When I saw that Performance Today had a quote by Fripp and John Cage, I got excited. I posted the link on DGM's website. This was the response.


"18.10 On the Guestbook…RF in Performance Today post
:: Posted by eclecticguy on September 16, 2009Performance Today has a post where Robert’s quote is used.


But not quite the quote."


Huh. Isn't there a "thank you" missing?

Who's In Charge?

Proving again that Mother Nature is in charge. It looks like something out of an apocalyptic movie.

On a lighter note, the Oktoberfest started! Beer makes people happy.

Zombie Nation

Starz is going to broadcast a documentary starting in October about the zombie phenomenon.

I first watched Romero's 1968 b&w classic on Chiller Theater, hosted by Bill Cardille. The 1978 classic, Dawn of the Dead, which I saw as a college student, was shocking. We drove the long and dark Route 88 back to school more than a little creeped out.

Romero has used zombies as metaphors for our mindless consumerism. Personally, I see them as representations of our true selves. Unhindered by laws, rules, morality, ethics, our animalistic natures are unleashed. Most of the time, I just enjoy the pretend carnage.

Whatever the attraction, the zombie genre doesn't seem to be going away soon.

"True"-ly Hooked

We are usually pretty late when it comes to jumping on any TV bandwagon. In fact, we watched only one episode of HBO's True Blood series, thought it trite and moved on. The whole vampire-as-cool-love-interest story line seemed a bit thin. Neither of us liked it.


It wasn't until a friend loaned us their season one DVD set that changed our outlook. When you get to watch an entire season on DVD, you get a lot more out of it. You also get drawn in like an addict. We are as red hot addicted as V mixed with Red Bull.

The very first smart thing creator Alan Ball did was to bring the whole vampire legacy right down to earth. This is no Lord Valmont in ruffles and smoking jacket complete with castle, howling wolves and thick Slavic accents. This is vamps in Hickville, y'all!

The main focus being on the Louisiana town of Bon Temps (ironically "good times") and the central character, Sookie Stackhouse (played by Anna Paquin). Sookie is a waitress at the local redneck bar and grille. Her life is very uncomplicated until Bill (Yes, you read that right) walks in. There is the inevitable scene where Bill the vamp tries to look all pale, mysterious, and the ubiquitous dark and brooding. But this isn't "Velcome to dee castle Dracoola." Vampires have come out of the coffin and want to be accepted by human society. Yep. Vamps have been "living" among the locals for a while. Hell, they even have a Republican looking publicist going on the news to argue for their undead rights.

Of course, the vamps act all imperial, emotionless and ruthless. They believe themselves to be the higher form of beings, calling people "cows" and "blood sacks." Whether they have a plan for world domination, that remains to be seen. One things for sure: they don't care about us with one exception: Bill.

As the first season progressed, the number of story lines grew and so did the preposterousness, but one thing anchors it all: the believable human characters (great cast) and the down-to-earth dialogue. When a friend confesses to Sookie that he is a shape shifter, she shouts in perfect white trash southern drawl:

"Shut the fuck up!"



If I tried to explain it, it would sound so silly. True Blood is great entertainment with some truly creepy moments, not all of which are supplied by "fangers." Fangs aren't the only deadly forces about sleepy swamptown.

But the air around Bon Temps suggests there are other equally powerful dark forces at work. The mysterious Maryann Forrester for instance. What the hell is she? Can creepy and hot exist in one body? You betcha.

Don't dare tell me. No spoilers please.

# 9 Dream

"Was it in a dream, was it just a dream?"

I have no idea why, but I rarely dream anymore. This one was weird.

A Velvet gig was going to happen. The bar was right around the corner. I kept thinking to myself, "I don't know if we start at 8 or 8:30?" (This is preposterously too early for any gig, but dreams contain both the sublime and the ridiculous.) I looked up at a clock and saw that it was 10:20 something. Boy, am I late. I kept thinking I need to just grab my amp and guitar and zoom into the club.

Scence change.

A long ago girlfriend is lying in bed. The cover is white and is pulled up to her neck. She shivers.

"Are you cold?"

She nods yes.

I crawl into bed and then my mind goes to the gutter: she is nude underneath those covers.

Poof. The alarm goes off and it's time to get ready for work.

Just when the dream was getting good.

Damn.

Got One, Got One, Everybody's Got One

You got one, don't ya?

[Click the picture]

When I was a twenty-something, it seemed my whole world revolved about talking endlessly about music. How this music is better than that music. It was my personal crusade to change the minds of those who were not enlightened.

How things have changed. How little things have changed.

