A Happy Turkey To All

there was blear

rain and Ingmar Bergman skies

but the sun made a brief appearance, but then had another engagement (arrogant bastard!)

and the moon that must have missed the memo

and came out too soon

but then there were carnivorous delights

of hearth

and home

making it all worth the work.

Never Ever Say Never

“Well, if the Grand Canyon were to rejoin itself, maybe there would be a possibility. We got back together for my wedding. It made me firm in my belief that it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie.” — Sting in a July 2000 on the possibility of the Police reuniting for a tour.

They fought like brothers. Berated, scoffed, mocked, tormented and burned each other until the levee broke. Reading Andy Summer's One Train Later, the lesson is clear: fame destroys even the deepest of bonds between members of a band and leaves them unable to make music together peacefully for twenty five years. It just happens. I'd say that success and fame are the worst things that can happen to any band.

You can get different accounts as to the why they called it quits. Stewart Copeland was interviewed:

Q:Well, it wasn't acrimony that broke up the band?

Copeland: There was a lot of acrimony when we were in the band together, but it never came close to breaking up the group. The reason we broke up was to escape from the golden cage. Because there's all kinds of things we wanted to do and we were in a very good place in our interpersonal relations that, at that time, we decided to take a break, have a hiatus, take a sabbatical.

Sabbatical? Hell, they couldn't even play Sting's wedding without problems. All that aside, we went to see the boys in Charlotte on November 15th at the Bobcats Arena.

In short, it was a great show. The night before, Sting had the flu and had to cancel the Philly show, so we were dreading the possible news of a cancellation. It wasn't like we could call down to the front desk of the hotel and say, "Er...we need to get a refund because the whole reason we came is now gone. Hope you don't mind. Thanks."

We skipped the opening band (which included Sting's son) by being fashionably late and then joined the throbbing mob at the Enormo-Dome. That whole mass herd movement is a little disconcerting to me. Rude people rushing by you at every step, as if a concert means all rules of civility are off, with goofs bumping into you without a word of acknowledgement. If that's big city living, then I am glad to live in Podunkville. Glad to visit, but don't count on me living there. Ok, back to the story, mates.

Once we navigated the long haul down to our seats, soon the Police took the stage without any hoopla. Besides photos displayed during Invisible Sun, the whole show was minimal in terms of lighting or visual effects. The show was the musicianship and that's alright with me.

Sting, who had to cancel Philly the night before due to the flu, was in great voice. Being a huge fan and having heard him sing on numerous occasions (Live Earth being an example), I can testify to the often imperfect delivery of pitches and breaking of notes. The fifty-five year old sounded absolutely solid. It was clear that he reserved his upper register at times; often improvising new melodies to the songs. On Roxanne, during the extended jam, he did a bit of scat singing. It was really well done. The crowd shouted out their appreciation.

His bass playing was a little hard to hear because of a murky mix, but Sting's jazz roots were very clear during the freer sections. Sting is no virtuoso. You won't hear some amazing Victor Wooten fret gymnastics, but he is a master of tasteful lines, great harmonic invention and solid playing.

Most importantly, he was having a good time. Cynics among us could say the $131 million in gross from the tour so far could make any jaded performer Mr. Smiley Face, but sincerity onstage is impossible to fake. Mr. Sumner frequently encouraged the crowd to sing along, often dropping out in really unexpected places. And, my Lawd, he even dropped the F Bomb once. I laughed hard at that one. The cat was in the moment, for sure.

On the other hand, Andy Summers looked disconnected from the proceedings and more interested in his guitar than being the center of attention. The red Strat he used was a bit shallow sounding during the solos and it wasn't until he brought out the famous hybrid Telecaster that the identifiable Police sound came to life. While I have never thought of him as a virtuoso player, his parts were always executed flawlessly and his solos were not in a hurry and had nothing to prove. At times, the guitar (gulp!) was too loud. I could feel what tender cells I had left in my ears being burned away by the high frequencies. Alas, thus ist der the rock und roll.

Stewart Copeland's onstage affect is one of mental illness. He stares off into some distant point with this sort of stunned look. His playing, my friends, is another matter altogether. Simply top notch. Energetic like a twenty-something, grooving like a steam train, taking the beat to new places and then, after throwing the auxiliary percussion beaters over his head, jumps down into the kit seat and hammers the rock groove, instantly locking it into place. Perfect! Copeland undoubtly is the best technician of the group and could easily slide into Chick Corea's band without a hitch. He was a mad man and sheer joy to watch.

With musical magic, always comes friction. It's the quid pro quo of music making. It's easy to see now why these guys were so sucessful, but also how their three distinct personalities were destined to tear apart The Police machinery.

