Seriously Dudes

"South Charleston Patrolman S.W. Miller was following O'Connor's car and could smell a strong odor of marijuana coming from it, the officer wrote in the criminal complaints."

It's a Work in Progress

That's the Reverend Tim, master of the kit and quite a good keyboard player as well. He's got that Billy Cobham kind of build, but he's quite a subtle player. My poor ears do not suffer from any damage from decibel overkill.

It's nice to play with these folks (Though I still don't know the songs). I don't consider myself a jazz player at all. Maybe that's what saves me. I am hanging by a thread.

Standards are played, respective solos taken.

Funk grooves arise and all is smokin'.

The moment when the music derails into a King Crimson foray or Steve Reich or John Cage -it's no longer strictly jazz. It's the moment that I most enjoy. Shit goes out there. That's all I know.


Legendary drummer Bill Bruford calls soloing "the research and development of the evening."

Yeah. It's when you look up and realize that two hours and twenty minutes have passed.

The Use of Memory

My friend Ed has been blogging about the old days at SMA. It is remarkable. His recall of details is quite simply stunning.

His new installment is about daily life.

Ed's recollection is from '74 to '75. I did a little math.

I was 16 when I arrived mid-term. Bewildered, confused, scared, newly shorn and definitely pissed off. I remember standing in my new prison cell, my laundry bag of new uniforms on the floor in front of me, while a host of new faces came to the door to see the new kid. I felt f**ked three ways from Sunday. That's my first memory. Welcome to SMA.

To Tell the Tale

There are folks who live by "never look back." That attitude is a bit mystifying for me. Hell, that's not any fun. I like hearing the old stories. Most of them I have forgotten. Memory is a collective retelling of past events. That is, each person remembers bits that others have forgotten.

The past seems to have come to my doorstep.

I had a rather unusual high school experience. I started out at Charleston High (long demolished and now a doctor's building) then abruptly sent to Staunton Military Academy, all to finish at Charleston Catholic. No wonder I am weird.

I wasn't really surprised when my old bud from SMA days, Ed Newbegin, contacted me. There are people you meet that, despite the passage of time, you never forget. He's one of them. Oh yeah. Crazy Ed Newbegin.

Ed, "Boots," Andy, Pete and I were a tight little bunch during those hellish times. I will tell my tales at a later time. Right now, enjoy Ed's account. Obviously, his memory is intact.

And, by the way: Truth, Duty and Honor my ass.

P.S. Henry blows!

The Same Old Song Still Singing

Got a phone call from someone this afternoon. I knew why they were calling, but was hoping they had some info for me. No.

This person wanted to know how the meeting went with the new padre (see last week's post).

I told her all about the meeting.

She said. "He said you all didn't talk about the job."

Man, oh man.

The Same Old Song

The world usually follows this little motto:
before it ever gets better, the deal will always get worse

This time: no deal at all.

Loyal readers of these pages (all three, including the author) may remember the events that ultimately lead to the ending of my last church job. Father Fiasco had done his level best to dismantle the music program and terminate my employment. Why? Because he has a long history of being the master of disaster (well documented by his brethren) and was siphoning off money for himself. Yes, you read that right. So, I was filled with great curiosity when the new priest called me and said he wanted to meet with me.

Could this be a golden opportunity? Would I slide right back into those comfortable shoes?

For being as old as I am, I am so naive. I trust, I believe. Then ugly reality comes up to shock me back into sanity.

Nay.

First, a lovely and sincere apology from the new pastor regarding the behavior of the previous and aforementioned priest of pandemonium. Then I recounted the whole tale of horror in full detail. After the tale ended, he began asking me about what I was doing.

He wondered where I was attending mass.

"I'm a vagabond."

This is mostly true. I don't go anywhere.

Stated with true concern. "I am concerned that this experience may have turned you off to the church."

Indeed it has. I felt the church betrayed me. Something that had given me safe harbor, a place to find quiet and meditation and even fellowship had turned sour for me. I simply don't go. I mistrust organized religion on some level now and even feel suspicious of clergy. The church turned its back on me and so I return in kind.

When he explained that he had called me in just to meet me and to offer an olive branch, I felt as if an anvil had fallen on my head.

Gee, no offer of a job?

Though not one person has spoken of me with disdain and he had heard only glowing comments about my time as music minister, there wasn't even the offer of a job on the table. He wanted me to attend the services and join the church. Then, he might use me, but only in "an advisory capacity." Oh, I get it: do it for free. Ah, no thanks. I even heard: "It would feel wrong to hire you back." What? Putting my ego aside for a moment, this is about money, plain and simple.

