with two of his hombres. He came up to us and said, “You guys have been drinking, haven’t you?” We didn’t lie, but tried to downplay the amount. It didn’t work. I remember nearly falling over backwards over a monitor. When Easy Street, an oldie from Edgar Winter, started I must have been on the moon pitch-wise. I always had trouble finding the starting note anyway and being sloshed only made it worse. At one point, Greg yelled in a quasi-joking way, “Come on, Johnny!” It’s bad when your fellow V Bro calls you out. I felt like I had let the team down. But in velvet world, it wasn’t a biggie and eventually you sober up enough to get your head together.

Herb Goes Hollywood

We had the idea that Herb should do a few numbers with us. He came over to velvet central and we did a mash-up lounge of about three or four songs. Sort of a bad Bob Goulet meets Bowie-Simple Minds-and others. All seemed cool and the evening came. Evidently, Herb had been talking about his velvet début all week to the patrons and “friends” (The guy had a different girlfriend every week.) because the place was packed. I had never seen the Levee filled to the brim like that.

We played a set and then Herb was to open with us the second. I found out a little thing about Herb that I didn’t know: he was a very nervous performer. To see him week after week behind the bar conducting a show like a Vegas pro you wouldn’t believe it, but being up in front of people playing music struck a deep fear in him. It was a fear that needed to be pushed down by drinking.

A nervous Herb grabbed me on the break and said, “Let’s go next door.” OK, what the hell? We went to the bar next-door where we promptly jumped ahead of every thirsty yuppie because, of course, Herb knew the bartender. There we had a wee nip of courage. That is to say, at least three large shots of Jagermeister. I don’t know about you, but I considered three Jagers to be my evening LIMIT, let alone a pre-show sedative. Again, what the hell. This is the velvets and not jazz fusion.

When Hollywood joined us, the crowd all turned to us with their undivided attention. Maybe in that moment, I knew what it felt like to be a rock star because the energy was tremendous- like a wave washing over us. All eyes on us, we slipped into our sunglasses personas: Johnny Velvet and Herb Hollywood. Herb had planned for a cocktail to be brought to him by a buxom waitress while we did our shtick. At the end, the crowd was very generous and Herb gave me a hug. You can’t beat the support of the house. They can turn everything to your advantage.

We had many wonderful nights at Le Levee, but it would be untruthful to say that every night was magical. Some nights we stayed off the goofy path and laid into to some Latin music like our lives were on the line. After all, no joke lasts very long and a band have to work to get the crowd going.

Next: Velvis and a new percussionist

Sunday, May 15, 2011

Keep Thy Panic to Zero

The lovely KUPC 
Another gig for the quartet, which might be called the Icarus Ensemble, at the Kanawha United Presbyterian Church. The Kirkin of the Tartan is an annual Scottish service complete with kilts, flags, tartans and bagpipes. A lovely service to be sure.

This year I got a very simple email question: "Do you still have some Scottish music to play?" This email came from Ron, the music director extraordinaire, who is everything most choir directors are not. He is organized without fuss or fury; direct without being brusque and makes it all look easy.

Of course we have music to play. Translation: we will dig the dusty music scores up and put together the 15 minutes of pre-service music.

Rehearsals are funny things. Notes can be mended if sour, but form to me is the most difficult and requires some kind of written note or must be drawn from memory. This is mainly what is discussed: who is going to do what. And that's precisely the pickle.

David's EVI is an electronic value instrument that can produce an array of sounds. He can be a string bass one second, then a penny whistle another. The guitar can double the melody or act as bass or bass/chordal. The flute has only one option, but duration must be taken into consideration-the embouchure and lungs can tire. Percussion works around the three of these and a number of choices are possible. We are ripe for the pickle for all these choices.

Then once the tunes seem ready, a setlist must be written. This is a matter of open debate. There was some confusion among members as to the place of one song in particular. This I believe was resolved.

I have always been a nervous performer and feel that most of my technique and accuracy goes away due to shaky hands, particularly my right hand. This time I tried a different approach. I woke up early enough not to have to rush and to mentally prepare. The morning sitting, followed by slow and cautious practice, and a mantra of "calm, relaxed and focused." Whenever my mind tried to rush through details and minor worries, I used the mantra. Soon the rush and panic of my mental world was convinced and finally gave in to relaxation.