Glad to see them back together and not getting into fistfights.

At least, not on stage.

One Leaf

One lone leaf seemed a little like it was trying to desperately get inside, clinging to the window one wet and windy night.

It reminded me of a conversation I saw on DFZ's website:

Al: The leaves are changing.
Bill: Yep.
Al: Sons a' bitches.

"DFZ" or Bill takes care of an elderly gentleman. Who knew such concise wisdom can be found in such unlikely places?

God love 'em. Maybe even the trees feel the way Robert Frost felt when he penned:
"Ah, when to the heart of man was it ever less than a treason
to go with the drift of things
to yield with a grace to reason
and bow and accept at the end of a love or a season."

Can't Explain

father of the year

a bad vibe
looking angry
he wears it brighter than the silver cross
that hangs around his neck


"Do y'all have any Children's Tylenol?"

"Yeah. There should be some."


He gets it

along with a cold beer.

one old, one new

mix and match

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

Get Thy Freak On

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

Impractice Makes Imperfect

The delay. The stall tactic. Using small talk to eat up lesson time. Asking me to play. Acting confused. Lost my place. Suddenly, I have many questions! Or, the worst, outright lying.

I am an old salt and know them all. I know them all, I know them all. They all mean the same damn thing: The student has failed to prepare for the lesson. In the grand scheme of things, this means nothing, but to a music teacher, it means quite a lot.

In the "real world" of study, that is, the professional music school, this act is unthinkable, but we are far, far away in another galaxy here. These are not aspiring professionals and so the response must be appropriate to that. I cannot make a scene, berate them and throw them out (although the temptation and the inclination are there, believe me.). As much as I want to give them the boot, alas, quiet acceptance and a hope to salvage the lesson are all that is left. Smile and secretly dream of when you get to go home.

I have suffered through, as have all music teachers, those students who did not belong near any musical instrument. God love them all, but I've had kids play basic notes so slow that I would catch myself spacing out like I was listening to ambient music. A few times, that was the most pleasant part of the lesson. When I taught in Hurricane, my room was on the second floor, where I had a great view over a pastoral landscape. That was at least a pleasant escape.

The question comes. A hard one, for sure, and rife with potential hurt feelings: When do we realize that our time together no longer has any purpose?

Things are always in cycles and teaching is full of them. There always comes a point, especially when teaching young students, that the novelty has faded, practice has stopped and the student goes flat. Not moving forward, but rather a kind of slow backwards drift. When this happens, it's only a matter of about three to four lessons before it's stay or go. This is the middle of the first plateau and I have been through it with students countless times. Adults will usually figure this out, but kids, under pressure from parents, may drag on way beyond expiration dates.

Or they disappear suddenly. I've had kids that I've taught for five or more years suddenly stop coming without notice or a call afterwards. "People are funny" is the old cliche, but that doesn't really apply here at all. People don't think of music teachers as having real professions, let alone having enough respect to let to notify us of cancellations.

Case in point: one poor little mug was chauffeured by his "sitter" to every lesson. In fact, I didn't meet that parents but one time. While teaching this little guy was a blast, it did not make me happy when multiple lessons were missed without notice or apology. I never said anything, but the one time I forgot to mention that the school would be shut down for Spring break and I missed without notice, they cancelled in anger. Again, music teachers are not real people, so we are not entitled to reciprocal courtesies.

You see, the private music teacher is only one of innumerable "experiences" (to use Boomer parlance) that the parent wishes to expose to the child. The trouble is the kid is involved in so many things that none of these activities take on any real meaning. It's like an educational buffet-take what you want when you want it and stop when it suits you. One kid had so many activities- I remember Karate, swimming, soccer among them-that he broke down into tears.

"I don't want to be here!" he cried.

"Why don't you tell your mom???"

"Because she wants me to come here."

That kid soon stopped without notice nor word from parents. Hell, who could blame the kid?

Recent case in point: Sensing more than the usual struggle to stay focused, my little 3rd grader was really pulling hard at the reigns last night. She was doing all the tricks. She went 'round and 'round. Until I had to figure out how to use the remaining time for education and not for defiance.

Another truth: because children acutely realize that you are not part of school and their attendance is not mandatory, sometimes they really act up as they possess complete impunity. Children are very smart and tuned in. What can you do? My friend, who teaches piano, has a whole book load of stories about South Hills brats who, once mommy leaves, act like little tyrants. So bad was one child, that mom had to be brought into the lessons to act as disciplinarian. Needless to say, that student soon stopped coming.