A few years ago, I had the opportunity to teach a "college" music appreciation class to high school kids. This school being GW, from my experience an upper middle to upper class school, the kids were relatively behaved. However during the first week, a blond girl in the back was interrupting with her constant chatter. There is always the boisterous one, isn't there? Back in the day, it might have been me.

After I played some Gregorian chant, which to her probably sounded like droning boredom, she made this proclamation: "You are never going to get me to like this music. I never will." She said this with a smile that was smug, to be sure. She had gotten me. Or so she believed.

In one of my most rare moments of clarity, I paused and thought for a moment. Then I said with perfect calm: "Miss, I am not here to entertain you. I am here to educate you." The class erupted with oohs and aahs, but she had no reply. I have never been more eloquent.

I still go on tirades. Yes, ask my wife. The CMAs, VMAs and MTV award shows I now can watch with very few snide remarks. I see them as a display of the industry's thoroughbreds. A pretty pony show with glitter, glam and the show of skin. Sometimes, there are performances that transcend the event-something actually happens up on the stage besides lipsyncing and great dancing. These moments are rare as royalty checks to musicians.

There will always be "tween" music to annoy adults, success and fame to artistes who are barely literate, let alone competent musicians and a merciless industry that views music as "content" or "product" that views the authors and performers of those products as gullible-too stupid to realize how badly they are being ripped off.

Am I being too harsh here?

Last night, it was classic. Miley Cyrus was live via satellite on Jay Leno. He asks ten questions to the guest. Knowing just a little about Leno's style, I would gaurantee that the celebrity has no prior knowledge of these questions. There she was, acting like a brat (my wife said the b word), and the lack of concern was obvious. When asked how many seats the venue she was about to play had, she did not know. She looked off camera to someone for the answer. Think about it: she had to have a publicist there to answer silly questions by Jay. The final question was to name as many of her dad's songs as she could within 10 seconds. She named four; two of which her offscreen assistant helped her with. All the publicity machines in the world could not disquise this simple fact: she ain't the brightest bulb in the hardware store. With her wealth, why should she care? She's already set for life. She'll do the Brittany-sexpot route next, along with some more medicore movies until the Miley machine runs out of gas due to public disinterest.

Don't worry, there's always a pack of newer, prettier faces ready to replace her.

To quote Hemingway:

And yet

What can I do

To set things right?

Support local and national musicians by buying tickets, CDs and playing them on my radio show. That's about all I can do. But at least it's something.

And still go on tirades.

More Signs of Intelligent Life in the Fripp Universe

From the Freep diary-

Airhead post on the forum:
18.13 Actual formation!
:: Posted by paisdepoetas006j on August 29, 2009

The Chilean people want a concert. They demand KC and that with the legitimate incarnation. And, they won’t budge. When will you please play for them?

Fripp's unusually polite answer-



This question has been addressed in this Diary before. Questions for this poster, please:
1. What is the legitimate incarnation?
2. What repertoire would they play?
3. Why would the members want to do this? For example: what other projects & undertakings would / should they give up to perform in Chile?
4. What is involved in bringing together the members of that incarnation?This includes syncing calendars, rehearsal times & places, equipment shipping, technical support & personnel including wages, shipping all of the above to Chile with flights.
5. Which promoter & venues?

* * *

In short, how in the f*** are we going to play in Chile, dude?

Who's Going?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M-cIjPOJdFM

http://www.zombieland.com/

This looks like a riot.

It's a horror-comedy or a horromedy about one of my favorite obsessions-zombies.

Technically, these are not Romeroesque undead zombies, but rather infected people who are still living, but going haywire on humanity. Oh yeah. Dystopian chaos.

Who's going? Do we need to carpool? Rent a bus? Can we get a group rate?

Trying to Nail It

Perhaps I know human nature too well.

I hadn't heard from my star student all summer. At the end of last semester, he informed me that he wanted to learn classical guitar. Our brief lesson about how to pluck a string with the index finger over, I told him to call me when he really he needed help.

Silence all summer until the fall.

"I cut off all my nails." was his opening salvo. Uh-oh. In an instant, I knew the story. He need not tell me anything.

Part of my job is to play amateur psychologist and figure what what a student is really saying.

"You got frustrated, didn't you?" He didn't look at me when he answered, "Yeah. Frustrated as hell."

In short, starting classical guitar is a real bitch; especially for guitarists who have some playing experience. It asks that you short circuit your musical life and concentrate on mundane things like finger nails, posture, arm and hand angles, etc. It takes you back to that lonely and difficult square one. The place you thought long left behind.

[Sidebar: A older guitarist told me he was tired of banging out rockabilly in clubs and it was time to seriously study classical guitar.