I felt confident about the gig and more importantly, how relaxed I felt playing. I had to start the set solo with a tune called Absent Minded Woman. Before playing, musicians tend to fidget, fidget, fidget. This is not calming or centering. Even when I was playing, I didn't even tap my foot as this is distracting from the fingers. Any energy expended not on the music is waste. At least that's how it felt and worked.

So, here's to maturity and to performances when our nerves are kept at bay and we can play with assurance and focus.

It's only taken 53 years after all.

Saturday, May 07, 2011

Start the Car, But Don't Get Crushed

"Effilina called and she's says you must get the car tonight!"

Just what I didn't want to hear. After work and my workout, I like to mellow with a well-deserved couch excursion or in the common parlance, nap. No nap, the Queen hath commanded. Thou murderer of sleep.

Once an idea enters my aunt's mind, it becomes like a brain worm. She can't stop thinking, fretting and worrying about it until it's done. She will actually get so upset that tears will follow. The car needed inspection and it was coming due the next day. If that inspection would be overdue, I'm quite sure she would go out of her mind.

I got dropped off and thought that this was gonna be easy.

Why do I tell myself such things?

The car didn't start. A familiar "click click click" told me that the battery was dead.

Rose, my aunt's caregiver, was there and so we had to roll the car out of the garage. "Put it in reverse," Rose suggested.
"Not neutral?"
"Nah, reverse."
Ok, let's see if it will roll. Imagine the scene: Rose, a large woman, is pushing from the front. I'm in between the car and the cabinets. The space is barely enough for an adult to squeeze in, let alone wrangle a 2,000 some pound vehicle with the door open.

CHUNK! The car stops. The door is stuck on the cabinet handle. Shit. Push car forward, let's try this again. Rose keeps saying, "Turn the wheel, turn the wheel!" Now, everyone knows that power steering doesn't work without the engine on, rather it's like turning a granite stone.

CHUNK! Same thing. More insistence: "Turn the wheel 'cause you're heading out crooked." The cabinet caught the door.

Now, I realize that I am between cabinet and car which is about to roll. Instantly, I remember an episode of Six Feet Under in which a poor bastard gets rolled over by his own SUV. This I think about as I get into the car as it begins the roll back. It was at the point where the car was gathering speed that a swift move had to be made and little room for a mistake. Mercifully, I got into the car and braked the car under control.

This, instead of a nap?

We jumped it and then I dropped the car off to be inspected. On the way home, I thought, "Gee, that could have gone real bad."  In almost every situation, I find myself playing out various scenarios, including the ugly ones. I can't help it. Too many TV shows and movies I suppose.

In this case, my paranoia served me well.

So, kids, stay alert, with a healthy dose of paranoia, skepticism and be wary of requests. Even those that come from beloved aunties.

Wednesday, May 04, 2011

The Velvet Papers, Pt. 8

"When the gods wish to punish us, they answer our prayers."

Them facts:
We had ridiculous names for our "tours" which might just be one gig or dozens as was the case in later years.
Candle Light Tour (85-86): so named because of cheesy electric candles left over at the Cantina from the steak house days.
Take Care Babe Tour (86-87)
Just Say Yes (88-89). Greg True was added. We said yes to Nancy Reagan's "no." A ultra lounge tune by the same name was written. Years later, at my 50th birthday party, we played that song and our fill-in drummer said, "There are not enough cocktails on earth to make me that lounge." Well said, my friend.
The Casual Tour (89-90) Tito on the kit and "Velvis" makes his first appearance.
Totally Lounge Tour (90) The Veebs were in full swing, playing so many gigs that we could run hot one night or have zero mojo, but the music was well seasoned as well as the players.



Salsa: the ultimate cool Latino cat
Tito, aka Glenn, brought in Nelson or as we dubbed him, Salsa and he fit like a Velvet glove. Nelson hailed from Ponce, Puerto Rico and played just about everything: guitar, keyboards, loads of percussion, plus he sang. He was equally at home behind the keys as he was the congas. He is just a natural. Plus, he was a laid-back cat. He got the whole Caribbean vibe of the Veebs, but I don’t think he ever understood the lounge aspect. Tito got that message, but Nelson had to wonder what the hell we were doing sometimes with wacky covers of songs he’d probably never heard. This was no matter because I began to absorb the Latin lessons on guitar he was to teach.