In short: the old Catholic mentality of volunteerism is still in play. The "because you love God and the church, you should work like a dog for nothing" mode of thinking still lingers from the '60's. Those times are as relevant as antiquity. The whole world has changed and the church with Vatican II was a reaction to try to bring the church into the 20th century; yet this preposterously outdated attitude has remained. Women have come further in the Catholic church than musicians. That's not an exaggeration.

But I am not an part-time musician. I have given my life to it. It is my passion, my soul and my closest friend. Pros like me deserved to be paid for their experience, education and sense of liturgy. I will not accept anything less. It's bullshit. Right now, my sources tell me that the folks involved with the music program are all volunteers. Some say only one gets a stipend for his work.

I had the sense that he wanted to meet the man who had been so inextricably "linked to the parish's history." I also, God forgive me for saying this, felt that bringing me back might bring a little bit more attention to the music than he wanted. He is the new king, the bright one, the worldly traveler, brought to this humble church filled with Appalachian folks whom he sees as being insular and provincial. The mountains and valleys being a barrier to the outside world - a world he has seen. This church, seen by his superiors, as a "penal colony." In his words: "send them down there. They can't do any harm."

He's been sent to clean up the mess. Sounds like everything is hunky-dory. That's great, so why bother me?

Before I go further, I have to say I liked the new guy. There's a touch of arrogance there. Two arrogant men can't really bond - they are always too impressed with themselves to be impressed with others. Still, I think we felt comfortable.

And I can't say I was shy about my opinions. I think my bitterness swelled up inside me and was let out my mouth too fast before I could catch it. "Tacky churchy gay" is how I described how the previous priest decorated the church. He looked a little stunned as he repeated it. Sorry, Padre. I almost never reveal my true thoughts about people. That stuff stays hidden, but this time one got out.

I have consulted two friends, both female - one still going and one who left because of the disastrous way my employment was ended. Here's what I have found out about my female friends: they are far more willing to tell it like it is than men are. When I told one about the apology, she said, "If that's all he wanted, why not just send a postcard?" She has been hurt as well and has stopped doing endless volunteer work because of it. Good for her.

We can learn a lot from the hurt the world blithely tosses our way. Believe me: any hopes, dreams or ambitions of one day returning to that church as a music minister have been dashed.

They are gone.

Thanks for reminding me.

Can You Sing Our Song? - Overture

It has already begun.

If you saw the tag at the end of the last wedding blog, you may have wondered what was coming. I am wondering as well, but I know this particular syndrome very well: the bride-to-be is expecting perfection.

She has a right, of course, to make sure that she is getting what she pays for, but this can go into the realm of making one's hair turn gray.

Singing at a wedding (No, not a Adam Sandler Wedding Singer) is sui generis; that is, it is a creature unto itself. It is as easy and light as morning fog or a beast with claws. Mostly a beast.

When we were hired, the deal breaker was that I would sing a song. She only heard us instrumentally. While interrogating my musical partner, she asked about my abilities.

"Well, he was a choir director for many years." (until he was unceremoniously shit canned)

"Do you think I should contact them and ask about how well he sings?"

Evidently, she did not see the overwhelming irony in her inquiry, but continued on when she called me:

"Are you singing anywhere I can come and hear you?"

"No. I did quite a bit of that in the '90s. That was when I was in a band and performed regularly."

"Do you have any CDs?" (No. The swinging song stylings of Johnny Velvet will not be out soon.)

"No. Never did get around to making a CD." (File that under big regret. Thanks for reminding me.)

That was a few weeks ago, but I knew that this would not be over. Not by a long shot.

The latest:

I am to sing the song to her

over the phone.

To quote the man: good grief!

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

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

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

"Last week at Okays."

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

"Yes."

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

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

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

"so passes the glory of the world"

Coming Full Circle

Loyal readers (all three of them) may remember my troubles with my previous church employment.

Well, well, well.

Seems there's a new man in charge. And he wants a choir director. And he wants to talk to me.

Isn't that funny and way, way familiar?

We shall see.

Barely Worth Quoting Quotes

The following are real and accurate quotes:

"I don't think one should role model oneself after someone whose teeth fall out."

"Whatever I say, disregard the bad parts."

"It must be nice to be the ejaculator."

"Where are we?"

"They need to lock him in his room and throw him some bread crumbs."

"That's the kind of kid that will sneak up on you in the middle of the night and slice your throat open."

'They're not going to super size your ass anything."

"If he didn't work for the church, he'd be in prizon."

"Why are you naked?"

"You have shown me the way of the underwear."

Get Thee Out to Play

No Couch For Thee

As soon as I got in the house, I heard:

"Li-Li called you. I think it's about a gig."