When mom came, I asked how much her child had been practicing. The answer was as expected-very little to none. Mom went through the "experience" thing with me or the "we were out of town" bit. These are valid things and people have very busy lives, but there comes a point when children are doing so many things that none of them have any meaning. They are doing a life/educational buffet-little of that, little of this.

Post script: this week, the third grader didn't come. No notice, no call.

Funny. I think I have read this book before.

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

new titles and empty uniforms

"we few, we happy few

we band of brothers"


[Still from Band when Lt. Dike, "an empty uniform," loses it during an assault on Foy.]

It began here.

Which lead to this.

Then Major Winter's account.

Now there are new memoirs.



If you haven't watched Band of Brothers yet, rent it or buy it asap. Set aside some time-it's several episodes, so dig a fox hole and stay down.


This series is so different. Early films about war always had that patriotic flag waving and while these men are true patriots, the flag does not cover the rougher edges of reality. It is not sentimental about the horrors of war, no John Wayne moments, but neither is it told without a deep sense of humanity. In short, it's remarkable and glued-to-your-seat viewing. When the action isn't making you grip the arms of the chair, the "characters" are compelling.

These men made incredible sacrifices and for years afterward, never opened up. We are richer for their stories. Had they failed, the whole world would be a different place right now.

It was difficult for these men to talk about what happened, but telling a soft truth wasn't for them. "Once you start lying and trying to change things, it's no good," Bill Guarnere, who just released his own memoirs, says. "You tell the truth, and that's it."

Where, in the sea of empty uniforms, do we hear this simple testament to character? You tell the truth and that's it.

Lt. Dike? Can you hear that?

Coda

all the window shutters were closed
the telephone outside had been ripped out

somehow befitting the situation, a man lost in his own world (and certainly lost in coversation with himself) shuffled down the sidewalk, stopped and stood at the corner. He just stood there, not even looking our way as we drove off.

Sunday, October 14, 2007

A Sunday Wake

It felt like a wake.

Sitting in the Southern Kitchen, waiting for my to-go order, it had the air of a wake. Amidst all the talking, food being served, checks being paid, the atmosphere was lively, but everyone knew that this unpretentious 24 hour eatery would soon be history. Hell, even the chickens had flown the coop as all the kitschy knick-knacks were missing.

People were coming one last time to say goodbye to a place that had become a fixture, an institution and even though it had been the brunt of a few jokes over the years, it had become something more. People feel like they are losing something personal. Not just an old fashioned, retro chic, greasy spoon, but a piece of history, something tied to their lives. We all have our stories.

Crowned with Crown Royal, my old bandmate Richie Stewart and I hit the Kitchen post gig one very late night. Richie knew only one thing: he wanted a Western Omlet. When the waitress came, he threw all the money from his pocket onto the table and stated flatly, "I want a Western anything!" We translated to the waitress who grinned knowingly.

Walking into the Southern Kitchen was like walking back in time. First, because they hadn't change the decor in decades and second, and most importantly, you were treated to some old fashioned hospitality. You felt welcome, regardless of who you were. The food was basic, simple and prices were truly from another time.

When I arrived, people were lined up for a table. I ran into an old friend. Like everyone else, he was there to enjoy the food one last time. He told me that he had been there several times, bringing his son with him.

He confided that the Mayor and a few of his buddies had made an offer to the evil lady in Texas who had inherited the place, but no dice. Another person earlier had said the idea was to tear it down and sell the lot. I am no real estate mogul, but this ain't exactly prime Kanawha City real estate. The building across the street has struggled for years to keep occupied, even with a variety of businesses taking a shot, but all failing. The Kitchen has survived and outlasted them all.

Marvelous Marvin, a longtime employee, was there and in typical fashion ended up making me laugh.
"Hey Marvin, why don't you run this place?"
"I offered her a check for 5 dollars, but she didn't take it."
"You should have gone to $5.50."
"That would have made a real difference. Should have thought of that."
Even the lady next to me laughed out loud. (The lady later appeared that night on WCHS recounting Marvin's comment.)

He went on to say, "People have been asking me for my autograph all day. I feel like a movie star. " Pause. "I already am in my mind, of course." Indeed, the Marv is a rock star whose star, if tapped by John Waters, would brightly burn as cult figure by now.

Some college age girls were taking pictures of each other. They posed, hugging each other and making sad faces, waving goodbye. They took some quick snaps of some of the politicos' pictures on the wall. They had driven from Morgantown to eat there one final time.

The TV crew caught them outside.

" We had some really good times here. Coming here at any hour."

Yep. I hope it stays, but if the owner won't sell, then nothing can be done.

One thing's for sure.

I'll wager Ms. Hersman is livid.