Though I had been conservatory trained, my knowledge of how Latin music applied to the guitar was nil. The complex syncopations are not easy my friends and even when you finally understand them in basic terms, you have to play them in the right feel. It’s like the difference between real reggae and the British variety that began to emerge in the 80’s. The Brits may have the right notes in the right places, but there’s no flow, no groove. Listen to Sly and Robbie play versus Sting and Stewart Copeland and the difference is night and day. If it doesn’t groove, then it’s not music.

I remember when Nelson was teaching us La Paloma, a merengue that has simple straightforward chords for the verse and a V7-I jam session as a B section. Sounds easy, right? Nelson showed me this little riff that played off of the V7-I progression that took me at least a week or two to get right. If you took Nelson and me and asked us to play it, his would be the better of the two. He has the distinct advantage of growing up with these rhythms in his head, of course, but this stuff is not acquired through the intellect. It has to be absorbed through listening, playing and ultimately “feeling” the Latin groove which differs from Euro-American music in one huge way: the groove is on the off beat. It’s genius really.

His strumming was another thing that fried my brain cells. I couldn’t get the accents or the fluidity (Still true), so another shift in the old musical paradigm. I had to work on it. Despite how square we must have sounded, the Latinos must have heard something emerging that was close to authentic. They could have said privately to one another, “Look, these gringos aren’t getting this stuff. Let’s form our own band.” Our sincerity to do these songs justice was evident. We didn’t want to merely imitate the style, but truly breathe life into these pieces. Also, we didn’t try act Latino; this was no liberal hands-across-the-culture social experiment. This was about love of music that surpasses a passing political fancy. In short, we were for reals, baby.

At the same time, the Latinos in our group did not anchor the rock or blues numbers that we played. Glenn could swing and rock, but there were better rock drummers around. We never looked around for any other because we had the perfect guy behind the kit.  

Nelson was an easy and natural fit. We’d work the song up to a certain point and he always would say, “And we can just jam, man.” You mean know the basic structure of the song, but otherwise just casually improvise the rest? The Velvet way again. Organize? Only to a degree, buddy, after that it was seen as being a little too neurotic. Sometimes one of us would say, “Rehearsing is for cowards.”

Something else began to emerge: a new hybrid was forming. My breaking free, so to speak, of classical chains really started to happen when I began to incorporate Latin rhythms into original songs.

All I Know was a cute little merengue number that was one of the first to emerge and one that certainly we got a lot of mileage from over the Velvet years. It was an ode to indifference (my own) and continuous conflict that was on the news:

Well, they talk on having world peace
The liberals and Conservatives alike,
But I don’t see the reasoning
‘Cause we can’t agree on the simplest things in life.

So the Latin thing was becoming a way of writing originals. Oddly, it was originals that we became known for. Perhaps that and Santana were our trademarks. Plus, we did something that many musicians and bands never seem to understand: we entertained people. There are some musicians who are so into the idea of themselves as serious players that they never really get that aspect of public performance. It’s ok to sing a silly song, do something seriously daffy or laugh at yourself. It’s all about the entertainment. You can keep your reputation as a player intact and have a blast playing. I can name names the countless musicians I know who would feel it beneath themselves to ever do anything close to what we did on stage. Our secret weapon was simple: it’s called fun.

And boy the shit we did on stage.

Next: Life at the Levee



Tuesday, May 03, 2011

The Velvet Papers, Pt. 7

El trío de Terciopelo. Where's CR?
You Guys Gonna Be Radio Stars?

The Velvet four got an opportunity to play a late, late night radio show hosted by madman Rudy Panucci. Rudy's Saturday night show began at 1AM (or was it later?) and was a combination of commercial CDs, live guests, and off-the-wall spontaneous skits. The musical guests may or not have been sober enough to perform, but that only added to the merry mayhem. Generous and open-minded, he was and continues to be a long-time supporter of local music.

The band was pretty tight I have to admit. Tapes of this show exist and the fullness of time has allowed me to hear the group as objective as possible. Horribly critical of myself, especially my singing, I find I can listen to this recording without cringing. Local music freak, Gopher George, said we were the most professional sounding band that Rudy had had on his show. Coming from him, that's sort of a keeper.

Our repertoire included the original, Bound to Fall, a song I wrote about a friend's girlfriend troubles. It also reflected my continuous bad relationship choices:

I never know what's good for me, you see,
Once I'm in I want it all.
When you start to accept only second best,
Once I'm in I'm bound to fall.


The second verse considered our bewilderingly violent world and the narcissism that results in senseless tragedy:

Going up with a rifle
on the highest rooftop in town.
I might take a few with me
before I go down.
Searchlights and newsmen,
demands and their pleas,
and the eyes of the world
are focused on me.