Dammit!
After tasting the sweet freedom of leaving work on Friday, having to commit to anything, even dinner out with friends, is very difficult for me. I have other things I want to do. Like, take a nap. I want a snack and then the couch immediately. Once I settle upon the vessel of comfort, the quintessential American Valium of furniture, my night is planned. Movies ahead to watch and that's it.

I muttered and sputtered, but called her back. I owe her that much.

She explained that there was a gig tonight and I was invited by the leader to play.

"The money isn't great."

I ain't feeling it, babe.

"But drinks and food are free."

Getting better. Especially the drink part. Me like beer.

"But I don't know the songs." He casteth doubt againe.

"You'll be fine. You won't have any problem at all."

Keep going.

But the all important question was not yet asked: What time is the gig? (Translation: was there time for a sandwich and a nap?)

"We start at 9 o'clock."

"OK. I'll do it."

That's all I needed to hear. There was plenty of sack time. Time to recharge the batteries aboard the SS Snoozeville.

Out of the Tower
It would be totally flippant and disingenuous to say that a mere chance to couch surf was the deal breaker. I had turned down gigs with this group before and everyone knows that if you turn down too many gigs, the phone stops ringing. Besides, I knew that my usual evening practice would be accompanied by spousal comments pointing out my gross hypocrisy. And, damn it, as hard as it would be to acknowledge it - she would be right. It would feel a bit Ivory tower to stay home and twiddle fingers to frets.

The Same Old Feeling

Though I have been a professional for 22 years, I am always a bit nervous before I play. It used to be terrible, now it's very manageable, but nonetheless, my nerves are there. As a whole, I think that a gig always presents the terrifying thought of sounding awful, playing like crap and forever tarnishing your reputation as a player. The other thought that shadows musicians is that their peers and the general public will recognize that we are frauds and have no business playing music at all. That somehow only the true geniuses have the right to play music in public. That all we are is inadequate substitutes. This isn't logical, but a musician's ego can be a very voluminous and cumbersome burden, especially to tolerate, but also very small and fragile as glass. All this must be pushed aside. There's a gig, Goddammit!

There's one thing about this gig that makes it infinitely easier on me: it ain't mine. I am a sideman. What me worry? There's no pressure on me.

When I arrive, the place is packed. Some sort of 40th high school reunion or something. Surely they didn't hire us. Nah. That would be for the purveyors of R&B and such. A jazz band for this type of nostalgia wouldn't work. Boomers must periodically relive the now smoothed over bits of their long passed youth and jazz would be a snoozer.

Get On with the Tale

In short, I had a ball. It had to be the most fun I've had in years.

I have discovered my role within a group: to stir up trouble in the rhythm section. I actually listen and pay attention to the drummer -something which often surprises them. Guitarists, being the egotistical a-holes that they are, always seem to think a great deal more about their upcoming solos and consequently, contributing to the rhythm session is more of an obligation than a joy. This kind of conventional approach of lead vs. rhythm is lacks imagination. The interaction in the rhythm section is essential and one that should be dictated by good taste, discipline, accuracy, but ultimately spontaneity and even unbridled joy.

The Reverend Tim was behind the kit that night. His muscular build belies his subtle touch and his rare ability to keep the volume at a level compatible with the group. He is a monster musician with a level head and gentle personality. What a joy to play with. He's also an excellent candidate to stir up trouble with.

At times, I was completely turned towards him; watching everything and trying to lock in with the groove. You see, the beauty of being in a jazz group is the spontaneous and sudden changes in the rhythmic currents. It almost becomes ESP when suddenly, without practice or warning, everybody decides to lay down a more samba feel to the tune. It's as if only one member need to suggest it and then all follow. That happened a number of times. These are jazz musicians, after all.

The Rev probably wondered why I was facing him, but I think he soon realized how much I was feeding off his fundamental groove and the myriad of other rhythmic possibilities that he kept throwing out. There were some grooves we got into that were funkalicous.

At one point, Tim had sweat streaming down his face; looking like he was totally lost in the music. This is the feeling that musicians search for. Oh yeah. That's the core and everything else is a distraction. And there are plenty of those, yes?

You have to get lost and forget everything around you. You have to reveal who you are, without posing to an audience. You must relax and let go. It has taken me many years to learn to relax and fall into the music and quit worrying about all the voices of doubt - real or imagined. Besides, no matter what you do, some jackass is going to put it down. That's just human nature.

When Ryan arrived, a young guitarist who runs circles around me, he smiled in a knowing way. He knew. We need not say a word. It was time for two guitarists to do what they are born to do: stir up a sh**storm. From that point on, the two maniac guitarists took the band to new places. We stretched, distorted, destroyed, and warped the harmony, form, rhythm and melodies on several tunes. At one point, I had my eyes shut, firing off my best riffs at Ryan, hoping for a retort. Oh yeah. That kid can play. A flurry of notes would rip by and I'd just laugh. I can't hang with that - I can only do my thing and hope for the best.