We met, had a very nice chat and then he played for me. He tried some Bach. (My hat goes off to to the self-taught, but when you enter the Bach arena, you must be trained or be Segovia.) There were mistakes everywhere, but when it was all over, I was very encouraging. I tried to summarize what he needed to do in order to change his technique. We had four lessons and after the fourth I got a call. He had come to the conclusion that he could not devote the time necessary to change the many bad habits he had acquired. I felt he had given up too soon, but at least he was sensible and honest enough to not waste both our time.]

That's just one example in a very long line of students who realize the work ahead of them and soon depart from study. I can hardly blame them. Besides the work, the taking away of your musical identity, it's the most marginalized form of guitar playing in the world. Guitar gods play electric thunderbolts, strutting upon stadium stages with millions of hungry, entranced fans. Watch a guy who plays a soft and mellow acoustic while sitting perfectly still? Boring. We play antiques; the music from museums. Some would say that the majority of the repertoire is mediocre anyway. Did Mozart write a note for it? Nope. Even Beethoven, who called it a "miniature orchestra," left nothing, not a scrap nor sketch. We don't play orchestral instruments, but rather charming and quaint "salon" curios. It's an instrument from a much quieter and infinitely slower world.

Author Glenn Kurtz nailed it in his wonderful book. Listen to an interview. Very poignant. The guitar has always caused controversy and suspicion by those who hold the keys to high culture. We are ushered in like hired help, to soothe the digestive machinations of dignitaries and nothing more.

Still, it is beautiful and the sound has always been intoxicating for me. It comes with a real quid pro quo: long fingernails.

On the plucking hand, the nails must be grown out so that the proper tone can be elicited. These must be shaped properly, kept in good condition and at the proper length and generally protected during daily activities. Break a nail and your whole sound changes immensely.

You can go a little bit crazy about this stuff too.

To say that some guitarists have an almost fetishized fascination/obsession with their finger nails is almost too harsh to say, but very true. I remember one guy named Philip at Peabody who excitedly told us about a new product he had discovered. Sally Hanson's Nail Buff is what I think it was called. We all went out and got one. For weeks, we all had shiny, perfectly smooth nails. It started out for the right hand and soon the left was equally glossy.

I have had these annoying additions for at least thirty-two years. When I was younger, it was an embarrassment. I consciously hid them from people. I was ashamed of them.

My brother would call them "girly" and constantly badgered me to cut them and be "a regular guy." I can cite at least two instances which caused me romantic disfavor among the fairer sex. One girl was gorgeous who never gave me the time of day in high school, but in the context of a noisy bar and full tilt beer consumption, things were going well. When she saw my nails, she shook her head in a jerking motion as if what she had seen did not compute. She quite quickly bailed. Cursed ruination of my love life! That happened with another gal and her reation was about the same: repulsion.

Sometimes during a summer vacation, I would cut them all off just to be rid of them. Freedom! No more cumbersome appendages. And a chance to look normal. I self-consciously displayed my hands as if to say, "You see? I'm a regular guy."

Now, being older has one distinct advantage: I don't give a damn. I don't think about it.

So back to the beginning story.

What's the student going to do? I don't know. It's up to him. Very few stick with it. We shall see.

But cutting them all off in frustration is not a good start.

You only do that on vacation!

Mystery Without the Pomp

We have taken to watching Inspector Lewis on the PBS. While I can dig the penguin-like Hercule Poirot and his fastidious eccentricities played perfectly by David Suchet, and of course, the master of all mysteries, Sherlock Holmes, Lewis is an altogether a different cup of tea.

Typically, you get a lot of tea and oh-so-British pomp with PBS mysteries or even mini-series. As much as I love the UK, as I am a confirmed Anglophile, even I get a little annoyed at the Miss Marple-ish British pomposity of "Oh, Reginald! Be a darling and see if you can find my crochet mallet. Would you, dear? Thank you." Americans are portrayed as bold and boorish "sods" with loud voices whose love of money precludes them ever possibly understanding the finer things in life, let alone any manner of civility.

Set in Oxford, Lewis hates all the academia; especially the prevailing smugness of professors. He's a working class bloke, you see. Nothing fancy about him. For years Lewis served as Inspector Morse's foil; played brilliantly by John Thaw. Morse, a very erudite and cultured man, constantly brushed shoulders with people who thought him a common beat cop.

Lewis is older now; the senior officer now perfectly paired with DS James Hathaway. Once again, Lewis is a bit puzzled by all manner of literary allusions, but Hathaway is both cerebral and street smart.

So, skip the pomp of tea-and-biscuit Brit mystery. Lewis is great series.