CR Smoothie: Lost in the smoothness.
On the lighter side, we did a lounge version of What I Like About You with Greg True singing it in a wonderful hammy lounge-o-rific style. One Night Flingo had become a standard. Tito led us with Cana Brava, a classic merengue. Another original, I'm Cold, written about a relationship that had ended (without any real words spoken by me) that contained perhaps the key to the soul of Johnny Velvets everywhere:

You know there's no regret when it's over and done.
You don't need to ask yourself why you didn't see it come.
You see a dark highway spin out in the night.
Leave behind no goodbyes, just a wink of the tail lights.
I'm cold.

Rudy had a ball trying to get the radio audience in on the lounge joke, but callers didn't seem to grasp it. This was no matter; we were there to play. Greg and I bantered about using the "Johnny" voice, but it was Craig, being his normal, sheepish self, who delivered the best lines by telling people we were on our tour "up the Kanawha River" and to "come see us at your local dive."

Your Local Dive

I remember the VBs as a quartet doing many gigs at Bentley's - a gig we got because the owner really liked us and of course, Greg had cache as a member of The Ride. Those hot and sweaty nights were my baptism by fire as the amps, PA, monitors and the endless wires were something quite alien to me. By alien, I mean shocking, often disorienting and I hated it.

Setting up to me was a nightmare and quite stressful. Greg and Craig "debated" the finer points of where the shit went and I always deferred to them. I didn't know what to do and quite honestly didn't want to know. This was always the most tense moment for me. At times, whether they were aware of it or not, people could get quite bossy. This does not work well for me. I had to silently bear what I perceived as being unnecessarily harsh.

"Can you move just a little bit?"

One thing that began to happen was, after fussing endlessly with my amp, effects, two guitars, somebody would ask me to move everything. This made me furious as it seemed to happen always after I finished. Arrrgh! (Years later, I got really pissed off because the same thing happened, and I had, shall we say, less than a cheerful attitude about moving stuff. I have always behaved professionally at gigs, but this time my scars were rubbed raw and instantly anger was triggered. TO this day, I wait until others have set up until I lift a finger.)

Rick Moranis as lounge god Tom Monroe.
In the beginning, we never embraced the idea of the killer opening number followed by three or four uptempo numbers to win over the crowd. That's what I loved about us. We followed the Velvet credo: always be smooth. It would be typical of us to opening with our bossa nova version of The Police's De Doo Doo Doo inspired by SCTV's Tom Monroe. To do otherwise would have been a disaster. People caught onto the idea. I remember one local musician who came to see us and he said, "You guys slow down and take it easy up there." He got the joke.

The Velvets would later launch into Black Magic Woman and Oye Como Va with all the velvety fury we could muster, but set one was about warming up, getting the sound right and being casual. We had the gig, but fuck the hair band rock star posing. Ascots, smoking jackets and rum cocktails: these were the flags we flew. Plus, Craig bought a fake palm tree and that pretty much told everyone who walked into the door what we were all about.

The process was slow, but I remember that the night was no sooner over than the owner brought out a calendar and asked for future weekends. We became regulars at that bar. The experiment was working. We were out of the basement now for sure.

Huh? Wait a minute, now. You said you guys felt like losers. Yep. CR and I still did. Tito and Greg never expressed that. You have to have people in your band who support one another otherwise it's just mechanics- mercenary at its core. That's how I always felt anyway. We were friends who just happened to play music together. I'm not saying we tore the place up every night, but we entertained people in our own way.

Several beautiful things began to emerge. At this point, either Greg or I could have been considered the front guy. We traded that role. As much as I crave the limelight, I didn't want the role all the time. (Singing brings a catharsis like nothing else, but sometimes I like to concentrate only on the guitar.) Now, because we were both guitarists, there was going to be a little competition between us, but even that was musically symbiotic: Greg was (is) the master of burning blues-rock leads and myself more of a rhythm man. Tito was always supportive of the goofy or outrageous things which made their way into the lyrics and was never a greedy player. He preferred the groove over busy fills. Then there was CR- the guy who completely downplayed his playing. Never had an ego about music and he was my support system. No matter how far out I went, I knew that at the end of the night, he had my back. Sometimes, I'd look over and he'd be laughing, shaking his head. Unless there was a cocktail or a lady involved, then who could find him?

Call Him "Salsa"