All the while, Brian Bassist and Li-Li sometimes seemed to watching and waiting for what would happen next. Brian joined in the fun with some complicated finger stunts that made me look up and laugh. Not laughter at, but laughter that we were tearing the music apart. Not that the majority of the patrons could give a shit. All the boomers had moved into the other room. A few patrons remained on the band side.

Li-Li is not prone to wild experimentation, but she is solid as granite and very necessary to keep things straight when children wish to misbehave. Many times, the band sparked up behind her, reacting to her solos. The band was actually listening to one another. What a concept.

At one point, Reverend Tim decided, without warning, that it was indeed his time for a solo. He began this intense rhythmic fury that could be described as volcanic. With hands blurring and tension building, the power could be felt throughout the room with some intoxicated boomers wandering in to see what all the fuss was about. I stood up and backed off, letting Master Tim get off like a big dog. It was amazing. He smoked it. I thought the kit would explode.

We played for two hours and 15 minutes without a break. Coated in sweat and happy as a clam, that's about all I want to play. I reach a saturation point with playing; feeling like I have said enough for one evening. But Ryan, the non-stop guitarist showed me one of his tunes and while the band broke down, we played our duet.

A Rich Reward

A tall pint of cold pale ale is perhaps one of the most underrated pleasures on earth, especially after playing. The owner kept them coming and this thirsty lad kept slugging them down. Oh yeah. The pay was small, but with great beer as part of the deal, I have no complaints.

Ryan, who never stops playing the guitar, started into some King Crimson. Soon the Crim fans were howling along at the top of their lungs:

"She waits in the air

matte kudesaiiiiiiiiiiiii...."

"Frame by frame........."

A gig well played, tasty-ass ultra cold pale ale, good musician friends, singing like we didn't care and even a tranny hooker outside to mock, it was a good night. I was truly in my element. It was helluva night.

And to think I might have missed it.

Sackin' on the couch.

Butch Paugh

Butch Paugh is the controversial minister who declares that the DMV taking his picture is the beginning of the mark of the beast- the Biblical reference to 666 being stamped on everybody at the end of days.

Dude-

You are not going to be governor. So, forget that right now. While I believe in the basics of the Good Book and feel that society has indeed gone to hell, I do see the point of those who scream separation of church and state, and those who toss about the term Theocracy. You know as well as me the interpretation of scriptures is a tricky thing, often leading to suspicion and downright hatred of other denominations. Isn't that lovely? That's one of my favorite about self-proclaimed "Godly people." Fundamentally, they are really not decent people at all, but snivy little toads who use God as a way of elevating themselves and condemning others.

Besides, isn't that a bit too worldly? You know, "be not of this world", etc etc. By the way, your web page makes me cringe a little with the yard sale style, graphically challenged, clunky ads for DVDs and other things you are hawking for profit. Bad taste and certainly lacking a spiritual ambiance, yes? Get a web designer, dude. It looks awful.

Mike Krause's argument against Real ID is reasonable and is fair warning, but it has nothing to do with Revelations, the mark of any beast (sexy or not), or the guy with the horns on his head. The state or federal government is the real beast because of the intrusion of privacy, diminishing civil liberties and the one constant true to all governments: their ability to f*k up your life with one small clerical error. The potential and actual evil of these organizations is well known to us all.

Had you challenged this on a purely legal level, I would raised my fist in solidarity. But no, it turned into showboating.

But the horse is already out of the barn. If you are in the system, you are already f**ked. Besides, whining about a DMV picture and then splashing yourself all over the papers and even YouTube seems a bit hypocritical. It's typical and solid entertainment that always comes with fellows like you who wave the Bible in one hand and pick people's pockets with the other; all the while working towards the real goal: power. Oh baby, ain't it seductive? Power seduces all who seek it. Oh yeah.

Evidently, others find your mighty armor to have chinks. (Scroll down to read about the Shortwave Wars)

What's this stuff about the Confederate flag? Seriously, is this another the South's Gonna Do It Again? What? A return to an agrarian society, women as second class citizens and the entire subjugation of a race?

The South was right? About what?

Mixing the Old South with religion seems a bit suspicious. Didn't like the results of the Civil War? Time to move on.

I love the gun stuff. Why do all you gun people always sound like you find nothing more pleasurable on earth than the thought of shooting someone? Jesus said, "Blessed are the pistol packers." Right? Nothing about love, tolerance, patience. Nah. Shoot first, let God sort 'em out.

From the site - a lovely "poem." Warms your heart, yes?

In short, this was all a publicity stunt. And it worked. Congrats. I am happy for you.

I just don't believe any of it.